Josephine Moon - 2025 Writers series
Burnt Rice
I balanced precariously on a dining chair, slapping a towel at the hotel room’s smoke detector. Acrid smoke drifted, making my eyes water. I needed to open the front door, extract the burnt rice, and call reception. But I couldn’t stop – the smoke mustn’t reach that detector. Alas, I wasn’t an octopus, blessed with eight arms.
I called reception, and the voice pitched in response.
‘That sensor… fire brigade, alarms, evacuation… thousands of dollars!’
Trucks, sprinklers, nightly news, big fine. This was exactly why I’d asked my publisher for support.
My author and neurodivergent fantasy is to be cocooned indoors with a cat, a pot of tea and the solitude of creative practice; however, these days, writers need to be public facing. Proliferating online spaces means there are endless promotional opportunities, and strong expectations that authors fill them. Better still if you’ll self-fund travel (while leaving behind partners, pets, dependants and employment). I’ve had some wonderful support from my publishers in my time and I’ve done the hard yards. But, in 2023 – a decade into my career – I read through my book tour itinerary with a sinking heart.
Prior to the pandemic, multi-state tours were my norm. They’d been huge commitments (requiring weeks to recover), but each time I’d had a publicist accompany me, and they were cheerful companions. They kept time, remembered names, navigated, organised hotels and hire cars, did all the driving, and found food. They took photos and phone calls, rescheduled meetings, and managed expenses and car parking. They made life easier, but it wasn’t until I’d received my neurodivergent identifications that I understood why. Their duties effectively relieved me of three-quarters of the executive functioning load of a book tour. I’d had no idea how precious that was for me, as someone who gets lost in carparks and forgets to eat.
The pandemic cancelled my 2020 book tour. In 2021, I promoted locally. In 2022, publishers were still wary of tours, and booksellers struggled to fill events. Then, in 2023, my novel, The Wonderful Thing About Phoenix Rose came out. I was nervous, as it was the first of its kind in the country, yet I was looking forward to catching up with long-time readers. Then, my itinerary arrived.
There was nothing wrong with the itinerary, except I wasn’t assigned a publicist. Instead, I was to drive myself hours down the highway (in itself enough to wipe me out for a day), find a library, manage parking, find the contact people, connect with the MC, manage all my gear, carry/pack/remember pop-up banners and bookmarks, make small talk, sit on stage with microphone and bright lights, sign books, pose for photos. Then, get in the car, back up the highway, into the city, find the hotel, manage the time, find food (hello, smoke alarm drama!), change clothes, look up maps, navigate to another event, speak again (be entertaining, clever and emotionally regulated!), pose, meet, greet, chat, sign and farewell. Get back to the hotel, set alarms (plural!), sleep (not likely!), get up early, pack, check out, drive, navigate … and repeat, for three days.
I froze. The itinerary was too much for me. Other people could do this, and would. But here was my lifelong reminder that I wasn’t like other people. Prior to understanding my identity, I might have tried to push through with the highest of high-masking. But several difficult years in a row had left me with unrelenting burnout and skill regression, seemingly stuck in ‘low power mode’. I couldn’t do it, and I didn’t yet have any supports in place.
I felt utterly broken, vulnerable and defeated.
Every day of my life has been a relentless challenge to simply get through a day inside this body. I can’t keep up with the majority (never could), but if I don’t even try, I lose. It’s a never-ending cycle. And this was a career I’d dedicated myself to for over 20 years. For me, losing ground now wasn’t an option, but I accepted it could be reality. If I declared my limitations, I was effectively saying I give up, wasn’t I?
For two days, I fretted.
I needed to help my special, neurodivergent-led book find its place in the world, but if I couldn’t commit to tour, I could lose my publisher’s support.
What could I do?
Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.
The words floated to me from the ether. I considered Phoenix – my book’s main character – and took my cue from her story of employment struggles. Somehow, I’d written the life advice I’d soon need. It was time for me to reconcile with myself, to know my truth, even if others didn’t.
I’m disabled. Sometimes I need support to do my job. And, that’s okay.
I emailed my publicist to explain, cringing with every keystroke, then hit send.
Being unidentified for over 40 years, and high masking for survival, has left me with an inability to successfully advocate for myself. I wish I wasn’t afraid to ask for support, and didn’t feel lucky if I received it, because it shouldn’t be luck. Support should be the norm.
But it’s not, yet.
My publicist replied quickly to my email, saying the publishers would fly him up to accompany me. I cried with relief, grateful that the support came.
The power in this experience, though, is for me to know and remember this truth:
I received support because I asked for it.
It wasn’t offered. I had to ask for it. But I received what I needed.
We must ask, even when (perhaps, especially when) our voices shake. It’s not only about ‘hoping’ for the support, it’s about teaching ourselves, strengthening and trusting our voices to lead us into safer spaces in which to flourish. Every word builds a stronger future.
Oh, and the smoke…?
Asking for help was the right thing to do. The receptionist arrived with a doorstop, a fan and cleaning products. With her help, we avoided the nightly news. She even offered to move me to another room, due to the smell, but I was too mortified to accept. Learning to use my voice takes practice… and that’s okay.