Newly diagnosed with ADHD in her 50s, freelance writer Jo Pybus shares her experience with a literary snob at the recent Canberra Writer’s Festival.
Just this year, aged 56, I discovered I have Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). That is not a sentence I thought I’d ever make public – but here I am!
Two things have driven me to share this story. Firstly, I know there are more like me out there who have wondered their entire life why they struggle, and I want them to know this is the dawning age of real understanding of this disorder, especially in women, as it has been undiagnosed or misdiagnosed for many years. And secondly, I went to a writer’s festival and one of the high-profile authors made my blood boil.
It was a literary lunch, a more intimate space where the author was being interviewed about what he likes to read by a respected journalist who had just declared her teenage love of Virginia Andrews ‘Flowers in the Attic’. This comment assuaged the intimidation I often feel in these gatherings, as I too loved the Dollanganger series.
It was when the author scoffed as to why one would bother wasting one’s valuable time for anything less than the Hemingways of the world, that I felt that visceral pang of inadequacy. He added words to the effect of, “I tried reading Trent Dalton’s ‘Boy Swallows Universe’ and couldn’t get past the first page. I mean I like Trent, but why would I bother when I can be reading the greats?”. This was followed by muted laughter in the room that sounded nervous.
In that one statement, he discounted everything I read and write. I’ve read Trent’s book and loved it. I’ve even written a novel that is much more akin to Trent’s than a Joyce, or Tolstoy. I read commercial fiction and have struggled at my attempts to read the old classics. In fact, I struggle to read at all – bizarre for a writer, I know, but up there in ADHD 101 comes inattentiveness, and easily distracted. Let me tell you, good Sir, one should not be discouraging anyone to read!
ADHD is about dopamine and executive function, amongst other things. My desires and abilities to get things done has many theories in medicine, one being it comes from the part of the brain which produces dopamine, and mine is faulty. If something doesn’t float my boat, I’m either not going to do it or find it painfully hard.
As for those things that do float my boat, ADHD can deliver, but it is small consolation. I choose to call this my Super-Power, and I can see I’ve subconsciously sought dopamine all my life which has led to me achieving things I’m really proud of.
Driven by the ability for some ADHDers to become hyper-focussed, in my 40s I became an Australian representative triathlete which had me lit up like a pokie machine. In my 50s, I’ve become a podcaster and writer, and punched out an entire novel in a world were 97 per cent of manuscripts are never completed. For me, finish line = dopamine – ding ding ding!
Is my lack of interest in the literary greats due to ADHD denying me the attentiveness to go the distance, or are the greats not stimulating enough for me to hit the dopamine jackpot that drives me to do amazing things – like read a 170,000-word novel? My short time on medication hasn’t had me grab a Steinbeck off the shelf yet.
The hardest thing for me to accept in discovering my ADHD is medication. I’ve kept healthy and fit with a dogged determination to not need medications often associated with age. A bit of self-talk about pride and vanity ensued, and my closest allies, people much wiser than myself, reminded me ADHD is out of my control. For those curious, ADHD has no cure but there are medications that can herd those cats playing with a ball of twine in your head.
As this author set about belittling the reading choices of others, I couldn’t help but think he did me a big favour.
Neurodivergence does not have an inverse relationship with intellect. We just find other ways to enjoy what comes naturally to most, and for me audio books and podcasts have opened a world of enriching content. This does not mean I’m downloading the narrated version of a Dickens novel anytime soon, but it does mean I’ll probably listen to Sarah Krasnostein’s The Trauma Cleaner for a second time.
My resolve in this regard was cemented when this author expressed his exasperation at the number of books being written about murders in country towns, proclaiming authors have no original ideas these days. I considered his point up until he declared to the room of keen festivalgoers that his favourite book was The Bible: a book that features murders in country towns.
It was then I knew his aspirations were of a much higher order than I, and felt comfortable reaching for my copy of Chris Hammers’ Scrublands.
ADHD and literary snobbery are, thankfully, not mutually inclusive, and for that I’m grateful.
- by Canberra freelance writer, Jo Pybus
