Unapologetic Love Story: The Inspiration - by Elle McNicoll

“Have you had sex?”

The question is put to me by a journalist. I’m on Zoom in my North London flat and

she’s overseas. The question throws me because we’re on a virtual call to discuss a children’s

television show, one that I’m a screenwriter on.

Her question is blunt and I usually like blunt questions. The equally blunt answer

would be, “Yes. Last night. On the living room floor but it was quick, and the dog (who was

in the next room) finished his bone before I did, so to speak”. But I don’t think that’s the

answer she wants so I do the social dance we all have to and I ask for a follow-up.

“Excuse me?”

I can tell she’s suddenly a little ashamed of her line of enquiry but her curiosity

propels her onwards. “Do you have sex? Do you date? It’s just, someone in my family has

Asperger’s (an outdated term on her end) and I don’t think that’s something they can do.”

I can’t tell you how little time I’ve spent thinking about the love lives of my family

members. But I know what she’s getting at. I’m an autistic writer. We’re supposed to be rare.

We’re supposed to be reclusive. And, more than anything, we’re supposed to be weird.

To them, at least. I never find other neurodivergent people weird, I always feel

delightedly at home with them.

It’s normal, as a writer, to be asked inappropriate questions. We live in the clickbait

age. But I’ve never been asked anything like this, then or now. A few reporters wanted to

know why I care about children’s television when I don’t have children of my own. They

then asked if and when I’ll change my mind about having children. That little track is

familiar.

This isn’t. And I don’t really know what to tell her.

Yes, autistic people have sex. Yes, we look like regular people. You’ve met lots of us

without us announcing ourselves to you. And please don’t feel like you have to compare us to

your family members.

But a writer’s life is always about the ‘what if’. I look at the small square surrounding this woman on my computer screen. A prophetic shape for her. The little box she’s quite comfortable to exist in. Her question is not necessarily a ‘gotcha’. She’s curious. She’s trying to understand.

What if she were a man? What if she were a very hot man? With a Scottish accent?

What if this imaginary male journalist was tenacious about finding a story?

What if?

I start to scribble down notes on a large yellow notepad while moves on to ask me a

question about my insistence on casting autistic actors in the show. I can tell by her tone that

she finds this strange. I smile and answer her question.

“Well,” she says, sitting back in her swivel chair. “You’re surprising. You certainly

don’t apologise about any of this.”

My pen hovers over the sunshine pad. Unapologetic. It’s a word that gets thrown around a lot when it comes to me. I started noticing it when my career took off. It was never from readers. Mostly the press. And the occasional publishing colleague. People started coming up to me after panels, telling me they “loved how unapologetic you are”.

What exactly am I supposed to be apologising for?

I press my pen down onto the pad and write, “Unapologetic Love Story”. I can see an autistic woman who is braver than me. More patient than me. But who gets all of the same questions. The same judgements. The same eye rolls. She rises above all of it, and makes London her own glamourous, romantic daydream. Until she meets a handsome reporter who thinks she can’t be as dazzling as she seems. But only because the world has broken so many parts of his heart.

I finish the interview and start to draft. The kind of draft that pours out like gossip at a

great dinner party. A hot London summer. Sugar, spice and the neurodivergent price of taking the town by force. An old-fashioned love story in the age of soulless technology.

I wanted to write an unapologetic love story so I did. Something for adults only. No

children allowed, this time.

A little reminder for anyone who needs it, that Tylenol is not the cause of autistic

people. Sex is. Sorry, not sorry.