After several conversations discussing my book Tents Before Temples on his channel, I finally had the opportunity to speak with Daniel Garner of O.G. Rose regarding his own writing, specifically focusing on his collection of short stories, Under The Wing.
One of the topics we discussed in detail was the phenomenology of creation, and how writing fiction or other creative pursuits can provide insight into the nature of reality that aren’t as readily available in studying and analyzing philosophy. By approaching the big questions through fiction writing, we can workshop how various philosophical ideas really “work”; and if the story doesn’t work, the ideas might not work either. I first played with this idea in Tents Before Temples as “story logic”, and I think it is one of the natural ways that people reason, mostly applied in anecdotal settings to discern human motivation. When someone does something stupid or crazy, we often search for reasons, and the answers tend to be found in the form of a story.
These kinds of explorations have been extremely helpful for me on a personal level, as I have learned to understand the differences between my own neurodivergent mind and the minds of those around me. This was a topic that was picked up in a livestream by Luke Thompson, which in turn caused me to think about things on a deeper level.
Empathy is often broken up into two categories; cognitive empathy, and affective empathy. Cognitive empathy is the intellectual ability to understand what someone else is thinking or feeling, which requires the ability to see things from the perspective of others, without necessarily sharing those emotions. Affective empathy is the tendency to feel something in response to someone else’s emotions—feeling sadness when someone cries, or joy when someone smiles and laughs.
As this split has come to be better understood, the idea that autistic people “lack empathy” has been replaced with a more nuanced view. People with autism and other kinds of neurodivergence are often said to have a deficit in cognitive empathy, while having normal or even higher than normal affective empathy. But this uneven distribution does not tell the whole story. Since cognitive empathy is a learned skill, there is no reason that it must remain deficit, and this is the skill that is mastered by many neurodivergent authors through the imaginative process of writing fiction.
Indeed, there is a certain sense in which suspected neurodivergent authors, such as L. Maude Montgomery, (or confirmed cases like Garrison Keilor) have pioneered the cultivation of an interior life among neurotypical readers through their writings. I suspect the reason that this learned ability often goes unrecognized (contributing to the double-empathy problem) is that there is an intermediate element that sits between cognitive and affective empathy, called mirroring, which is the unconscious response of matching facial expressions and other non-verbal social cues that serve as a signal that cognitive and affective empathy are working in concert to the neurotypical mind. The failure to mirror properly is the short-hand cue that an autistic person isn’t getting it, which likely contributes to the fact that they are often actively disliked upon first meeting by neurotypicals.
Research indicates that outside of major emotions like joy, grief, and anger, (which are also the emotions most likely to be noticed by autistics,) a great deal of such mirroring is culturally dependent. This means that a similar sort of “double empathy problem” can exist between neurotypical peoples of different cultures, which certainly seems to be the case. But it also means that such mirroring is rapidly decreasing as a reliable measure of trustworthiness, as shared cultural contexts have broken down with the advent of the internet. Similar problems will likely continue to emerge as the effects of the covid restrictions on the formation of young people come to the fore.
Daniel’s solution is the adoption of what he calls mentidivergence, described in his book Belonging Again II:
What is needed to address the problems of Belonging Again is for us to try to incorporate more “otherness” and “neurodivergence” (A/B) into ourselves, but at the same time I realize that neurodivergence refers to a group of people who are biologically and neurologically born a certain way, so I am concerned that saying we need to “become more neurodivergent” might sound like appropriation. To avoid this, I am going to refer to “practical neurodivergence” as “mentidivergence” (I also considered “animdivergence,” seeing as “anim” means “spirit” and/or “mind”). For those not genetically neurodivergent, we cannot technically be neurodivergent, but I do think we can implement something like it, which I will call “mentidivergence” (at least here). We can say that mentidivergence seeks to share an image and likeness with neurodivergence, while aware that this cannot be perfectly achieved, and hence the neurodivergent can never be replaced. We will always need to be open to “the other.”
One of the problematic aspects of discussing autism is that it is defined by its symptomatic problems. If you don’t have symptoms, you are not diagnosed, which is fine until individuals suddenly fail to keep things together in midlife, and discover that not everyone else struggles with the internal hell of unconscious masking. Unfortunately, “neurodivergence” and “neurodiversity” have become similarly problematic terms, as they ought to refer to the fact that certain brains develop differently from the norm, but rather than asking questions or exploring how these different types of brains might come to develop in a healthy way, advocates simply defend the problematic symptoms caused by the struggles of living in a world ill-suited for difference and prop them up as identity markers.
History is riddled with examples of people who were no doubt “neurodivergent” in the biological/developmental sense, but who contributed greatly to the furthering of culture and society. The problematic aspects of their social lives have often gone unnoticed without a reason to look for it, but those details are present in various degrees in people like Immanuel Kant, Isaac Newton and Leonardo DaVinci.
Whether or not a diagnosis ever becomes provable isn’t really important; at a certain point, superior intelligence and autism almost become indistinguishable in the way they isolate people from their peers. But you are just as likely to find signs of neurodivergence in the illiterate drunks of their days, just as you are on our own streets. The difference is having the ability to learn and develop the skills to flourish in a context that doesn’t induce problematic symptoms or cause excessive trauma. Thus, adopting mentidivergence as a term may actually provide a more useful description for the cultivation of perspectivalism and healthy cognitive empathy among both neurodivergent and neurotypical minds.
As we discussed in our conversation, writing fiction is one of the best ways to develop this skill. To demonstrate the point further, I am including a section from an unfinished essay in which I explore some of the more explicitly theological implications of this phenomenology. While this specific illustration is focused on other subjects, applying the concepts to the development of empathy is fairly straightforward.
The Metaphor of the Author
When an author sits down to write a story, events, environments, and characters transform potential into substance choice by choice, with alternative potentials being cast off first in the imagination, then in each subsequent draft, as undesirable outcomes are first discovered and discarded in turn, until the whole panoply of characters arrives at a single decisive conclusion. The published book, which reads as a single predetermined outcome, is in fact the product of an emergent process, and the alternative outcomes, both good and ill, remain in existence, more substantially in the drafts, and in their most expansive potential within the mind of the author.
Even if we set aside any notions of ingression from an outside source, and posit that the mind of the creator is the sole source of every creative decision within his work, a good author realizes that continuity must be maintained, and remain consistent from beginning to end, for each individual character, and that their interior experience must reflect their outward actions and reactions as they interact with others. For a human author whose experience of time flows in a linear fashion from beginning to end, this means that he must continuously examine his entire narrative structure from each character’s point of view, including those who may only be bystanders. If, for instance, he decides that a waiter in a restaurant is of a foreign nationality, there must be a potential reason and explanation for how and when he came to be in that place. Did he immigrate as a child, or as an adult? How would that choice affect his accent? How long has he served in this role? Is it a job he is grateful for, or one which he views as a means to an end? Even if the author does not think of all these things, the choices that he decides to include in his work will inform which of these realities must have occurred. Does the waiter smile? Does he speak with confidence? Are his movements clumsy or precise? What is affected by the years of his life, versus the events of that morning?
Each character must be examined in turn. When a decisive action occurs, he must cut off countless realms of other possibilities, while the introduction of a new character restores and expands the possibilities. But as each character moves towards a stable identity, certain possibilities become more plausible, while others seem less likely. Perhaps the author is undecided about the nature of his work. He may not be certain about how his story will end it. If the story simply goes on for a long period of time, as many lives do, and his characters have made their decisions and established their identities, he may discover that a particular outcome becomes inevitable. If it is a tragedy, he must come to terms with the fate of his story and his characters. But if he is not pleased with that outcome, he will have to find a solution to his quandary.
An author must weigh the costs and consequences of imposing his will on a story that has already neared its conclusion. If a dramatic intervention is required to bring a draft to a satisfactory ending, it cannot override what has already been established. The introduction of a deus ex machina can easily corrupt the reader’s understanding of what preceded it, and call into question the legitimacy of every choice made by every character. Unless the world that has been created contains the faith to bear up miracles, it will not withstand a sudden change of heart from its protagonist. Nor can such a story support the unprecedented actions of its established characters. When every chapter reinforces the pattern of no, no, no, the reader will feel the final no, even as their eyes call on the printed, yes.
If the author cannot reconcile the characters he established with the ending he desires, he must reconsider the decisions that brought him to that place. He may need to reverse his course and rewrite his ending several times to determine where and when the critical flaw was introduced. Such revisions may require going all the way back beyond the first page of the first draft, to revise the nature of the character he first conceived—though that would be an exceptional scenario. Unless the character devised was designed by nature to be completely unredeemable, (which is difficult to fathom,) the author’s story would be able to support a plethora of variations and still come to a pleasant resolution.
He might come to such a resolution on the very first draft, and still decide to explore more possibilities. He might decide to stress his story to the limits, character by character, choice by choice, exploring each and every extreme, both positive and negative, until he determines precisely which choices are absolutely critical to make the story hold together. At the end of his explorations, when he finally decides to publish his tale, he alone gets to decide how the actualization of the particular choices that make it onto the printed page affect the validity of the unpublished alternatives. He could destroy them, or he could share them with a few discerning readers who may enjoy taking a peek behind the scenes, or, in an inspired bit of trickery, he could publish them all— every version of every draft, containing multitude of variations, yet every single volume resolving in the same satisfying conclusion. The readers might be baffled, and might question the memories of their neighbors, and they might be even more shocked when they compare their volume side-by-side, but none of them would conclude that the other was reading a whole different story.
If the author pursued this experiment to the absolute limits of what his story could bear, he would gain an insight into the true nature of his characters, to the extent that he could allow an external agent to contingent choice for each character, across the entire span of every feasible permutation of his story, with no fear of an unhappy outcome in the ultimate sense. Moreover, if he discovered that a particular reader was dissatisfied with a particular outcome for a particular character, he could direct that reader towards the version of the story that would satisfy his own inclinations— just so long as the desired outcome of the reader did not contradict those most crucial elements consistent across all versions of his story.
In some sense, it is only after this ultimate exploration of the alternatives that the true nature of each character can ultimately be assessed. But once that nature is determined, the author could, if he was capable of such a feat, create his characters in reality, as living, breathing, embodied people of flesh and blood, and let them make their own decisions. He could then sit back, and watch his story unfold in real time, completely ignorant as to precisely which version of the story would end up transpiring, until the very last moment, when the final actions and reactions come to pass.
Now then, when it comes to the creation of a higher order world, in which created beings of a determined nature are given free reign over their own thoughts and actions, every possible action would have a weighted potential, as each choice made by each individual affects their own next actions, and the actions of those who interact with them. As the life of each individual moves from potential to actualization from the past towards the future, the constraints their choices become more limited, as the number of potential choices diminishes through time, and their character and tendencies are shaped by their habits. Thus, we can say that every person has the potential for self-determination within limits, while at the same time, such potential does not impose on the determined outcome of their creator.
Learning to Receive Empathy
As a final note, I want to expand on the comment that I left for Luke on his livestream, in response to his frustrations with those claiming that his empathy was insufficient.
“Affective empathy is the ability to feel what others feel, obviously you have that. Cognitive empathy is the ability to understand other people’s feelings- obviously you have learned this skill. Mirroring is the unconscious response that matches the facial expressions and emotions of others. Sometimes when that is lacking people will accuse someone of not showing empathy. I think I am pretty bad at that one. But it also seems clear that most people don’t know what it means to receive empathy, and what they want instead is some form of validation.”
As I’ve continued to think about this last aspect, I think the problem really comes down to an issue of maturity. As our culture has prioritized authenticity over sincerity, empathy has come to the fore as the superior alternative to sympathy, which acknowledges the experience of others without personal identification. Empathy is genuinely superior in some sense, especially when it is rooted in genuine experience. As an example, my wife can give and receive empathy with those who have experienced the death of a parent in a way that I cannot.
While my ability to develop cognitive empathy through reading, writing, and imagining such an outcome can and does affect my response to her pain and the pain of others, there is little benefit in trying to convince someone that I can indeed empathize. Wisdom dictates that I offer sympathy instead. This is a perfectly valid response from an inexperienced inferior, but it may be the best choice for those who have suffered more as well.
The person who has experienced more is obviously capable of empathizing with the person who has experienced less. But until someone has tried to contemplate the experience of those who have suffered more than they have, their own suffering limits their ability to receive the empathy of others. We are all consumed by the enormity of our greatest grief, regardless of its relative severity, until time or experience allows us to heal and grow.
It is possible to arrive at a place of personal peace with our own suffering without receiving empathy or even sympathy for others. Oftentimes, this comes through the recognition of the greater suffering of others, but it can also happen through sheer survival, and the reward is a better sense of our own strength and capacity. We may even come to be grateful that we didn’t receive the empathy we craved, if we are pleased with the person it helped us become. Our culture often praises such individuals for their grit and determination.
Someone who has overcome trials on their own can recognize the need for such growth in others. This is a true form of empathy, but it is not always the most palatable. The fact of the matter is that experience is isolating, and the possibility of connecting with others who have experienced the same things as you diminishes as you grow in maturity. This is a reality that can be accepted right up to the point that it becomes unbearable. I discussed this vertical axis of individual experience in an essay on employing AI for social coordination.
Plotting the Vertical Axis of AI Social Coordination
In the five months since my son was born, he has gone through four life-altering, world-shattering, mind-exploding developmental leaps. These leaps have taken him through a world of sensations, a world of patterns, a world of transitions, and a world of events. Soon he will enter another new reality; the world of relationships, and this will be followed…
The only solution to avoid despair is to cultivate an ability to receive empathy, even if there is no one present to offer it. Believing that you are seen and heard even when no one else can say it truthfully, is the essence of faith in God. Some of us are fortunate enough to experience this sense of being seen and heard from above. Many others are not, and the cruelty of isolation is a valid reason to abandon such beliefs; a point well articulated by Steve Skojec.
But such beliefs are only truly irrational if we never see their analog in action. Rather than resenting those who receive the empathy we have been denied, we should celebrate it, and seek to learn how the experience benefited them. At the same time, those capable of empathizing may need to learn to recognize the ability or inability to receive empathy in others, and moderate our empathy accordingly, or offer sympathy instead.
For those who have overcome their struggles on their own, the work of imagination can still prove beneficial. Exploring hypothetical alternatives can help us recognize that the growth and maturity achieved in isolation could have been attained by other means, and this can help us identify the kind of empathy that recognizes the reality of pain, without denying the possibility of growth, and doesn’t result in enablement or victimhood. Such practices move us beyond mere empathy to foster the development of genuine compassion.