I have struggled with dyslexia all of my life. Although I’m amazingly clever at anagrams, this issue, as you can imagine, has been problematic. I was lucky to grow up with parents who read a lot and helped me learn to love to read and write despite how difficult it was for me. I know a lot of kids aren’t that fortunate. They have difficulty with reading and writing early on in school and are instantly evaluated as “less intelligent”. I was lucky and, because my parents provided me with a reading obsessed environment, I taught myself workarounds.
Some days still, however, when I’m tired and stressed, it’s hard to get through a sentence. It’s like a bomb exploding within the word. “Second” become “econsd”. “Typically” becomes “pytcially”. I’ll spend ten minutes on two paragraphs, typing and retyping, then deleting, then growling at the keyboard, at my stupid fingers, at myself, and then I calm down, and type again. Slwoly. Slowyl. Slowly.
Until it’s right.
And I’m a writer. I’m a marketing & social media coordinator at a center for writers. What, other than obsessive masochism, would drive me to choose this path? What would drive me to blog about it when I’m having to retype every other word two to three times?
I don’t know.
For years, this has been THE question. And I still don’t have an answer. Even if I had one, it would probably come out twisted and inside out. All I know is that I love to write, despite the inherent difficulties. I hate feeling dumb and usually don’t, but every now and then, I miss something. Some days still, I don’t just type inside out, I read that way too. And when I write “ahte”, I read “hate” and feel the text is ready to share.
I’m sending off a piece I’ve written to Peter Mountford, Hugo House’s Writer In Residence, today. It’s the first literary non-fiction I’ve ever written and I feel very good about it, but a multitude of fears trail behind the piece… fears about writing memoir, fears about my own writing, fears about whether I’m capable enough to review my own work before sending it out. I suppose I’m writing about this, on a day when my dyslexia is particularly bad, because my fears about my writing are just like my fears about my abilities. They’re something I can work around.
I just have to keep typing.