I am dyslexic. Growing up in the Neolithic Age, most people did not know what dyslexia was or how to spot it. As a result, I have been called everything from lazy to stupid by the educators around me. I was placed in Learning Disabled classes in grade school and it really did not help much. Today they would call me Neurodivergent. As a result, I did not read like the other kids and really hated the reading programs. There would be no pizza, ice cream, or toy from the treasure chests for me. How can you finish a book if you could not finish a sentence, before you got lost.
I do not tell you these things for pity or some other attention seeking behavior. I tell you because I want you to understand how important my stories are to me. Not to mention the elation at actually finishing one. My mom read all the time, books from all genres, and would tell me about them. I continued the story in my head with me as the main character or create a new story from the elements I heard. My imagination became my favorite toy. I had amazing adventures.
At my first creative writing class one of the things the instructor said repeatedly was “Good writers read.” Mentally I threw my hands up in the air and screamed “I’ll never be a writer.” There were a lot of problems with my first short stories and honestly, I gave up. The problem with giving up is I am a story teller to the depth of my being and I could not stay away for long. Starting over and growing a very thick skin, I learned.
Picking up a Stephen King book was the first step to reading. I do not remember which book it was, but it must have been thin and free. It took almost six months to read it. I did like the story, so I picked up another one. It also took forever but again; I enjoyed the story. This began my love of horror. Not horror movies, remember I have too good of an imagination and a habit of continuing the story with me as the main character. This terrified me. Books I could handle.
My husband is a rabid reader. He could easily finish a novel in a day. I was awestruck when I learned that. It was early in our relationship and when he asked, I simply admitted I liked Stephen King. He wanted to know what others and filled with shame had to confess my secret. It was his turn to be struck, dumbstruck. That was not going to fly with him. Ever the problem solver he took me to the bookstore and we went through the shelves looking for things for me to read. He did not care if it took six months to read a book or not, he kept me supplied with books until I could read two books a month. I have expanded beyond horror and found a new world to enjoy and my writing has gotten better. Just as Mrs. Wall said, “Good writers are readers.”
Tell me about your imagination? Do you struggle with visualizing the story? Does it play in your head like a movie?
I will give a quick warning: the comment section is not a place to bash other writers. I will not tolerate what I think of as hate and will delete those comments without warning or remorse. In terms of my blog only, I am God; it is my way or the highway.
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