Hlelo evreybdoy, wlecmoe to ym frist bolg.
And welcome to the world of orthographic processing difficulty.

If it’s a good day, for me it begins like the jumbled sentence above.
If it’s a bad day, the words just swim away and no reading or writing happens.
All I can do is take a deep breath and go out whaling…or bird watching or… wait and give the letters time to rearrange themselves into intelligible words.

Most days I’m rewarded for my patience, and literary life as I know it, begins.
Spelling still remains a problem, as does eye-hand coordination, when the computer keys go off on a tangent and type out gibberish.
But I’m wise to it now. I know the secret…
Stop, calm down and start again.

I dealt with this letter-mutiny with panic and shame when I was young.
But I hadn’t discovered dyslexia yet.

The discovery came much later when I was middle aged with children in nursery school.
During my teacher training course, I came across learning disabilities and discovered the reason for my own.
The markers were so startlingly similar that I was flayed.
It took time for me to match my muddled-up view with the indicators described but they were all there:
difficulty with reading, writing, comprehension, organizing thoughts on paper.

And thankfully, along with the markers were solutions.
Not to cure but to manage the condition.

Until my discovery, I was resigned to the ‘fact’ that I was an underachiever who didn’t have a focused interest.
I knew I loved horse riding, music, social work—but what was my real calling?
I thought I was too stupid to have one.
And yet deep down, there was a gap that needed to be filled.

The knowledge of my dyslexia helped me fill the gap.
For the first time I allowed myself to acknowledge how much I longed to read and write and how successfully I had shut both activities out of my life.

I started to read everything I could find on the condition.
I read about the symptoms, remedies, success stories, disappointments and most of all, I read about how people like Lewis Carroll managed to be what they became.

The Davis Dyslexia Association International describes dyslexia as a gift.

“Why is dyslexia a gift?” it asks.
“Dyslexic people are highly creative, intuitive, and excel at three-dimensional problem solving and hands-on learning.
Our visual and holistic learning style means that we learn best through the creative process, with methods that focus on mastery of the meanings of words and symbols…."

Creative? Intuitive?
Was this me? The forever disappointment to my parents and teachers?

“The true gift of dyslexia is the gift of mastery.
When we use learning methods that fit our thinking style, we can excel in academics and read and write efficiently.”

This article—and thousands of others like it—gave me so much heart that I set up a reading program for myself while I grew my children up.
It was difficult, mainly because I’d given it all up so completely to save myself from the tag of failure attached to it for me.

Then very slowly, as confidence grew, I started to write.
Short pieces, more like thought bubbles.
I filled up pages and pages of slow, laborious writing.

The first piece I wrote for public consumption was a skit for my son’s nursery class.
It was a success and that encouraged me like nothing else could have.
I became unstoppable.

I started a diary, I wrote plays, I wrote for the radio, the television, and then I started my first book.
It was mostly autobiographical. I wasn’t going to give it to a publisher of course, but I started it anyway.
I wrote the first draft nonstop, for fifteen days.

My Friend Sadhu Shiva, the narration of a chronology of events from my childhood, was published 2 years later and is my most prized book.
Other books followed. The flow didn’t stop.

I run the race on the slow track, but it has its compensations.
I never lack motivation or run out of ideas.
Inspiration, for me, comes in all forms: from the newspaper, a conversation at a dinner party, a random comment caught on the breeze.

Being a writer for children, I put random ideas together and make up stories.
I make cats adopt baby parrots.
I make up poems about male dogs squatting instead of lifting a leg.
I dream of an abandoned baby zebra going off food until its owner wears black and white stripes…

Writing, for me, is not just a pleasurable pursuit.
It’s a spiritual discipline. A need.
Words are my succor and the entire process, from the blank page to the final paragraph, provides an emotional balance, which I require.

That is what this blog is about.
It’s about the need to imagine, to create, to share.
Every day for me is a miracle, an exercise in making up for lost time.

Recently I graduated from writing for children, to short stories for adults.
This exciting project is in process right now and will be the topic for my next few blogs.

I would love to hear from writers with problems with the written word, and from the more fortunate who have none.
Please share the joys of your writerly life with me and send me links to your blogs so I can follow you.
I hope we will intermingle and participate in each other’s journey.

Today’s book recommendation:
Ben Okri, ‘An African Elegy.’

Sweet blessings and affection! 🌿✍🏼📚