I wanted to be a writer when I was young. I had fantastic ideas, stories of dragons, warriors, battles and plot twists. I could write riddles and spue out poetic prose. I kept these things to myself until my senoir year of school. my friend trying to be a great supportive person he was, showed one of my writing pieces to his Honors English. I wasnt in the Honor’s English class, I wasnt in regular English, I wasnt even in basic English class, I was in the “Special English” class. His teacher asked to meet with him and I. I at first didnt want to, but he convinced me, saying this teacher never liked anyones writing but liked mine. I decided to go with him to meet with this teacher. Perhaps she was used to a different type of student, perhaps I had not been educated normally, perhaps my jaded sense at 17 years old closed me off from understanding. In the meeting I sat there listening, but all I heard was, my failure at spelling every word, not having the write punctuation, not having complete ideas or proper grammar and sentence structure. All I heard what I had been hearing for 12 years and outlined in red ink, I could not spell or write. That night I burned everything I had ever written. Dyslexia sucks, not understanding sucks, but now I know, fuck what others think, I am who I am, I write how I write. It took me 30 years to realize this. Glad you realized it sooner.
