Writer Confessions

I never read much as a child. In fact, as a very young kid, I remember having problems physically reading out loud – trying it would make my breathing go all weird. Maybe it was an anxiety thing, similar to a stammer, I don’t know, but I’d have to stop after each word – each and every single word – and gulp down a breath before I could try the next. That was when I was first learning to read and, as you can probably guess, wasn’t a positive experience.

Around that time, I remember being at a meeting between my teacher and my mother. They were discussing problems I was having with learning to write – my handwriting being unreadable, spelling being way off, and a bunch of my letters muddled, backwards, or in the wrong order.

As an adult looking back at that memory, I shake my head and wonder how on earth it didn’t ring alarm bells signalling something was wrong. But, well, either the alarms didn’t go off or no one was listening.

I was almost twenty when I was diagnosed with dyslexia. Huzzah! Suddenly, everything made sense, even if it was a bit late to save my university career.

In the intervening years between my early school experiences and my later ones, I fell in love with books. Or, at least, the idea of books.

I had started collecting books that seemed really interesting and made a list of books I wanted to write but, while I was writing a little (mostly emo poetry and short stuff that should never and will never see the light of day), I was intimidated by anything over three pages and didn’t actually try and read any of the books I acquired.

Actually, I was so clueless about which books were age appropriate and what might suit me that the ones I did have – picked out of a box at a jumble sale based completely on the covers and how cheap they were – really only worked as pretty things to look at and collect. I’d bought huge, dense tomes that most adults would struggle with and had no idea what genres I liked or even what a genre really was.

It’s not the beginning you would expect from someone who now writes professionally and reads roughly fifty books a year, right?  Continue reading

A Journal Entry for Today

Last night I was feeling so productive. I was excited for starting a new month of writing projects and opportunities. I wrote out a list of everything I wanted to achieve.

Today, I woke up in pain. That’s been happening a lot, lately; waking up not when I’m no longer tired, but when the pain gets too much.

My back has been in increasing levels of agony for a while. My left knee and hip aren’t really aligned, properly, and I just feel so tired.

I’m not making this post to complain, but to document a day that hasn’t gone to plan. You could easily be forgiven for thinking that life is all sunshine and roses for people, but there’s often a lot more going on under the surface, and I like being open about that stuff.

I’m really concerned about money issues. I’m having anxiety dreams about it.

Talking to my mother on the phone, she tells me her cousin died, and I’m reminded of my own morality.

Death and the afterlife is something I think about a lot. Something I’m searching for answers about.

There’s just a lot in my head, and I didn’t feel right forcing myself to put up a blog post about books today.

They say writing this shit down helps.