Simon Wood

Posts Tagged: dyslexia

I’m going to be at this year’s Left Coast Crime convention held in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada!! This is my appearance schedule.

Bar Stories aka The Not So Secret Life of Authors
With David Corbett, Robin Burcell, David Schlosser, Tim Hallinan, Catriona McPherson and with me emceeing
Friday, March 29th, 6:15pm-7:00pm

Four Dyslexics & an Aphantasiac Talk Writing 
With Jamie Mason, Josh Stalling, Jay Stringer and me with Jacque Ben-Zekry moderating.
Saturday, March 30th, 5:15pm-6:00pm

If you’re coming, I do hope you’ll drop by and say hi.

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Last summer I was the subject of a short documentary piece about dyslexia.  It’s a series of interviews with dyslexics put out by the Dyslexic Advantage.  It’s an organization that endeavors to highlight dyslexic success stories.

Here’s a short preview of that interview.  Enjoy!

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In honor of Dyslexia Awareness Month.
The part I love most about writing is the first draft.  It all pours out in a blur of activity.  My office crackles with the sound of a clicking keyboard.  The greatest moment is when I type “The End” and hit print.   There’s no sound finer than the buzz of my HP spewing out the pages.  Somehow, the moment that story, that book, is birthed into the material world, it’s legitimate and I’m a proud father every time.  I have no shame or tact.  I shove the thing under my wife’s nose for her opinion, irrespective of what she’s doing, whether it be watching TV or digging a tunnel to freedom.  I don’t care because I know I’ve nailed it.  That first draft is perfect—okay, some passages need trimming, others fleshing out, but one good read through and it’s done—right?
How I wish that were true.
The first part is true.  I do love creating the first draft.  Getting down those ideas and thoughts is the best.  The heartbreak comes after my wife has given it the once over and the red pen comes out and I get back something resembling a used bandage instead of my tale.
The problem is that unlike most writers, I’m dyslexic.  I must be a masochist.  I have to be.  I’ve chosen the one career 99.9% of dyslexics would choose to avoid.
Even though I know and understand my problem, I’m literally blind to it.  I don’t see the mistakes—the incorrect words, the impossible sentences, bizarre language structure and the plain incomprehensible.  My early drafts are laced with missing words penned in for me, passages circled with a question mark and comments where I might have gone wrong.  At times, my wife must feel like she’s working with a Codetalker.
So first draft bliss dissolves into editing hell.  It’s a chore and I hate it.  I wish Microsoft had some gadget that would rewrite my work at the click of a button. 
I’m blessed, though.  My wife, Julie, has the right temperament to cut through my jumble.  She’s my seeing-eye dog (she’s going to love that analogy), to guide me through the literary minefield I’ve created.  Without her input, not one of my stories or novels would have been printed.  I will forever be in her debt.
Besides Julie, my spelling and grammar checker is my other guide.  I know a lot of writers turn them off, but I keep mine on.  I may not take its advice, but I know it’s telling me there’s some dyslexic goof lurking there somewhere.  It forces me to really focus.
Reading my work aloud has also been effective.  It helps me uncover where my dyslexia has masked what I really wanted to say or to discover that I’ve written something I didn’t want to say.  When Julie reads, the issue presents itself in gory detail and sounds like fingernails drawn down a blackboard.  When I read, Julie stops me after a sentence or two to point out that what I’ve read and what I’ve written are totally different.  Whatever misfire is floating around in my brain, we do overcome it.
Some might say it’s very nice to have a proofreader every step of the way and it is, but it’s equally as frustrating.  It’s tough relying on someone else to tell you where you’ve gone wrong.  It’s like being fluent in a foreign language, but only on a verbal level, and being ignorant of the written language.  I want to be able to correct the obvious.  So at times, I’m not considerate or patient.  It goes without saying that it creates a strain on both Julie and me.  But the writing credits I’ve built up over the last six years have been the reward.
We’ve come a long way from when I announced one Halloween night that I was going to give writing a shot.  Writing has helped my dyslexia by reducing the errors my befuddled brain produces.  Dyslexia has always been my shame and I’m glad I’ve put it in its place—right next to my expanding row of books.

Categories: shelf life

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Driving Julie to the airport last week, I got a little reminder of my dyslexia.  Most people know dyslexia as a word related problem but it’s bigger than that.  Spatial awareness is also a symptom.  Personally, I don’t know left from right.  This isn’t strictly true.  I do know the difference but I get confused when faced with the notion of left and right.  If I see a symbol for a left turn or someone says something is on the left, the instruction gets garbled on the way to my brain.  I know what left is, but for the life of me I don’t understand the concept of left.  I end up standing there wondering which left people are talking about.  Mind-blowing, I know.  You really should take a spin in my brain for a day.
So how do I get about?  With great difficulty if I’m honest.  My internal compass is a little scwiffy. Consider a simple main street: if I look down it from one end, then look at it from the other end, I don’t recognize the street as being the same one. My brain doesn’t make the correlation and I see two totally different streets. Only after 20 or 30 times will I realize that the supermarket on the left side of the street going south is the same one as is on the right side going north. Naturally, this problem is compounded exponentially when you add cross streets and the complexity of traditional towns. 
So when I get to know a town, I don’t get to know a town.  I have to get to know dozens of parallel towns all the same but just seen from different directions.  It’s a lot of work.
To combat the problem, I tend to follow distinct routes that I know so I don’t get lost, but most of the time I had no idea where I am going and I have to rely on blind faith that I will find my destination…eventually.  You wouldn’t believe the prep I do before going somewhere new.  I memorize Google maps before the trip.  Thank God for the US’ love of grid systems for street layouts or I would be generally lost most of the time.
So what happened on airport run?  On the drive out, we saw a snarl up pretty close to home that would be there for me on my return trip.  I was looking at a good half an hour of sitting in gridlock, but luck was on my side.  The snarl up was close to one of my bicycle training rides.  I could dump off the road, follow my cycle route and circumvent the traffic jam.  What a star I am.  Except, there was a problem.  I would be going in the reverse direction to my cycle route—and I’d never ridden it in reverse.  Usually in these situations I wouldn’t try this but I really didn’t want to sit in traffic and I had committed a number of landmarks to memory which I knew I could rely on, so I was feeling somewhat confident of a journey into the unknown.
Oh, how naïve of me.
I was OK for the first mile or so, but that was because I didn’t have any turns to make.  When I made the first one, I was lost.  The street was not familiar whatsoever, although I did know the name of the street.  I followed the country road hoping for a familiar landmark but saw nothing.  I took to checking the rearview mirror hoping to see something in reverse that would be recognizable but to no avail.  After several miles of taking turns, I didn’t recognize a damn thing in front of me or behind me.  I was lost, well and truly.  I surrendered and decided to drive purely on instinct.  I decided that if I kept on northerly course (using the sun’s position in the sky) I would end up somewhere close to home.  If not, I was going to be in Oregon by nightfall.  Eventually, I came to a crossroad  and against my better judgment, I make a left and lo and behold, a mile later I recognized a park  and know I was going in the right direction—much to my joy and astonishment.  Even though I knew I was on the right track, I still didn’t recognize any of the roads for the next three miles although I knew I’d ridden these roads for close to ten years on my bike—only in the opposite direction.
Only when I’d gotten home and pieced together my route did I realize the roads I’d taken.  I was astounded that I’d blown by a bunch of landmarks such as houses, funky looking trees, signs, etc. and not recognized a single one—and all because I was coming at them at the wrong angle.
I’ll be honest, I know my dyslexic brain has this major fault but even I marveled my incapability to recognize the route I took.  I’m still reeling that I didn’t recognize one particular house that I think is stunning but seeing it from the reverse angle, it meant nothing to me.  I really shouldn’t be allowed out of the house without a caregiver…seriously.
Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed this journey into the unknown with me and that you’ll view dyslexia with a difference perspective.  And kids, the moral of this story: don’t stray from the path…especially if you’re dyslexic.
 

Categories: hump day post

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In my writerly life, I get a queasy feeling from time to time.  Different things can trigger it—a book signing, an autograph, a compliment, an advert, etc.  Usually, something nice anyway.  This time it was the cover art for the German version of PAYING THE PIPER.  A woozy feeling washed over me.  It’s a lovely cover but there was one thing wrong with it.  It had my name on it.
 
Oh, I wrote the book and there’s no mistake about that but it does feel weird to see my name on a book cover.  It somehow seems fraudulent.  We are talking about me being a writer.  This was never the plan.  I read books.  Someone like me doesn’t write them!
 
Maybe it’s the dyslexia talking.  It’s made me self conscious and given me a sense of unworthiness.  What could be more ludicrous than a dyslexic author? 
 
Yes, I know some of you will berate me for saying that but it’s the way I feel.
 
Naturally, being the paradoxical person that I am, I am also immensely proud of my books and stories.  I hope that I’ll keep writing for the rest of my life.  It’s what I want to do with my life.  See!  Paradoxical.  I never said this would make any sense.
 
I have a bookcase in my office filled with just my books and magazines featuring articles and stories I’ve written.  I look at it all and think, wow, I’m responsible for all that.  I also look at it and think, wow, I’m responsible for all that.  I think there’s been a terrible mistake.  Is there someone I can speak to about this? 
 
I suppose I’m a still a fanboy when it comes to books and I get excited by books and authors I admire, but when it comes to my books, I don’t believe I’m in their league.  It’s no different when I’ve seen my books in the bookstore. I see them on the shelf or display and I smile, but it’s quickly followed by a blush of embarrassment.
 
I suppose I’m too close to my work. I can’t view it the same rarefied air as I can with other people’s books. More than likely, most authors feel that way. I guess it’s because a book is like a house. I built it from the dirt up and while the rest of the world sees a house, I see all the difficulties I went through in its construction.
 
Objectivity is a bitch that way.
 
I’m not sure I’m making much sense with this admission. Mainly because I can’t quite put a finger the emotion, probably because I’m experiencing two of them at once—glee and embarrassment which are held in check by stupity. I blame being English. Boasting is an outfit that never quite fits. I don’t think my people have the shoulders for it.
 
I not sure there’s a cure for this aliment.  Dramamine isn’t going to cut it.  I know I’ve tried.  Time heals all wounds so it might be the cure I need—but for that I will have to keep on writing.  J
 

Categories: shelf life

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