I didn’t learn how to read until I was at the end of fifth grade and 11 years old and held back.
With my fiction, I focused on chapters and overall conceptions, while in poetry, I crawled along in the trenches of each sentence, examining every word for a sign of a deeper significance.
Art’s power of persuasion resides in the small personal details of one’s own story, and if it weren’t for my struggle with dyslexia, I doubt I’d ever have become a writer or known how to teach others to write.
Repeating third grade at a new school, after having been asked to leave my old one for hitting kids who made fun of my perceived stupidity, I was placed in the ‘dummy class.’
I don’t think I’ve worked with anyone where I haven’t seen some progress. Now sometimes you can’t take someone where they want to go, not all the way, and sometimes you stop, and they do it or don’t do it on their own thereafter.
Most people try to avoid cliches. It’s my ambition in life to try to get ’em right!
Suddenly, I was reading these comics. I was looking at those bubbles, those dialogue bubbles, and suddenly there were words… recognizable words.
What I read, I read thoroughly and retain almost all of it.
My imagination was a great place to escape from all the anxiety and disapproval of my life… I had to live in my head… art was a way of making myself feel better.
I was 17 when I decided to write stories as big as cathedrals, overflowing with the kind of memorable and audacious characters Walker Percy, Ernest Hemingway and Saul Bellow created.