Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved stories. My parents would read to me before bed and I’d vanished into some magical world where nothing was impossible.
By the time I was eight or nine, my parents started encouraging me to read on my own. I gave it a try but found myself struggling with the reading. I had the same problem at school. The other kids read faster and spelled better than I did.
We travelled a lot while I was growing up. By the time I was fifteen, I’d spent 2/3 of my life in Africa, but no matter where we lived or what school I attended, I struggled with my reading and my spelling.
I was nineteen when it was confirmed that I am dyslectic, but by then I’d started reading. It began when I was around twelve. It was summer and we were living in Sweden at the time. My father said I had to practice my reading and sent me to the library. A kind librarian asked me a few question about my interests, and picked out a book that got me hooked from page one. I can’t remember the title of the book, but it got me reading. I read several books that summer and it changed everything.
Now days there are audio books and computers to help with the spelling, but I still love that feeling of opening a book and throwing myself into a new mystery. I’ll never be that person who consumes two books a week, but hey, isn’t a good story is best devoured slowly?