Alright, you don’t all have to say “yes” at once.  I would appreciate a few “no way.”

I want to write a memoir and I have been hearing since I was ten that I have lived a very unusual life. But at ten, I was in the throes of dyslexia and was being told on a daily basis that I was a bad kid or stupid. What a freaking relief to be finally diagnosed at 25 that I was not even close to being stupid(a word that should be banned –  and it will appear in my next blog about banned words.) but just a tad dyslexic. But what I suffered at the hands of ignorance was enormous. The only thing I took away from being forced to read was a strong, straight back. While I spent hours in my shared bedroom, pretending to read, I was making my way down an imaginary runway with the dreaded book balanced ever so gently on my head. Too bad the stress and loneliness of being different made me bit chubby, friendless and in need of blond highlights.

Do I go after write about the people who, without knowing it, made me who I am today? I remember how things in my teenage years went from crippling fear that my life was for naught to the notion that I was a kidnapped member of the British royalty who did not inherit an enormous overbite. That kept me going. To have an overly abundant imagination kept the heart pumping and the dreams running along with me. I still applaud myself for not believing in what they were saying. Most of the time.

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