One writer's journey from dyslexia to poetry

They laughed at my struggle to read, says Philip Schultz, but fighting back made me into a writer

THIS MUCH IS clear: The mind of a dyslexic is different from the minds of other people. Learning that my problem with processing language wasn't stupidity seemed to take most of my life. Like every other important trade-off in life, giving up this negative image of myself has been complicated and difficult. I'd grown accustomed to seeing myself as someone who, if fallible and unworthy, had nevertheless managed to do one thing well enough to get recognition for it. I'd learned to accommodate and live around my compromised self in a somewhat comfortable and acceptable manner. Since I was 10, I'd taught myself to live a life of opposites — because I couldn't do this I learned to enjoy doing that, a compensatory way of swimming against constantly shifting currents. It worked well enough: I was happily married, had two terrific boys, a career as a writer, and a private school — which, I would soon come to understand, had been created out of the very thinking process I used to compensate for my dyslexia — all accomplishments of which I was very proud.

The act of translating what for me are the mysterious symbols of communication into actual comprehension has always been a hardship to me. I often read a sentence two or three times before I truly understand it; must restructure its syntax and sound out its syllables before I can begin to absorb its meaning and move on to the next sentence. And when I make the mistake of becoming aware that I am reading, and behaving in a way that enables this mysterious, electrically charged process to take place, my mind balks and goes blank and I become anxious and stop.

For reasons I'll never fully understand, or perhaps don't even want to, I dislike the peculiar, obstinate, slightly out-of-control way in which my mind behaves when I'm reading. I can never just sit down and begin reading, I must first trick myself into it by playing endless games of solitaire on my computer, or reheating my tea, or taking another walk with my dog, Penelope.

But once I'm actually reading, once I've convinced myself that it's in my best interest to engage in this struggle, I proceed haltingly at first, hesitating at the beginning of each new thought and sentence, as if accruing additional strength and courage. And while reading I must sell myself a bill of goods, convince myself that what I'm reading is so fascinating and valuable, so compelling that it's worth the effort. I must remind myself at regular intervals that having to constantly reread sentences is both sensible and necessary, an act of self-discipline, fortitude, and concentration that ultimately will benefit me not only as a person but as a writer.

I often forget the meaning of words I've looked up many times before and must consult a dictionary, as I frequently consult a thesaurus while writing to make sure I've selected the right word. As I read, a kind of subtle bartering between uncertainty and hunger for knowledge goes on in my mind, in which I must conquer a feeling of hopelessness and anxiety. I've learned to read the way a runner learns to expect and find his second and third winds, the way an athlete pushes himself beyond where it is comfortable to go. I read word by word, sometimes congratulating myself on the completion of each sentence, each paragraph and chapter. Perhaps this is why it's particularly hard for me to read anything that isn't well written and moving; why I became a poet, because poetry is so compressed and is often beautifully written and moving.

All of which, without doubt, makes the fact of my being a writer even more strange and, to a degree, wonderfully preposterous.

I remember the first time I even considered the idea of being a writer. I was in the fifth grade when my reading tutor, whom I had been forced to see after my parents were threatened with the possibility of yet another expulsion, asked me out of the blue what I thought I might like to do with my life.

Without a moment's hesitation, I answered that I wanted to be a writer.

My reading tutor was a retired grade-school principal, a good-natured, slightly stern man who was so overweight that the opening in his desk couldn't accommodate the width of his belly and he sat so far away from it he couldn't easily reach anything on his desktop. When he laughed his belly moved in gelatinous waves all the way from his chin down to his knees. And now he was laughing, really laughing. What was so funny about a boy who couldn't read at the age of 11 saying he wanted to become someone who spends most of his time doing precisely that? The fact that I couldn't read didn't mean that I never would, I thought. I always assumed I would one day, and what difference would it then make? But Mr. Joyce — and only many years later did I appreciate the irony of his name — couldn't stop laughing. He kept wiping the tears from his eyes, apologizing, and then starting up again, laughing even harder this time.

"Philip, my dear boy, why in the world do you imagine you want to do something for the rest of your life that has been so hard for you to do on its most basic level?" he asked, holding his belly as if to control further eruptions.

I could only manage a small shrug. I had absolutely no idea why. And I wasn't insulted, I was just curious.

"How long have you wanted to be a writer?"

"Not very long," I ventured.

"How long then?"

"Since you asked me. I never thought about it before."

Now he started laughing again, with even greater force and enthusiasm.

Later that night, in bed, after I told my mother what I'd told Mr. Joyce and we were reading my Blackhawk comic books together — she would read the words aloud and I would imitate the sounds, as if reading them myself — I surprised both of us by interrupting her and actually reading the words. I remember the way she sat there, staring at me, her eyes wide as I read without pausing for breath, afraid if I stopped I would never be able to begin again. I sang each word, smiling, looking over her shoulder at the January moon, which I could see through my torn window shade, big and gaunt-looking, smiling down at me, it seemed, as if with wonder. It was the same wonder I felt as I remembered another January day two years earlier when my mother had been called to my previous school by my teacher and the school principal.