Some call them learning disabilities. They are not. They’re learning differences; a person is differently abled.
I have dyslexia. Sure, I have to triple check for reversals, and spelling errors light up red lines in my manuscripts and Facebook posts, but I’m not a disabled writer.
In fact, dyslexia enables my aptitude for descriptive writing and character development. I see scenarios in my mind, and I hear what characters are saying. I feel their joy, fear, courage, and agony. Emotions swell like surfers’ waves on pages. My imagination is prolific. I see in images, not words. I record with my fingertips, usually hunched over my keyboard in a deep concentration as I take on the fly-on-the-wall role.
This and outstanding spacial skills are the gifts of dyslexia. I’m a good shot; I’ll win all those stuffed animals at the fair with a flimsy gun, and I hang things on my walls in an even row or estimate space and size with no measuring tape.
I am able to read and write, I just have a different way of doing these things. And I ingest a lot of caffeine. It’s one of my coping tools. Cheers!