A Dyslexic Writer’s Shoes

Being a dyslexic writer sounds like an oxymoron. But I say, who are you calling a moron? If you struggle to read and spell, surely writing a novel would be the last thing you’d choose to do.

And yet, here I am.

Being a dyslexic writer feels a bit like trying to navigate with a faulty compass. Every sentence is accompanied by doubt.

Did I actually spell that word correctly?

Or does it only look right because my brain has filled in the blanks?

Sometimes I’ll stare at a perfectly ordinary word until it feels like complete nonsense. Other times, I’ll confidently write something that is spectacularly incorrect without the slightest hint that anything is amiss.

My brain isn’t a reliable proofreader.

It’s as though my keyboard is conspiring against me. The letters don’t always stay where I intended them to be, and when I reread what I’ve written, my brain quietly fills in the missing pieces. It reads what I meant to write instead of what’s actually on the page.

That means I can read the same paragraph ten times and completely miss an obvious typo.

It’s an incredibly strange experience to know you’re making mistakes while simultaneously being unable to see them.

Writing itself can feel like stumbling through a maze of tricky words. I’ll know exactly what I want to say, but the path from my thoughts to the page is cluttered with spelling decisions, misplaced letters, forgotten punctuation, and words that refuse to look right no matter how many times I rewrite them.

I use to avoid certain words altogether because I wasn’t confident in a spelling. I’d rewrite an entire sentence simply to dodge one troublesome spelling. Thankfully speech to text now comes to my rescue.

There are moments when the mechanics of writing become so exhausting that they threaten to drown out the story I’m trying to tell.

Editing is its own special challenge. Most writers hunt for weak prose or awkward dialogue. I’m doing that too, but I’m also searching for invisible mistakes that my brain insists don’t exist. Spellcheck catches some of them. Grammar software catches others. Text-to-speech helps. Changing the font helps. Reading on a different device helps. But nothing replaces another human catching what my dyslexic brain simply cannot see.

And then there’s the imposter syndrome.

Every typo can feel like proof that maybe I don’t belong here. That my dyslexic brain could never call myself a writer.

But dyslexia has also shaped me in unexpected ways.

Because reading and writing have never come easily, I spend a great deal of time thinking about language. I obsess over rhythm, clarity, emotion, and whether a sentence feels right. I often picture scenes visually before I write them. I solve story problems by seeing connections rather than following rigid rules.

Many dyslexic people are exceptional big-picture thinkers. We tend to recognize patterns, imagine possibilities, and approach problems from unusual angles. Those strengths have become part of my writing voice.

Would I choose dyslexia if I had the option?

Probably not.

Would I stop writing because of it?

Absolutely not.

After all the second-guessing, after the endless proofreading, after questioning every sentence and every word, I still come back to the page.

Because there is something inside me that insists on writing.

It’s deeper than ambition. Deeper than publication. Deeper than the fear of making mistakes.

If I don’t write, it feels as though all those thoughts, stories, and emotions build up inside me until they have nowhere to go. That they may cause me to implode and that would be terribly messy.

So I keep writing.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because I’m naturally good at spelling.

But because I can’t imagine not doing it.

Dyslexia makes writing harder, but it doesn’t make me any less of a writer.