Everyone keeps telling me to publish. I want to, and I am, but putting pen to paper and getting someone to publish it are two very different tasks, so bear with me. It's coming, but I can't say when. With the exception of my sister and brother, I've been secretly writing longer than I've known any of you, and I'm pretty sure my sister and brother only became aware of it recently.
I owe my ability to Martha Hammond, my beloved neighbor, who knew I had trouble reading but continued to give me books anyway, and to my mother, who didn't give up on me and, instead of sticking me in a special education class, taught herself the Montessori Method so I could learn to read despite my dyslexia, and one day had the brilliant idea that if I couldn't learn to write properly, maybe I could learn to type instead. I also owe a great deal to my teacher, Madora Mcintyre, who said, "Boyd's not stupid. Something else is wrong." and got me tested for dyslexia.
Writing is my strongest art, and making art is my strongest motive. Writing is also my therapy. Sometimes I have to write things down to get them out. That means I sometimes write about painful, uncomfortable, or embarrassing things. If it's about me, I'll let you read it. I don't care. You can look at my spleen if you want to. If it's painful or embarrassing to someone else, you may never see it. I'm not out to expose or exploit anyone. I've seen writers who did that, and I don't approve. Sometimes, I can't change the names or the details and keep people from knowing I'm telling their story, so those stories may exist in my computer somewhere, but you'll never see them. No one will.
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