Dylexia ( I can not even spell the word I am) Dyslexia

(Not seeing back to front words Amore)

Dylexia ( I cant even spell the word I am) Dyslexia

Scanning-

Magical thinking-

Word that are not there-

Memoir Blast / Diary Entry

Last night I checked the submission rules for a poetry magazine. I wasn’t reading — I was scanning. My eyes locked straight onto the negative words: disqualified, wrong spacing, incorrect format. That was enough for my brain to decide I’d messed up every competition I’ve entered this year. Straight into the “next hurdle, you’ve fallen again” story. Automatic. Fast. Familiar.

The Rule - (In bold the words I took in)

Short Story and Flash Fiction entries should be typed, double-spaced, on A4 pages. For legibility’s sake, please use a 12-point-size font. (Please note: you will not be disqualified if you don't adhere strictly to this.)

This morning I opened the same page again, but this time I was recording a voice note to Rich. Reading it out loud, line by line, not scanning. And that’s when I realized the truth: the rules were basic. Font size 12. Standard spacing. Nothing dramatic. Nothing I’d done wrong. The disaster was something my brain invented because it can’t process written meaning properly yet. Whether it’s dyslexia, audio processing, or just the way my brain filters for danger first — I don’t grasp the meaning when I read silently. (This is never consistent)

Reading silently and scanning is one system. Reading aloud is a different one. When I speak the words — flat, robotic, whatever — I actually hear what’s written instead of what my brain expects. If I hadn’t read it out loud, I would’ve carried on believing everything was wrong.

(Sometimes I can sometimes I can not)

Yet I continue.

Rules

Short Story and Flash Fiction entries should be typed, double-spaced, on A4 pages. For legibility’s sake, please use a 12-point-size font. (Please note: you will not be disqualified if you don't adhere strictly to this.)

I’m still learning how to revisit the words instead of walking away. I’m still learning how to check the whole text instead of the threat words. I can’t “fix” my brain — this is how it reads — but going back over the text instead of relying on magical thinking is me helping myself.

Copilot shapes my voice notes into readable writing, but the part that matters is me going back in and re-reading. And here’s the big truth: I don’t see the mistakes. I don’t see the missing capitals or the wrong punctuation. But it’s still a hell of a lot better than I’ve ever had it, and I will continue.

So what if the rules are wrong sometimes. I try. I tried. I’m trying. Maybe everything I write should have a footnote: dyslexia, audio processing, ND writing. But do I need a label? I don’t know.

I’ve filled a folder with poems and stories. I’m writing more than I ever have. If the grammar isn’t perfect, if the capitals aren’t perfect, if the full stops aren’t in the right place — that’s AI. Without AI I wouldn’t have any words at all. But I’m actually doing it. That’s the shift.

And if my grandson ever gets read this , he’ll will here the pattern clearly: I didn’t stop. I kept going even when the words have always been the hardest part.

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter.

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...

The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks

🌊 The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks A children’s story inspired by Maverick George’s real beginning Intro for Molly and Ryan When Baby Whale was born, the ocean shook. The Sea Health Service — the SHS — whispered to his parents that he had the rarest lung trouble they had seen in sixty tides . His mum, the gentle whale Molly, had just brought him into the world. His dad, the brave whale Ryan, stayed outside the coral surgery cave for hours, swimming back and forth, bringing news, bringing hope, bringing love. Baby Whale needed help right away. Not because he was weak — but because he was special , and his tiny blowhole needed extra care to learn how to breathe. That was only the beginning. 🌊 Chapter One: The Circle of Sharks From the moment Baby Whale opened his eyes, the sharks were already circling. Not the big, fierce sharks — not the ones who bite in one terrible snap. These were the small‑bite sharks . The ones who take tiny nibbles, again and again, never enough to ...

Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

Search This Blog