My trouble with words became a serious problem for me when I was in the third grade. The class had started reading aloud, and every day I was panicked that I’d be called on. I’d cower at my desk, hoping my classmates would finish the passage before it was my turn.
I didn’t really know what I was experiencing back in the early 1980s, but now I know it was dyslexia. When I tried reading a paragraph, my eyes skipped whole sentences. When I wrote, I thought I was getting everything down on the paper – only to find that entire chunks and letters were missing.
Home was the one place I never felt self-conscious. As the son of Frank Zappa, I had anything but a normal childhood growing up in Los Angeles. Still, despite what people might expect from two rockers, my parents never did drugs, and they encouraged learning. Our house was always full of interesting people – artists, scientists, actors, musicians – who had great stories to tell.
My mother, Gail, recognised that I didn’t process information like other kids. When I was young, she read to me a lot. One story I loved was Leo the Late Bloomer, a picture book about a tiger cub who takes longer than others to read, write, draw and talk. I realise my mother chose that book for a reason.
Still, even with my family’s support, school didn’t get any better. After I was diagnosed with a learning disability, it actually got worse. In fourth grade, I spent most of the day in a portable classroom with a teacher, her smelly dog Nigel and other kids with learning problems. I started pretending I was sick so I could skip going, and stopped doing my homework.
When I was in eighth grade, my parents decided to let me be taught at home. They hired tutors to prepare me for the General Educational Development tests [high-school diploma equivalent], but when I took the test, I filled in all the bubbles randomly, thinking I was cool. My mother and father threw in the towel and said, "Make yourself a diploma."
Life got pretty boring – until I discovered my parents’ comic book collection. I found I could follow the story through the pictures without reading the words. I was hooked. I bought a Spider-Man compilation, and reading it felt like reading a real book. I’ve since learnt that dyslexics are advised to limit the amount of information on the page. Comic books, with their short phrases in block print, didn’t confuse my eyes the way lines of text did.
That summer, I went to a bookshop and found myself drawn to a Terry Brooks fantasy novel about elves. I curled up with this book and didn’t worry about scuffing it, unlike my comics, which I stored in polyurethane bags. I read slowly, using a piece of paper to hide everything on the page below the sentence I was reading. Finally I finished.
After that I started reading any book that I could get my hands on, especially those with ridiculous titles like Wizard Cats – I’d always loved cheesy monster and magic stories. One of my hobbies was painting monsters. I had so many pictures, I began giving them away to friends.
Finally my girlfriend said, "You are such a dork! What are you going to do with all these paintings?"
Without thinking, I said, "Maybe I’ll turn them into a children’s book."
For two years I compiled wacky concoctions – wet dog hair and pickles, for example – that would ward off monsters. I dictated the words, and my friends wrote them down for me.
I drew the illustrations. In early 2006, editors at Random House said they were interested in my book. But they wanted more of a story.
My instant response was no. I didn’t think of what I was doing as writing. But my book agent, behind my back, told Random House yes. She knew I was scared, but she hounded me relentlessly, telling me I could do it. I started to believe her.
Days later, I woke up with a novel in my head: The Monstrous Memoirs of a Mighty McFearless. Two siblings, Max and Minerva, set out to save their dad, a professional monster hunter. I wanted lots of illustrations, so that kids with learning disorders could follow it. I’d never typed before, but with determination I pushed through.
I used spellchecker to help me, and sometimes I finished only one paragraph in a 17-hour day. When my editor threatened to abandon the book because I’d missed so many deadlines, I panicked and sent him everything I’d done. That’s when he said, "I think we have something."
Just a week after I wrote "The End" on the last page, Disney offered one of the biggest sums ever for an unpublished author’s film rights. Now, at age 32, I’m working on my second book. The writing hasn’t got any easier, but I love telling stories.
Having a book out there with my name on it has made me feel OK about missing out on some things in life – including school. The best part is that it might help a kid with dyslexia discover just how wonderful reading can be. For that, I’m 100%, blissfully happy.
My trouble with words became a serious problem for me when I was in the third grade. The class had started reading aloud, and every day I was panicked that I’d be called on. I’d cower at my desk, hoping my classmates would finish the passage before it was my turn.
I didn’t really know what I was experiencing back in the early 1980s, but now I know it was dyslexia. When I tried reading a paragraph, my eyes skipped whole sentences. When I wrote, I thought I was getting everything down on the paper – only to find that entire chunks and letters were missing.
Home was the one place I never felt self-conscious. As the son of Frank Zappa, I had anything but a normal childhood growing up in Los Angeles. Still, despite what people might expect from two rockers, my parents never did drugs, and they encouraged learning. Our house was always full of interesting people – artists, scientists, actors, musicians – who had great stories to tell.
My mother, Gail, recognised that I didn’t process information like other kids. When I was young, she read to me a lot. One story I loved was Leo the Late Bloomer, a picture book about a tiger cub who takes longer than others to read, write, draw and talk. I realise my mother chose that book for a reason.
Still, even with my family’s support, school didn’t get any better. After I was diagnosed with a learning disability, it actually got worse. In fourth grade, I spent most of the day in a portable classroom with a teacher, her smelly dog Nigel and other kids with learning problems. I started pretending I was sick so I could skip going, and stopped doing my homework.
When I was in eighth grade, my parents decided to let me be taught at home. They hired tutors to prepare me for the General Educational Development tests [high-school diploma equivalent], but when I took the test, I filled in all the bubbles randomly, thinking I was cool. My mother and father threw in the towel and said, "Make yourself a diploma."
Life got pretty boring – until I discovered my parents’ comic book collection. I found I could follow the story through the pictures without reading the words. I was hooked. I bought a Spider-Man compilation, and reading it felt like reading a real book. I’ve since learnt that dyslexics are advised to limit the amount of information on the page. Comic books, with their short phrases in block print, didn’t confuse my eyes the way lines of text did.
That summer, I went to a bookshop and found myself drawn to a Terry Brooks fantasy novel about elves. I curled up with this book and didn’t worry about scuffing it, unlike my comics, which I stored in polyurethane bags. I read slowly, using a piece of paper to hide everything on the page below the sentence I was reading. Finally I finished.
After that I started reading any book that I could get my hands on, especially those with ridiculous titles like Wizard Cats – I’d always loved cheesy monster and magic stories. One of my hobbies was painting monsters. I had so many pictures, I began giving them away to friends.
Finally my girlfriend said, "You are such a dork! What are you going to do with all these paintings?"
Without thinking, I said, "Maybe I’ll turn them into a children’s book."
For two years I compiled wacky concoctions – wet dog hair and pickles, for example – that would ward off monsters. I dictated the words, and my friends wrote them down for me.
I drew the illustrations. In early 2006, editors at Random House said they were interested in my book. But they wanted more of a story.
My instant response was no. I didn’t think of what I was doing as writing. But my book agent, behind my back, told Random House yes. She knew I was scared, but she hounded me relentlessly, telling me I could do it. I started to believe her.
Days later, I woke up with a novel in my head: The Monstrous Memoirs of a Mighty McFearless. Two siblings, Max and Minerva, set out to save their dad, a professional monster hunter. I wanted lots of illustrations, so that kids with learning disorders could follow it. I’d never typed before, but with determination I pushed through.
I used spellchecker to help me, and sometimes I finished only one paragraph in a 17-hour day. When my editor threatened to abandon the book because I’d missed so many deadlines, I panicked and sent him everything I’d done. That’s when he said, "I think we have something."
Just a week after I wrote "The End" on the last page, Disney offered one of the biggest sums ever for an unpublished author’s film rights. Now, at age 32, I’m working on my second book. The writing hasn’t got any easier, but I love telling stories.
Having a book out there with my name on it has made me feel OK about missing out on some things in life – including school. The best part is that it might help a kid with dyslexia discover just how wonderful reading can be. For that, I’m 100%, blissfully happy.
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