Growing up being dyslexic was hard. I loved stories, but couldn’t read till second grade and even then just barely and very slowly. So I had to depend on stories being read to me or just dream them. Every Friday during the last period of the day our teacher would read to us. She read mainly from chapter books. My first grade teacher was very good at reading and acting out the tales. You could listen, head down on the desk and see the story come alive. Oh, she was good. It was agonizing to have to wait a whole week for the next chapter and then another week for the continuation. But I was impatient and blessed with loads of imagination. I would come home and snuggle with my pillow in the corner of the room and dream up the next chapter. That is I think, how later in life, I developed my ability to tell stories.