This Is What Made Me Follow You

on how it works (it doesn’t)

natashavc:

At the end of each day I sit down to read what I’ve published. And I can feel my heart plummet into my feet from numerous inexcusable typos. It’s a ritual for me after 6 o’clock, when the web is quiet and the stakes are lower to go through every post, tweet, email and look at my pitiful mistakes.

I have always had this problem. I grew with a keyboard and the deceptive tool of spellcheck. I made it through most of school with great grades based on my thesis statements not my grammar or typing. Also, I never cared. I never thought I would be a writer and if for some bewildering reason I became one I assured myself that there would be some meticulous copy-writer to save my ass.

At a party the other night some one asked me, politely,  if I had dyslexia. I do. It’s very minor.  But I chalk it up to a general adolescent laziness and a disinterest in the mechanics of language than any kind of disability.

The bigger issue is that when I re-read what I write I instantly hate it. I can see the weakness of my structure and inability to articulate whatever I’m trying to say. I feel a physical anxiety seize me. It feels as though a boot is pressing down on my chest. I feel compelled to change words, tenses, arguments, whatever. Then I lose even more time on whatever fast-approaching deadline I’m on.  At some point in college I realized I could review my arguments and avoid the pangs of dread if my eyes just rolled over sentences. It was efficient. I was smart; I contributed in class, so who cares if I leave a word out or two? Not me!

And now, somehow, I find myself being paid to write instantly, smoothly, and close to flawlessly. I can see myself fucking up in real time and now that boot feels as like it’s pressing down on my head.