A few weeks ago, something happened that really upset me, and it’s been bugging me ever since. I was at a book club meeting, and when it came to my turn to discuss what I’d read for the theme that month, there was this person, sitting across the table, who kept looking confused as I explained the story. I honestly wasn’t sure why, but when I finished, they asked me, “What made you decide to read this book?” I answered that I’d already seen the movie version, and wanted to revisit the tale, and knew it fit into the theme. And they said, “No, I mean why the graphic novel version instead of the original book?”, and it was all I could do to stop my jaw from dropping.
I managed to get out something about how I’d already read the original (actually, I haven’t), but couldn’t remember the author (in fact another lie), and how I stumbled on the graphic version (true), and knew it would be a quicker read (also true) during a busy week. But the real reason I chose to read the graphic novel rather than the text is because it’s easier for me. But I didn’t feel this person would understand that one bit, so I didn’t even go there.
When I was done answering their extremely judgmental question, they had the audacity to fake smile and say, “Thank you for sharing.” No, I’m not kidding. “Thank you for sharing.” What you say to a child who doesn’t like to speak in front of the whole class. Good Lord.
My whole life, I’ve struggled with understanding certain parts of linguistics, literature, and mathematics; I have dyslexia, and that simply means my brain doesn’t recognize or comprehend certain patterns or constructs. It means that the number is 7491, but I may see 4719; that the correct word is affect, not effect, but I will always accidentally pick the wrong one. It translates to it’s a miracle I was able to graduate college; there are some jobs I don’t even bother applying for; I have to have an editor to catch the typos in my own books; and I am not suited to some types of entertainment.
Reading subtitles in especially foreign films is so difficult, I don’t do it unless there are absolutely no dubbed versions available and I really, really want to see that movie. It’s why a lot of anime remains out of my reach. Similarly, I can’t read manga, because of its reverse (to Western reading) style. Digital manuscripts can be tricky. I like audiobooks, but I have to have complete silence around me to listen, because I’m devoting extra brain power to mentally picturing all the words I cannot see.
I’ve stopped torturing myself with mainstream adult books reaching 450 pages, where I couldn’t really connect with the characters because I couldn’t grasp their situations or motivations — due to the setting descriptions using too many words I couldn’t easily sound out, and the character arcs being cloaked in metaphors too abstract for my mind to pick apart and put back together. I’ve given up on classics entirely. I’m no longer ashamed of the fact that if I want to follow what’s happening in a period drama, I will need to watch the film version.
I’m also becoming very interested in graphic novels, because they include that visual aspect that helps me so much when it comes to really having a concrete image of settings and characters, architecture and fashion, and all the world building that makes a connection between the story and the audience or reader.
And I should not have to apologize for using this method, to be kind to my brain, and ensure enjoyment of a hobby I’m invested in and would like to keep doing.
The idea that an adult choosing to read a graphic novel adaptation of a MG chapter book somehow makes this adult less mature INFURIATES me.
The implication that my choice isn’t considered valid — by someone who doesn’t know me at all and could be making big decisions on how they feel about me without having any background on the matter — is greatly upsetting.
And what’s even worse, this is far from the first time I’ve experienced such things.
People have asked why I write fantasy. Or, why I don’t write epic fantasy. Or, why I do a bunch of research into real events and places just to fictionalize them.
The surface (still valid) reason is: I like fantasy. It’s fun. Reading it, and writing it. Dragons are cool. Real life is boring, and scary. Hoping magic might exist and make things better gives me an escape, and something bigger than myself and my problems to focus on.
The deeper (totally valid as hell) reason is: I have a learning disability. I don’t physically possess the energy to study or create or polish something at length without constant distractions, interruptions, or forgetting bits — possibly even the entire point of the story. It takes me a LONG time (occasionally 3-4 years) to finish a tale that’s coherent and cohesive and readable by other people. I should be PROUD that I accomplish this feat at all. Screw what genre somebody else wants it to be in.
Being a published author isn’t easy, anyway — low sales and lack of marketing options and dealing with unfair criticism comes with the territory. When I already have a lot of obstacles in my path, I do NOT need this kind of subtle backlash on top of everything else.
It makes me mad. It hurts. It does make me question how mature I am, and if my choices are the right ones. It SUCKS.
This has already been a tough month because I’ve had to cope with the loss of income and the adjustments to my schedule by being forced out of one job and trying to secure another. My confidence has been shot in a lot of areas, and I know this incident has weighed on me, despite my trying to brush it off.
I can’t help that I’m disabled. I do try to carry on, with a positive outlook, in spite of the challenges I face on a regular basis. But sometimes a comment or an interaction will just hit in completely the wrong way — and this was one of those moments.
The Invisible Moth 