Tongue Tied

"I'm sure Cindy knows at least two stories," Mrs. Blanton, kindergarten teacher.

It Wasn't a Problem Until it Became a Problem

My kindergarten teacher often reported that I was ‘talkative’ in class, so my mother was puzzled by the teacher’s unsatisfactory comment on my quarterly progress report.

With elegant cursive letters penned in black ink, Mrs. Blanton wrote, “I can’t get her to tell a story before the class though I know she knows at least two.”

Mrs. Blanton was right.

So many stories filled my five-year-old brain that if I had known how to write, they’d fill at least a dozen composition notebooks.

Tales like the time my friend and I hunted for grasshoppers. One landed on her head, its legs snagging immediately in her curly hair. She screamed and I laughed until I ached. Or the time, I joined three friends hunting tadpoles in a ditch but discovered thrown away treasures instead. Then there was the trip into town with Mum, when we encountered a homeless man and she watched as I dropped a dollar bill into his metal cup.

These encounters and more swirled in my head.

But when it came to sharing a story with my thirty classmates, I’d open my mouth, begin to speak, and then stop. Despite Mrs. Blanton’s gently prodding, I’d shake my head, cross my arms, and shut down.

I was only five years old, but I was aware that I was different. What I intended to say and what tumbled out of my mouth didn’t always match up.

In the familiar surroundings of family and friends, casual conversation flowed easily, but was frequently punctuated with slipups like mispronunciations, reordered words, or repetitive phrases. Those that knew me took those missteps in stride, chalking it up to my unique communication style.

Still, I felt uncomfortable speaking with others.

In middle school, my ability to comprehend written words became laborious. I recall being tasked with presenting an oral report on a chapter regarding the industrial revolution. I studied all night. And, despite the copious notes I scrawled in my shorthand that made sense to me but not to others, I couldn’t remember what was in that chapter despite having reviewed it five times. The following day, as I stumbled over words while attempting to recall information that eluded me, I delivered my report.

I failed miserably.

My history teacher would later add a note in my progress report, “Cindy needs to try harder.”

I thought I was.

Why was it so challenging?

Despite the difficulties expressing myself, I enjoyed being around people. A yearning to belong, to be part of a group, was the motivation that spurred me to find a way to successfully interact with others.

Then I discovered my superpower: listening.

I’d always been a curious person and soon found that people relaxed when I asked about their lives. I was truly interested in what they had to say, and they were happy to share. This talent opened doors throughout school and my work life as my reputation for being a trustworthy confidant spread.

But I still needed to figure out why I stumbled over my words.

It wasn’t until I was much older and had begun writing books that I found a term associated with my communication style: Tickertape Synesthesia.

A fellow author posted about her symptoms and diagnosis. My mouth dropped. I finally had a name for what I had wrestled with my entire life.

She went on to describe that any word she heard appeared in her mind’s eye or at the bottom of her field of vision like a streaming tickertape or subtitles.

I’m similar, however I also see the words I’m speaking. During conversations with others, my brain receives twice as much information from both my oral words and the involuntary visual subtitles. This overstimulation of input causes me to trip over my tongue.

While writing my books, this condition becomes a triple threat. I visualize the words in my brain, which also triggers subtitles in my field of vision while I’m typing the word. So, my manuscript is rife with misspellings and unusual words.

No wonder that oral report in school was so tedious.

To prevent exhaustion, I’ve adopted a writing style called pantsing. This method allows me to freely type whatever comes into my mind. I’m literally writing by the seat of my pants. The characters direct the flow of the manuscript until I reach an end for any particular day. Then once I’m rested, I’ll edit that portion.

This process has worked well for me.

This is who I am.

Nothing has changed since I discovered the name of my condition. The weird words continue to fall out of my mouth and make surprise appearances in my manuscripts.

Thank goodness for my amazing editor.

Back in 1960, a stubborn little girl refused to talk to her kindergarten class because she stumbled over her words, but today, the woman she grew into is strong and confidant and is writing the magical stories that still swirl in her head.