Books are my refuge, but I had to overcome dyslexia to write the stories I was bursting to tell

S tories have always been an escape for me. When things in the real world became overwhelming, I slid into those written by other people. A Town Like Alice is where I can see my childhood. My tastes were dictated by what was available when I was a child who struggled to read.

I used the story tapes to block out the small unhappinesses of my life, such as my loneliness at school and my mother's long illness. She was 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 800-273-3217 My father was tired from a full-time job and often had to look after three angry and confused children. As a mother myself, I can begin to understand how difficult that time must have been for both of them.

Stories were always my refuge for me. I began to build my own worlds after I learned to live in them. It wasn't easy. My writing was worse than my reading. No one could read what I tried to write when I sought to connect. My work was scored out with red and teachers wouldn't read it. I discovered that I had built another wall around myself instead of feeling less alone by inviting someone else into my world. I would hide at the bottom of the garden, rip up my notebooks and scream.

I found another notebook in my hands. I couldn't stop. To write for myself was not enough as the compulsion to escape into stories was absolute. I wanted to find a readership that would not feel alone. I scribbled in my teens to ward off depression. If I could write fast enough, I might be able to live in another world. Sometimes it worked, but now and again it didn't, and I ended up in the hospital.

My grandfather was a patient listener. I read my stories to him while curled up beside his chair. He was my audience and I wrote for him. He left me an antique writing desk to fulfill my ambition of being a writer. His will was dated when I was a child. He had faith in me. I was in the hospital for weeks after his death. I left university for a year. I watched my friends graduate and wondered how they did it.

I must have held on to some hope as I got better and black faded away. My need to write was still there. I thought of myself as a writer, even though I was not very good at it. I met my first professional writer after moving to Glasgow to study for a PhD. A writer, David. I showed him a novel I was working on. He was kind, but told me it was flawed. I cried until my eyes hurt. I began another after sitting down. The book was published after 20 drafts. I married a writer. You hang on to someone who gives good notes.

Teachers returned my illegible stories scored out with red

I have lived in the real world and in my imagination since then. I am happy at my desk looking out across the hill, but I am not there at all. I'm in Italy, I'm 1000 years old, and I'm tomorrow. I'm not myself. I feel a brief satisfaction when a book is finished, but mostly I am lost. I have to begin again. The darkness creeps in if there isn't something else.

I have written books that show different versions of me. I don't like looking through old photo albums. The books give a glimpse of my mind at different times in my life. I don't want her to compliment my old novels. I did not write it. I don't feel like her. Our fingers are not touching.

The publication process is hard for me. I have fear in my stomach. I am shredding my notebook at the bottom of the garden. Silence is not fear of rejection. The silence says that you are still alone, walled up in your words. We can't hear you. We don't want to.

Something has changed with my book. I had trouble finding my voice in the months before my 40th birthday. When I lost, I looked at pictures of theMona Lisa in the Louvre and realized that she was not a beautiful woman, but a woman locked behind glass, silent and powerless. I wondered if she was just waiting to speak after people commented on how she looked as if she was waiting to speak. If she is shouting, no one can hear her.

A writer without words is a broken thing. I was overwhelmed by stories and my parallel world. I was going to write I,Mona Lisa, and tell her story. I decided that I had to be brave. I wanted to give her a voice so that she could be heard.

I wanted to give the Mona Lisa a voice so we could both be heard

Leonardo da Vinci told his assistants that they must always try to evoke a feeling of the unknown or unknowable possibility in order to create a sense of something hidden or held back in their work. Leonardo said that it was more attractive when there was a sense of something hidden rather than being shown to the observer with absolute certainty. The viewer has to fill in a piece of themselves.

Over the past 500 years, we've looked at the part of theMona Lisa that isn't known. The secret is different for every single viewer. Writers rely on a similar interplay between text and reader, and Leonardo's philosophy meshes with my own idea of creativity. It's an uneasy truth about writing that not every reader will connect with it, and when they don't the feeling is of failure and the silence echoes.

I am not alone in writing this book. The Mona Lisa and Leonardo da Vinci have acted as conduits.

I've spoken to many people about the painting. They have expressed huge interest in the subject as well as sharing their own experiences of seeing the painting. Many people have admitted that they were disappointed when they were hurried on by Louvre guards after wading through crowds with high expectations. The reverend told me how he cried when he finally saw her in Paris for the first time, not out of disappointment but in rapture. There was an older man who remembered seeing her in the 50s when she wasn't behind glass. He is thinking about her more and more.

Learning to see theMona Lisa again has been one of the unexpected pleasures of this whole experience. I discovered that while I'm talking about theMona Lisa behind her wall of glass, I no longer feel trapped behind my own.

Hutchinson Heinemann published I,Mona Lisa byNatasha Solomons. You can buy a copy at guardianbookshop.com.