[Nfb-editors] 2013 winter Slate & Style

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Slate
	&
	Style

Publication of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division

Winter 2013
Vol. 31, No. 1

Editor: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
E-mail: bpollpeter at hotmail.com
President: Robert Leslie Newman
Email: newmanrl at cox.net
Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the National Federation of
the Blind Writers' Division. Submission guidelines are printed at the
end of this publication. The editor and division president have the
right to cut and revise submissions. The division president has final
authority regarding publication for any submission.

Slate & Style is a magazine showcasing literary writing as well as
articles providing information and helpful advice about various writing
formats. While a publication of the National Federation of the Blind,
submissions don't have to be specific to blindness or the NFB.
 
Special thanks to Victor Hemphill and Ross Pollpeter for distributing
our Braille and print copies.
 
Slate & Style

Winter 2013


TABLE of Contents

>From the Keyboard of the President, by Robert Lesley Newman	1

The Essence of Writing: Review on Two Craft Books, by Chris Kuell
5
	
The Art of Dying, by Bonnie Blose	7

Flotsam, Jetsam, and the River, by Lynda McKinney Lambert	12

Stream of consciousness, by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter	14

Trickster's Daughter, by Amy Krout Horn	18

2012-2013 NFB Writers Board of Directors	27

Editor's Note, by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter	32

NFB WRITERS' DIVISION MEMBERSHIP	34

Slate & Style submission guidelines	35

2013 NFB Writing Contest	37

NFB Writers' Division Critique Service	40


 
>From the Keyboard of the President
By Robert Leslie Newman

As 2012 has come to an end, we now must consider what 2013 will bring.
Writing this article, I feel that it will form into both a historical
and futuristic report. I'm excited to see where this goes, as happens
with creative writing-exciting.

Update

Slate & Style has been absent for a time, which Bridgit will address
later in these pages, but despite this, I'm pleased to report a growth
spurt with the magazine. It is receiving very favorable reviews. Thank
you Miss Brigit. And to our readers we ask for your continual
support-read it, share it, write for it.

Update

Our 2012 writing contest was one of our best, and our 2013 contest is in
full swing. Submissions for 2012 adult categories were up, but
submissions for youth categories were down. Here is a short year-by-year
comparative summary:

Adult submissions

.	2012, 84

.	2011, 69

.	2010, 35

.	2009, 54

Breakdown of 2012 adult submissions:

.	Poetry: 35, 13 contributors

.	Fiction: 22, 19 contributors

.	Memoir: 21, 11 contributors

.	Children's and young adult literature written by adults: 6, 3
contributors

Youth category Totals

.	2012, 21

.	2011, 30

.	2010, 22

.	2009, 33 

Breakdown of 2012 youth submissions:

.	Elementary School
Poetry: 7, 5 contributors; Short Stories: 2, 2 contributors

.	Middle School: 
Poetry: 1, 1 contributor; Short Stories: 5, 3 contributors

.	High School: 
Poetry: 3, 2 contributor; Short Stories: 3, 3 contributors

NFB Writers' National Convention

We had a great convention in Dallas and the dates were June 30th,
through July 5th. Next year's convention is back in Orlando, Florida.
The events sponsored by the Writers' Division were: 

Sunday, July, 1

Teen Track Writing Workshop: We had ten teens in attendance, and they
had the opportunity to visit with our very own Ed Meskys. Mesky's is the
first blind person to be honored with a Hugo award given by the World
Science fiction and Fantasy association.

Story Telling Idol: Unfortunately, it's a sad tale as only three people
attended. This particular fundraiser may have run its course. The
division will determine if we will retain this fundraiser or if we will
try something different.

Monday, July 2:

Writers' Division Annual Business Meeting: Thirty-two people registered
for the meeting. Our special guest was Win Shields, a long time writer
of comity and audio production. Shields was quite informative and
entertaining. An MP3 copy of our entire meeting can be found at
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net. Past MP-3business meetings are also
available.
 
Moving into my conclusion, I will leave you with a short thought
provoker piece. I originally intended to publish this in the 2012 spring
issue of Slate & Style, but our editor, Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, was
experiencing complications with her pregnancy, and we unfortunately were
not able to produce an issue at the time. This past April was the
100-year anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic; here are my
thoughts:

I have always been fascinated with stories telling of Man-kinds
experience with traveling the watery surfaces of our planet-- oceans,
seas, lakes, rivers and streams. We truly live on a water-world as
four-fifths of earth is covered in water. So we are often forced to face
these pools and cross to the other side. 

Some of my favorite reading involves stories about old wind-jammers,
which are sailing ships. To date, I've had the opportunity to experience
several different types of motorized water craft along with a few small
manual-powered boats. I have not yet experienced a vessel powered by the
wind though. My water travel to date has been on relatively small bodies
of water.

However, in 1985, my wife and I treated ourselves to a Mediterranean
cruise. It was a two-week excursion, taking us from Greece's mainland to
several Greek Islands. It then traveled over to Turkey where we toured
Istanbul and Ephesus.

During Blind Corps's third training mission to Istanbul, I walked the
decks of a sailing brig. For more info about Blind Corps, visit:
http://www.blindcorps.org.

This recently built craft was modeled after the ship used in Disney's
Pirates of the Caribbean. We visited the ship as the owners hosted a
cocktail party aboard it. This ship was built to accommodate a disabled
crew.

Owned by an international association of business women, it was designed
to allow those who are blind, deaf, amputees and those who are
paralyzed, to experience sailing on such a vessel. The main mast is
190-feet tall, and the ship is engineered to allow anyone to navigate,
steer and put up sail.

Visualize this: the navigation system talks if need-be; the rudder can
be manipulated by blowing into an apparatus; a person in a wheelchair
can be hoisted up to the yardarms to assist in setting sail. Man oh Man,
want to go? How about a two-week cruise?

Now back to the Titanic. I thought about what the 2000-plus people may
have experienced in the icy north Atlantic during the wee hours of that
fateful April morning. I wondered if I could capture the experience of
those lucky enough to find a lifeboat. Or explore the feelings most felt
floating in the icy depths. Maybe discover the terror of those caught on
the ship as it plunged two-and-a-half miles into the crushing Atlantic. 

To help me with my research, I downloaded the 1997 film, Titanic, from
the Blind Mice Maul movie vault. Boy, it's a great story, portrayed
superbly in the film.

While pondering the story of the Titanic, I realized the power of the
written word. Documenting history, life, marks your place in time,
affording you immortality. 

The Titanic is famous for the claim it was unsinkable, as stated by the
ship's architect, and its subsequent sinking on its maiden voyage,
causing a record number of casualties. We know all about it because the
Titanic's horrendous story has been told in every form of communication.
Since the beginning of time, countless deaths have taken place in
earth's waters and have not been written about.

The thought I wish you to consider is this: Who are these people? Where
were they going? How did they die? Without a written record, many of
these people have been forgotten. It's as though they never existed.
Weird thought, huh?

And what I want you to take from this is that we all are familiar with
short, catchy quotes in email signatures. Well, I may attach the
following line onto my email signature, "Being written about marks your
place in time, and reaching immortality." The written word has power,
giving us eternal life, as it were, when we take the time to reflect
upon the world and record our individual experiences.

And finally, thank you for reading this current issue of Slate & Style.

 
The Essence of Writing: Review on Two Craft Books
By Chris Kuell

I try to read at least three books on writing each year to remind me of
why I write, and to sharpen some of the skills that tend to dull. I
recently read two that weren't so much craft related, as life related.

In Writing Down the Bones: Unleashing the Writer Within (revised 2005,
DB72497) Natalie Goldberg discusses in many, often seemingly unrelated
essays, how she has made writing a regular, meditative practice in her
life. "Writing is a critical component of our lives. But, don't turn it
into a chore. It's not brushing your teeth. It should become as
essential as breathing, just something you naturally do," Goldberg
writes.

Goldberg's essays offer suggestions and encouragement, including writing
first thoughts, listening, on using verbs, and overcoming doubts and
choosing good places to write. She views writing as a practice that
helps writers see the value of their lives, and encourages writing every
day. Then when you want to write about something specific, the words,
thoughts and ideas will come. "Practice Writing what your mind actually
sees and feels and not what it thinks it should see or feel. Like an
athlete or someone learning meditation, you have to practice, even when
you are skilled," Goldberg writes.

Goldberg presents several exercises helping writers use strong verbs,
seek fine details and how to get unblocked (try writing about food). My
favorite part of her book was an essay about composting, which means
letting your own life experiences sift through your consciousness, then
extracting useful tidbits for your writing. Or, as Goldberg puts it,
"Writing is about capturing the details. A writer's job is to make the
ordinary come to life."
 
Another craft book I recently read is Annie Dillard's book, The Writing
Life (1989, DB30470). It's not a book on the craft of writing, but an
eloquently written rumination on what it is to be a writer. Her writing
and insights are brilliant, her imagery powerful, and it is simply
amazing how well she captures the emotions we all feel, but can't quite
put into words.

Here is how the Pulitzer Prize Winner describes something every novelist
has felt:

When you are stuck in a book, when you are well into writing it and know
what comes next, yet you cannot go on; when every morning for a week or
a month you enter its room and turn your back on it, then the trouble is
either of two things. Either the structure has forked, so that the
narrative or the logic has developed a hairline fracture that will
shortly split it up the middle, or you are approaching a fatal mistake.
What you have planned will not do. If you pursue your present course,
the book will explode or collapse--and you do not quite know about it
yet.
 
Another analogy that I found ingenious, and which I could relate too,
was her tale of finding a honey tree. She writes that to find a honey
tree, catch a bee in a cup. Bring it to an open area, let it go and
follow it as far as you can. Catch another, release it and follow it as
far as you can. Repeat until you eventually find the honey tree. That's
what it's like to write a novel.

The Writing Life is a short book, full of such analogies and metaphors.
Dillard deftly compares writing to being an artist, and flying a stunt
plane. There are a few writing tips, such as her suggestion to write in
a room without a view. Dillard wrote this book in a seven by ten foot
wooden tool shed on Cape Cod with an air conditioner in one window and a
painting covering the other window. She also suggests taking long walks.
The power of this book is in the writing and insights she offers. She
conveys the joys and the angst of the writer in a way that only she can.

 
Dillard states:

In writing every book, the writer must solve two problems. Can it be
done, and, can I do it? Every book has an intrinsic impossibility which
its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles. The
problem is structural, it is insoluble, and it is why no one can ever
write this book.. But he writes it in spite of that. He finds ways to
minimize the difficulty. He strengthens other virtues, cantilevers the
whole narrative structure out into thin air and it holds. If it can be
done, then he can do it, and only he, for there is nothing in the
material for this book that suggests to anyone but him alone the
possibilities for meaning and feeling.
 
What a beautiful way to capture the essence of writing.

 
The Art of Dying
By Bonnie Blose

"I think you should see Grandpa before leaving for school," my father
said somberly. "I don't think he has very long to live."

With those words, fear entered the kitchen taking residence in my heart
that April day.

"I'll see him when I get home. If I don't leave right now, I'll miss the
bus," I said.

"He may not be here then. You may not have another chance."

The last thing I wanted to do was climb the stairs to Grandpa's room,
but I found the courage. He was unable to speak. I stood by his bed
unable to speak as well. I left after only a few minutes.

My father had no idea how difficult what he was asking would be for me.
I had spent a long night listening to Grandfather's labored breathing
through the wall connecting our two rooms in the house we shared with my
grandparents. 

My childhood friend Barbara died at the age of six. She passed after a
sleep-over at her house. Both totally blind since birth, we met in a
special education class. Making my way to my grandfather's room, I
remembered what happened at Barbara's viewing.

My dad asked if I'd like to say goodbye. When I said yes, he took my
hand and we walked across the room. He placed my hand on something hard
and cold. It was Barbara. I was touching her, and she was dead. It took
everything in me not to scream.

Would I have to touch grandpa too? I shuddered at the thought.

As my father predicted, my grandfather died four hours later. At the age
of sixty-nine, he succumbed to a heart attack along with the effects of
long-term drinking. I was 13.

I knew he was gone, but I could still hear his heavy breathing on the
other side of the door. Will death steal me too? Can its hunger ever be
satisfied? Is anyone strong enough to keep it at bay? Who will listen to
my fears? These thoughts plagued me.

I learned early that people leave. Death stalks its prey, always
winning. When my grandfather died, I knew no one could save me if death
came for me. Afraid to sleep in my room, I slept on the living room
couch.

"I know why you sleep downstairs," my brother Rick said. "You're afraid
Grandpa will come take you away when you sleep."

"No, I'm not. I just like sleeping down here," I denied.

We didn't use the word death in my family. If it was referred to at all,
it was couched in phrases such as," "The last time I saw him, I thought
it would happen soon." He didn't look good," or, "I was afraid of that,"
or, "She looked so sick when I saw her a couple weeks ago."

Hospitals offered little hope. Going to the doctor meant a subsequent
hospitalization, and I would never see that person again.

In July of 1974, my sister called with devastating news. Our mother had
been diagnosed with breast cancer. I was attending a college preparatory
program at Syracuse University for part of that summer. My father picked
me up, and during the drive home he told me she was dying.

When not visiting the hospital, I could forget the intravenous
medications and hospital smells of her room. I could remember her
planting flowers and caring for the family she loved. In daily phone
conversations, she tried hard to hide her pain; I tried not to notice.
Dancing around the subject gave us more time to forget the pain.

One day, in a voice filled with pain so deep I could have cut it with a
knife, I knew she was really dying. Although neither of us said the
words, Death was on the phone line between us.

My mother died four days after her 58th birthday. That August day
changed my life. I had just turned 21. How could loved ones just
disappear?

In college, I took a course on death and dying, in which I had to
interview half a dozen people about the death of someone close to them.
My fear remained.

In a late night conversation, I told a friend about two boys I had
crushes on in high school, and how both died two years after I
graduated. Attempting to lighten the mood, she called me "Typhoid
Bonnie." I wondered if there was truth in those words. Why was death
such a huge part of my life?

Many years later, I befriended a woman who change my view of dying.

Alice attended a local church. The minister there introduced us. He
thought she'd help me with grocery shopping.

As our friendship grew, we shared a love of books and spent hours at
local libraries. Alice Carol would describe pictures on book covers
saying, "Oh, this sounds so good. Listen to this. I have to read this."
Alice loved steamy romances, fast-pace murder mysteries and true crime.
She enjoyed the Christian fiction of Janette Oke and Grace Livingston
Hill.

My friend loved life and lived it joyfully, enthusiastically,
completely. I always looked forward to our time together and felt so
much happiness in her presence.

One day, she called with exciting news. "Guess what?"

"I can't imagine." smiling in to the phone, I was eager to hear her
news. "Just tell me."

"My daughter Lucy is going to have a baby. I'm so excited.

"That's wonderful news. I am so thrilled for you."

The months flew by, and Lucy had a baby girl, named Casey. At a yard
sale, Alice told me how much she was looking forward to rocking her, but
unfortunately, she had no rocking chair. We found one at that yard sale,
and I bought it for her, wishing her many hours of rocking her
granddaughter.

A few months later, my son, Kevin, asked, "Have you heard Alice Carol is
in the hospital?"

"No. I just saw her last week. We went grocery shopping. Will she be in
long?"

"Mom, Alice Carroll is dying. She has pancreatic cancer. The minister of
her church told me. He wanted me to tell you."

My mind reeled as I remembered a conversation with Alice just a few
weeks ago. We were going on a picnic to a local park with my dog
Sunshine. She called me at the last minute saying she did not feel well.
I told her she was probably just getting a cold. Was this day a
harbinger of the future?

I went to the hospital to see her several times over the next couple of
months. Always positive and filled with absolute faith, she never lost
hope. Over and over, Alice told me God would work everything out. We
discussed how she felt about dying.

Although money was limited, Alice Carol was rich in spirit. She counted
her blessings; a life she loved with family and friends. I thought of
the baby just a few months old Alice would never rock or hold again. How
could she be so ready to go?

During my last visit with Alice, I started crying. I wiped the tears,
hoping she hadn't seen.

"Please don't hide your tears, Bonnie. They show me you love me.
Everyone tries so hard to hide their feelings. Don't ever hide love.
It's fine to cry in front of me. I understand."

"I will miss you so much. You shouldn't have to see me sad. I should be
here for you.

"Bonnie, you are here for me. I care about how you feel, that you hurt.
I just want you to be honest with me. I am sad that all we have done
together is going to end too. I have had a good life. I am ready. Please
believe that. I love you and I am so glad I got to know you. We had so
much fun together."

Alice Carol died a few days later. She passed two weeks before
Thanksgiving. In her dying, she taught me much about living. I learned
dying could be done graciously if life was lived that way. She taught me
the value of re-living the treasured moments I cherished.

Her dying was happening to both of us. Alice never forgot that. I ask
for courage when I turn this page; I pray to learn the art of dying.

The Art of Dying, by Bonnie Blose, won first-place in the 2012 NFB
Writers' division writing contest.

Blose grew up in the tiny village of Slatedale, Pennsylvania, and is the
second youngest of five children.

 In 2006, Blose became the host of an Internet talk show, Books and
Beyond, which is now in its 7th year. She co-hosts a book show with
Jordan Rich on WBZ in Boston and runs a local public library book club
each month.

>From an early age, Blose loved the magic of words and the stories they
conveyed. During her teenage years, life stories told by her mother and
a very close family friend, George Eberwein, gave her wisdom which still
guides her life.

The Art Of Dying was originally an assignment in a Writers' workshop. It
explores the impact and meaning of the deaths of her mother and several
close friends, leaving a lasting imprint on her life.

Blose lives with two cats, Honey and Almost, on a farm in eastern Ohio.

 
Flotsam, Jetsam, and the River
By Lynda McKinney Lambert

Wood fragments gathered at the river's edge
Engorged between the steel hull and muddy shore
>From the blue iron bridge above, I saw them wedged
Shifting on lapping waves, aft and fore.

Engorged between the steel hull and muddy shore
Swift waters glistened like strings of amber beads
Shifting on lapping waves, aft and fore
Breaking, falling, wind-blown seeds.

Swift waters glistened like strings of amber beads
Like a dark Shaman weaving thick steel rings
Breaking, falling, wind-blown seeds
The Shaman weaves a memory world as he sings.

Of wood fragments gathered at the river's edge
>From the blue iron bridge above, I could see them wedged. 

Lynda McKinney Lambert's poem won second-place in the 2012 NFB Writers
contest.

Pennsylvania artist and writer, Lynda McKinney Lambert, has been
involved in arts and literature since she was a young child. She is the
author of Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage, published by Kota' Press.
Her research projects have been published in two books authored by Terry
White of Kent State University. She has traveled extensively giving
lectures and presentations on her research during academic conferences
across the US. She served as a Pennsylvania Scholar for the Pennsylvania
Humanities Council and delivered multi-media presentations on writers
and artists. 

As Professor of Fine Arts and Humanities at Geneva College, she created
a Germanic Culture Program, taking students to Europe every summer. She
taught art and writing courses in Austria, Germany, Italy, Czech
Republic, and England. She developed a cross-discipline course in Puerto
Rico culture, taking students to Puerto Rico every year for studies. 

On campus, she created and taught courses in English Literature;
Writing; Studio Arts; Humanities; and Art History during her career.

Lambert currently develops art exhibitions of her work, and she has
participated in over 300 exhibitions in the US, New Guinea, Europe, and
Japan. She has received more than 100 awards for her art works. Lambert
was selected by the US Department of State to represent America in the
Art in Embassies program.

She is currently developing a two person exhibition with another blind
artist for a show that will focus on visualization and vision by blind
artists.

She continues to write daily and is working on a series of essays for a
book.

 
Stream of consciousness
By Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

Stream of consciousness is a writing format with a specific structure
following literary rules. It's often referred to as narrative voice or
mode as well. Writers who do not use formal outlines as a tool for the
writing process are not wielding a stream of consciousness piece;
they're just following a more organic process different from a formal,
structured process.

Free association is a common writing exercise employed using random data
to affect and resolve the outcome of plot, characterization and story
development. Free association and stream of consciousness are often
confused and lumped into the same definition. Stream of consciousness is
an actual writing method following a defined structure in which to style
a story.

Stream of consciousness was coined by psychologist William James, older
brother of novelist Henry James, according to the website Stream of
consciousness-Narrative. Psychologist in the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries employed stream of consciousness describing the
personal awareness of ones mental processes. From a psychological view,
stream of consciousness is a metaphorical way in which to describe the
phenomenon of the continuous flow of sensations, impressions, images,
thoughts and memories experienced at all levels of consciousness,
according to Stream of consciousness-Narrative.

Stream of consciousness writing boomed in the 50s and 60s, though it
developed in the late 19th century as a way to turn away from realism,
and has become popular in recent years. The psychological term was
appropriated to describe a particular style of novel, or technique of
characterization, that was prevalent in some fictional works, according
to Stream of consciousness-Narrative.

This technique relies upon mimetic (re)presentation of the mind of a
character and dramatizes the full range of the character's consciousness
by direct and apparently unmediated quotation of such mental processes
as memories, thoughts, impressions, and sensations. Stream of
consciousness, constituting as it does the ground of self-awareness, is
consequently extended to describe those narratives and narrative
strategies in which the overt presence of the author/narrator is
suppressed in favor of presenting the story exclusively through the
(un/sub/pre)conscious thought of one or more of the characters in the
story, according to Stream of consciousness-Narrative.

The technique of writing stream of consciousness follows a very specific
structure and isn't a writer creating material as it pops up in their
head. It relies on internal concerns with characters and plot, and isn't
the process a writer chooses to follow when crafting a manuscript. It
still relies on themes and/or motifs and plots. It can appear similar to
free association, but it's actually a highly structured technique.
Today, it's often employed in personal essays and memoirist pieces, but
fiction writers and poets really honed the technique.

It focuses on psychological and/or emotional aspects of characters.
Because of this, lyrical essays tend to be labeled stream of
consciousness essays too. Stream of consciousness pieces often do not
use proper punctuation and syntax or adhere to traditional methods of
writing. lyrical essays, which follow similar structures, are often
identified as stream of consciousness pieces because of this. They're
quite different styles of writing however despite sharing similarities.

Stream of consciousness and internal dialogue can be similar as well.
It's dependent upon structure and style. If not specifically using
stream of consciousness, internal dialogue is just a tool a writer
believes is germane to the story. Therefore internal dialogue and the
stream of consciousness style are not synonymous.

When writing stream of consciousness, outlines are still very helpful.
Voice, tone and structure are affected and not the process in which a
writer crafts a story. In fact, many practitioners of this form employ
tools such as detailed outlines.

A story must somehow be anchored within the stream of consciousness. One
method is a recurring motif or theme. The motif appears on the surface
of a character's thoughts, then disappears among the flow of memories,
sensations and impressions it initiates only to resurface some time
later, perhaps in a different form, to pull the story back up into the
consciousness of both the character and the reader, according to Stream
of consciousness-Narrative.

The following examples are taken from the Stream of
consciousness-Narrative website:

Consider the example of Virginia's Woolf's short story "The Mark on the
Wall." The story begins as a meditation-which could easily be read as a
spoken monologue-on a series of recollected events but quickly turns,
through the motif of a mark seen by the narrator over a mantle piece on
the wall, to a near random stream of loosely connected memories and
impressions. As the story progresses, the mark and speculations as to
its nature and origin appear and disappear as a thread running in and
out of and binding the loose folds of the narrator's recollections. The
narrator's stream of consciousness ranges widely over time and space
whereas the narrator quite clearly remains bound to a particular place
and time, anchored-seemingly-by the mark on the wall. 

Also consider the following from the ending paragraphs of Joyce's short
story "The Dead":

He wondered at his riot of emotions an hour before. From what had it
proceeded? From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the
wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall,
the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia!
She too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his
horse (222).

The first sentence is clearly the narrator telling what the character,
Gabriel, is thinking; but with the second sentence a transition in the
form of a series of sensory impressions moves the reader to Gabriel's
own conscious thoughts. In the end, it is not the narrator who thinks,
"Poor Aunt Julia!"

Here is another example from Virginia Woolf's short fiction "Mrs.
Dalloway."

Such fools we all are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven
only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up,
building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but
the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps
(drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt
positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In
people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, trudge; in the bellow and the
uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men
shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and
the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was
what she loved; life; London; this moment of June (The Complete Shorter
Fiction of Virginia Woolf).

Unlike free association, stream of consciousness is not about the
process or whether a writer uses outlines or not. It's a literary style
having nothing to do with writing strategies except when determining
voice and tone. In fact, when writing in stream of consciousness, it's
vital to pay attention to every little detail to ensure the plot is
consistent and present for readers.

Some popular writers who have, and are, employing stream of
consciousness to check out are:
.	Sylvia Plath
.	Anton Chekov
.	Michael Cunningham
.	T. S. Elliot
.	James Joyce
.	William Faulkner
.	F. Scott Fitzgerald
.	Cormac McCarthy
.	Brett Easton
.	J. D. Salinger
.	Jack Kerouac

Outside sources were taken from:
http://narrative.georgetown.edu/wiki/index.php/Stream_of_consciousness

 
Trickster's Daughter
By Amy Krout Horn

Note: Trickster's Daughter contains sexual content.

Desiree Stark wore a blood-red velvet dress.

Her mother, Anita, wore it last year. The jingle dress dancers had
passed, their piteous half-smiles unhidden. Anita's sunken eyes followed
the circle moving round without her. She smiled back; a sallow face,
barely concealing its skull, and smoothed a palm over the loose bodice
where her breasts had once been.

Tightening the ends of her crimson silk head scarf around her bare
scalp, the dress's silver cones rattled.

Desiree had stomached the endless stream of well-wishers whispering
their platitudes; "Your mother is so brave," their favorite.

Desiree loathed how cancer erased Anita's past manipulations. Everyone
assumed she suffered from sympathy-induced amnesia too, but Desiree's
memories were razor sharp. She fled after biting her lips raw trying to
contain bitterness from spewing out like exploding car battery acid.

Desiree, a seventeen year understudy to Anita's melodramatic lead,
played the devoted offspring. That night her mother sat propped up like
the Queen of the Dead holding court wearing the jingle dress. Tears of
the dutiful daughter, once reserved for the final act, had evaporated. 

Now, her mother's ashes lay beneath Minnehaha's frozen falls, and the
dress belonged to Desiree. The shiny cones tinkled as she brushed the
beaded velvet pressed against her breasts. Electric feelings of having
won a competition crackled through her. 

She entered the Mounds Park gymnasium for her grand entry. Women had
cursed the sight of a contest powwow entry number pinned to Anita's
back. But now recognizing the dress on Desiree, they cringed. Men took
second and third appreciative glances, as a more slender, graceful,
beautiful rendition of the deceased jingle dance champion, returned
their stares.

Part ghost, part goddess, Desiree flowed through the crowd, head held
high, painted lips curled. It was her dress now, her night. As the beat
of the drums swelled, she took her place in the dance circle, where the
red velvet came alive with her fluidity. 

Once, while they were driving from a Wisconsin powwow, where her mother
had won the three hundred dollar prize, Desiree had asked why she didn't
have regalia like many of the dancers' daughters. Desiree's father's
face had lit up at the thought of his little girl joining the circle.

Leonard Stark would host a give-away in honor of the occasion. As the
broken lines of the highway blurred passed, he calculated the fine items
he intended to bestow upon the community, until, the line solidified,
the road slanted upwards, and Anita spoke.

"Can't afford it." Anita worked a file against her acrylic nails. "Your
father lost his job."

The Pendleton blankets and beaded hair clips of his imagined give-away
vanished along with another ounce of pride as he sunk into the driver's
seat. Despite his lay-off being temporary, he had never felt worthy of
his wife; something that had served Anita well.

"What about your prize money?" Desiree inquired.

The scritch-scratch of the nail file stopped. Leonard sensed Anita
winding up, and out of paternal protectiveness, tried to distract her.

"Need a stop?" He pointed to exit signs.

She ignored him, he drove on, and a quiet funk descended upon them.
Leonard thought her deterred, that it might be over. Anita always had to
wound her opposition though.

Suddenly, she twisted, jabbing a finger into Desiree's arm. "Do you ever
think of anyone besides yourself? Or does the world revolve around you?
I'm not raising you to be a spoiled brat."

Desiree's moccasins slapped the gymnasium floor as the circle made
another revolution. Before tonight, only her father had seen her dance.
As a child, she had danced in their yard, imitating Anita. The soles of
her feet had ached.

It was an ache shared with all urban Indians who sought a Saturday
afternoon's sliver of traditional culture. But Metro buses don't go to
any res, where your toes have a chance to feel the earth while you
dance. Community centers and local gymnasiums may not be first choice,
but they might help keep the ancestral homesickness at bay.

For Desiree, the pain had nothing to do with a need to mentally meld the
Mounds Park Middle School into Mille Lacs. Anita's contest powwow
cravings had often taken the Stark's to the reservation where she was
enrolled. For Desiree, it was about the fulfillment of a wish.

"Listen. These are my wishes." Hoarse whispers and bony, long-nailed
fingers dug into Desiree's skin like a crow seizing a piece of meat. It
jerked her awake.

Desiree's impulse was to pull away, but despite not having been lucid in
days, Anita's uncanny strength kept her pinned.

"My jingle dress."

Desiree's urge for escape diminished and was replaced by anticipation. 

"I want you-."

Desiree's mind raced ahead, picturing the crimson velvet, the gleaming
silver, and the floral beading of the dress. She admired her reflection
in imaginations mirror, relishing her inheritance.

Like a rock hurled in the darkness, Anita's voice shattered Desiree's
thoughts. "I want you to make sure I'm cremated in it." Anita slipped
back into unconsciousness.

Desiree had torn free, Anita's nails leaving bloody marks, her words
piercing like jagged shards in her mind.

As participants circumnavigated the drums again, Desiree noticed a young
grass dancer. His regalia intrigued her with its subtle oddness. He wore
numerous black feathers, swinging from his roach where the other grass
dancer's only had a single feather hanging. This added to his
magnificence, and as she drew closer, she swayed her hips provocatively.


The girl looked as stunning as her mother. His gaze swept the dress's
silver and crimson material, reminding his finger tips of the velvet's
softness, the neck line's hidden hook, and the way the zipper glided so
easily down a bare back. He smiled, and Desiree smiled back, the tip of
her tongue darting across her ruby lips. Their eyes locked, sealing her
identity. She was the daughter.

He gestured, inviting her to view herself in the mirror board he held.
she could not pull her gaze from the mysterious grass dancer's sculpted
body. He had smooth skin and hypnotic eyes. The crow feathers fused with
his long, thick hair as if a bird spirit could not quite be contained
beneath his flesh.

Caught between the slow burn of sexual attraction and an icy tingle of
fear, Desiree gazed beyond the mirror to his waist where lengths of
ribbon, yarn and fringe cascaded down his thighs. Hidden amongst the
usual satin, cotton, and acrylic, the girl caught something startling.
She blinked, sure of what she saw, but its presence baffled her.

Who or what was he? She lost the drum's rhythm and stumbled. The young
man caught her arm, pulling her from the circle and through the crowd.
Behind them, the blade of switch grass drifted free, but no one noticed
it land. No one noticed how it faded, like a smoke wisp in the wind. 

The seduction had been mutual. Anita batted her spidery lashes. The
grass dancer smirked as he pointed towards the setting sun beyond the
pow wow grounds. Raising his brows, he asked the question, and she
nodded.

Light pierced the blinds of a Rapid City motel when Anita saw the sun
again. Shards of sunlight branded hot trails across her naked body. The
door stood open; the enigmatic young man gone. On the tangled sheets, a
black feather and a bone-dry blade of switch grass laid beside her.

When Anita moved to touch them, a rogue wind swirled in, lifting feather
and grass, spiriting them away. She sprang up, wanting to catch them,
but like her lover, the feather, the switch grass, and the wind
vanished.

In the following weeks, their anonymous encounter swam like a surreal
water color through Anita's dreams. The plastic stick's accusing pink
tip eventually solidified waking consequences. Whatever realm in which
she and the grass dancer met, from whatever shadowy corner of ancient
legend he returned from, were far away from her parent's bathroom.

Dry-eyed, Anita slouched on the edge of the tub, her mental wheels
turning. How can this be? I'm too young, pretty and clever, she thought.

Like the maidens in the old ones stories of carnal cravings and
trickster's talents, Anita didn't recognize her character flaws. For
her, the ancient tales existed as quaint childhood myths without
contemporary value.

Before her Grandmother had found Jesus, she had spent Minnesota winter
nights telling about Nanaboujou's escapades. But after Grandma had
nailed the painting of the Madonna to the wall, she clucked her tongue,
saying, "Those are pagan stories; full of Satan."

Once Jesus and Mary ousted Nanaboujou, Anita soon forgot about
tricksters.

So she sat locked in the bathroom, while her head buzzed with plans.
`Finally, her brother pounded on the door, shaking a solution loose in
her tangled thoughts. She made sure the pink stick was hidden at the
bottom of the waste basket, checked her makeup, and unlocked the door.

"You're dating Leonard?" Anita's brother asked a few days later. He had
been dumb-struck after spotting his baby sister crawling out of the
passenger side of his buddy's old Firebird at the Dairy Queen. She had
been wearing painted-on jeans and a plunging neck line.

Leonard had been surprised too when Anita suggested that they grab a
Blizzard and a drive-in movie. Since junior high, he had stolen looks at
her through the thick lens of his glasses, as Anita stood, hands on
hips, at the edge of the basketball court yelling orders to her older
brother.

As she matured, the guys whistled, whispered crude suggestions and
fist-fought each other for her attention., Painfully shy, Leonard
refrained from approaching her. He couldn't imagine talking to the
nimble dancer twirling through his dreams.

To him, Anita was as untouchable as the china figurines arranged on a
doily atop his mother's dresser. "Not for your clumsy hands," his mother
always scolded. 

But as the new moon's blackness surrounded them and a gun battle raged
across the giant movie screen, his fantasy ran her fingers down his arm,
along his waist, to his zipper. He froze, sure that if he touched her,
the slap would follow. Not for your clumsy hands, Leonard thought. But
she slid his palm beneath her shirt, under her bra. His breath caught.
Then she pushed his hand lower across her belly, directing him until
everything he had always wanted, lay open and waiting.

"What do you want?" Desiree's eyes twinkled telling the grass dancer she
was open to any answer.

Some conquests were too taboo even for him. He moved away from where she
leaned against the wall of the deserted hallway. 

Intuition's warning sirens only fan the flames of her desire despite his
oddities. Stepping closer, she pressed against him, focusing on his
face, challenging him to stare back.

Her voice dropped to a husky whisper; her breath caressing his neck.
"What do you want, Grass Dancer?" Weaving her fingers around a blade of
switch grass, she tugged it loose. "What are you going to do, now?"

"What are you going to do now?" Anita had demanded.

Leonard flinched. Hadn't she given him permission? She had said don't
worry. Apologetically, he looked at her. This was not part of the dream.
She was so beautiful, even in her contemptuous indignation. He hugged
her, choosing not to notice the way she grew rigid at his touch.

Anita confessed her pregnancy and Leonard said, "We'll take care of it.
I have some money saved up."

Anita's body softened and she let him kiss her. Soon it would be over.
Leonard had said what she had expected. He would give her the money,
perhaps a ride to the clinic, and then she would be free.

But Anita hadn't understood Leonard's character. The next evening she
found him sitting at the table with her mother and father, knowing it
was too late to refigure it. Her parents seemed relieved knowing he had
a good die cast manufacturing job. Under the circumstances, they were
glad he wished to marry their daughter.

"I'm here to see someone's daughter." The grass dancer snatched the
switch grass.

"I'm someone's daughter," Desiree purred, running her nails over his
palm.

"You are, indeed, you are."

The day Desiree Stark arrived in the world, a stranger hosted a
give-away. Hand-written cards attached to each gift announced the birth.
The stranger appeared at the Indian center, presenting Pendleton
blankets to the homeless alcoholics and left beaded ear rings, silver
bracelets and turquoise money clips for the art museum's director.

They were stunned that the handsome young man with the black feathers in
his hair could afford such generosity. Thrilled with his presence, no
one remembered to ask his name. 

Across the river, in St. Paul, Leonard's mother had come to the
hospital, baring gifts, as well.

"Thank God," she declared peering at the infant, "She looks like Anita."

Leonard accepted his mother's thinly veiled insult along with the
wrapped packages. Anita gave her the baby girl. Desiree looked up at
Leonard and then at the woman holding her and scrunched her face, as if
tasting something sour.

Tears stung Leonard's eyes. This precious gift belonged to him; this
tiny life whose head rested like a sweet peach in his chapped hand,
whose toes only reached the crook of his arm. He had not known love
could be this big.

"Open your gifts, dear," Leonard's mother urged, "The large box is for
you, the small one, for Desiree."

Anita offered an obligatory smile and tore the pink paper free, pulling
tissue-wrapped bundles from the boxes.

"Careful," the older woman said, as she jiggled the fussy newborn,
"They're breakable."

Anita removed protective layers concealing a ceramic doe and a spotted
fawn. Astounded, Leonard felt himself teetering between a happiness he
had never known and a familiar sorrow, not wanting to plummet into
either emotion.

How many times as a child had he longed to touch them, peering inside
the small round hole in the ceramic belly of the mother deer? How many
times had he reached for them only to have his hands feel the rush of
pain from a fly swatter, a leather belt or a wooden spoon?

"They're a family heirloom. They belonged to Leonard's grandmother. Now,
they're yours," his mother said proudly.

Anita offered a chilly nod and sat the deer aside. She had seen
bric-a-brac like these at Goodwill-mass produced inexpensive stuff from
China. They weren't ugly, nor were they beautiful. They simply were a
reminder of what she imagined her future with Leonard would be, common
and valueless.

She snatched up the figurines, carelessly wrapping them in the tissue,
shoving both into one box. "Here. Take these home so nothing happens to
them."

He hesitated, his childhood fears whispering the warning that he was
just a bed width away from his mother's admonishing blows. Anita
impatiently shoved it closer, and he took it.

His mother had demanded a church wedding. Anita's mother had demanded
they schedule it before the baby bump showed beneath the bridal gown's
fitted lace. Now, Leonard was trained to jump at one more woman's
loveless voice.

"Take them," Anita ordered.

Later that evening, walking to the car, Leonard struggled to pull the
keys from his pocket. The box tipped, and one of the figurines fell. It
hit the concrete with a sickening crack. Unlocking the door and climbing
in, he held his breath, tearing away the paper, forcing himself to look
at the broken pieces. his boyish question finally answered-the mother
deer was Hollow. He had always known the truth.

Taking the fawn, still nestled in its pink tissue, he cradled it in his
huge hands, weeping.


The grass dancer held Desiree's wrist, raising the mirror board. Unable
to look away, she peered into it. An alluring woman with ruby lips, keen
eyes, and a flawless complexion, peered back.

"Striking, isn't she?" he said, as he tipped the mirror from side to
side in a mesmerizing manner.

Desiree's reflection shifted, as if the image lay upon a pool of water,
churned by an impending storm. In the distance, she heard the tinny
rhythm of jingle dresses. The sound grew louder, becoming less metallic,
less sharp. Then completely changing, only a dry bone rattle roared in
her ears.

Desiree screamed as the cadaverous woman in the mirror grinned. With
bird-like claws, the mirror woman tightened the knot of her crimson head
scarf, a scarf matching the image's blood-red velvet jingle dress.

Trickster's Daughter, by Amy Krout-Horn won third-place in the 2012 NFB
Writers fiction contest.

Amy Krout-Horn is the author of My Father's Blood (All Things That
Matter Press, 2011) and Transcendence (All Things That Matter Press,
2009) which won the 2012 National Indie Excellence Award for visionary
fiction. Her work has been featured In Breath and Shadow, Talking Stick
Native Arts Quarterly, Independent Ink Magazine, and Slate & Style. For
more information visit her web site: http://www.nativeearthwords.com

Trickster's Daughter is an excerpted piece, which will appear in
Krout-Horn's up-coming novel, Dancing in Concrete Moccasins. Like the
longer work from which it comes, the story weaves the element of ancient
magic into the framework of contemporary society. Though realistic and
predominate from twenty-first century demographic standards, it depicts
its Native American characters in a rarely witnessed literary setting;
they are urban American Indians living within the culturally clashing
boundaries of a big city, while also facing the universal challenges
that affect and connect, all human beings.

 
2012-2013 NFB Writers Board of Directors

Robert Leslie Newman, president

Robert Leslie Newman lives in Omaha, Nebraska. At the end of this
calendar year, Newman will have been retired for two years.

"looking back at my thirty-seven year career as a Vocational
Rehabilitation Counselor for the Nebraska Commission for the Blind and
Visually Impaired, I can still say I enjoyed every new Monday," Newman
says.

As President of the Writers' Division, his second two year term will be
up in Orlando, July 2013. Among the carrying out of his leadership
duties, he still finds time to write, including his fiction,
blindness-related articles, work with Blind Corps and more. You can
visit his website, http://www.thoughtprovoker.info, for more
information.

Chelsea Cook, first VP

As a physics major at Virginia Tech, Chelsea Cook has made her home in
the mountains for now. She left the sea and headed for the hills,
trading the continuous jet roar overhead for a crisp morning and a town
where the nearest mall is twenty minutes away. 

"college has been everything I hoped for, and I'm sure it will only get
better as I move deeper into the academic cavern, hoping to find
treasure and being guided by the best," Cook says.

Cook writes science fiction and is attempting to bring a wider awareness
of the genre to her fellow classmates. Her novels have yet to be
published, but it's a great start on getting science fiction into her
university. Her poetry has been circulated online, in small journals and
in issues of Slate & Style.

April Enderton, second VP

 April Enderton lives on a farm in Des Moines, Iowa. She has seven
children and 11 grandchildren.

Her passion for Braille literacy prompted Enderton to start her own
Braille transcription business. It's called Beulah Reimer Legacy
(BRAILLE). She sells print/braille children's picture books and flash
cards at affordable prices. BRL is named after her grandmother, a
sighted woman who learned Braille, encouraging Enderton to become
literate.

"I wrote my first novel on a Perkins brailler during the summer of my
fifth-grade year, and I've been writing ever since," says Enderton.

Lori Stayer, secretary

Lori Stayer was born in Brooklyn but lived in various states growing up.
She graduated from Lindenhurst High in 1963 and Queens College with a BA
in English and Education.

Stayer began writing at the age of 13, and no one has been able to stop
her yet. She co-founded the NFB Writers Division in 1982 with the help
of other Federation members who also felt Writers needed a place to hang
their hats. She has served as editor for the Edgar Cayce newsletter,
Slate & Style (1982-2008) and Musings of Maturity (2007- present). Her
main focus has been novel writing along with teaching writing in several
locations. 

She has been married to David Stayer for 38 years. They have 12
grandchildren. 

Atty Svendsen, treasurer

Atty Svendsen is a bio-energy practitioner. She is certified in Quantum
Touch, hypnosis, past life regression and is a Reiki Master Teacher.
She's studied EFT, Theta healing, The Silva method, the Emotion Codes,
numerology and herbalism.

She writes horror, urban fantasy, science fiction and poetry. She also
writes music and lyrics.

She lives in Nebraska with her son, her plants, her piano and her
tarantula.

Robert Gardner, board member

Robert Gardner's particular writing interests are short fiction and
short nonfiction. He has had a handful of articles published, including
some in The Braille Monitor and in the NFB Kernel book series. Several
of his short stories have placed in various writing contests. Gardner
has also written several novels, though none have been published. 

His involvement in the NFB has included being a chapter president and a
member of the state affiliate board. He worked as a mechanical engineer,
and is now retired. He lives with his wife in Hampton, Illinois,. 

Myrna Dupre' Badgerow, board member

 Myrna Dupre' Badgerow makes her home in the bayou country of southern
Louisiana. She enjoys writing, reading, helping young writers, and
spending time with family, which includes three grown children and seven
grandchildren.

She began writing seriously in 2000 and has since been nominated for the
2008 Pushcart Award by the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named
2004's Poet of the Year at The Writing Forum, and also has a credit as
lyricist on a CD released by the band Against the Wall. 

EvaMarie Sanchez, board member

 Originally from Northern California, EvaMarie Sanchez has lived too
long in the cold winters of Eastern Idaho. Recently, she moved to the
Red Rocks of Northern Arizona hoping to start a new chapter with her
guide dog.

Sanchez has had many chapters in her life, but Being a member of the
board of directors of the writers division and a writer of fiction and
poetry, this may be the most well written chapter yet.

"As a licensed social worker and an artist who loves animals of all
kinds, it is anyone's guess what the next chapter will be titled," says
Sanchez.

Allison Hilliker, board member

Allison Hilliker fled the crewel, icy winters of Detroit Michigan,
seeking refuge in a little slice of paradise called Peoria Arizona.
Hilliker received a degree in Women's Studies from Arizona State
University West. She works for collection development and marketing at
Benetech, the nonprofit organization running Bookshare.

When she was in 3rd grade, Hilliker decided that she wanted to be an
author. She would take markers, leaning her head down towards the paper,
scribbling stories in notebook after notebook.

"I'm glad that my parents eventually convinced my teachers to teach me
Braille because the purple ink blotches on my nose and chin didn't do
much for my other chosen career goal, which was becoming a famous
actress," says Hilliker.

Most of her writing appears in the form of articles and blog posts for
her Bookshare job, but she is thankful to have had a few short stories
published.

Hilliker's Federation accomplishments include founding the Michigan
Association of Blind Students at the age of 18, and launching a Braille
writing contest for K-12 students.

"I'm thrilled that I'm able to lead this contest because I really want
kids to be proud of Braille. And because I want those young authors with
partial sight to feel happy about dropping their purple markers and
picking up their slates and Braille writers instead," says Hilliker.

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style

Bridgit Kuenning Pollpeter studied creative writing at the University of
Nebraska Omaha. Her emphasis was creative nonfiction, but she also
pursued the fiction track as well. She minored in history and PR
writing.

Kuenning-Pollpeter has blogged for the Omaha World Herald's website,
Live Well Nebraska.com since August of 2010. Her blogs have been
featured on the Herald's sister websites, Omaha.com and Momaha.com along
with the Living section of the OWH newspaper.

She continues to participate in advertising campaigns for the Nebraska
Medical Center. Through her blog and ads, she has been asked to do
public speaking engagements for various local groups, organizations and
businesses.

She was hired as an intern for Maverick Solutions, a PR firm run out of
UNO. During her internship, she worked with local nonprofits and
businesses creating various written communications. Upon the completion
of this internship, Kuenning-Pollpeter was asked to continue writing
magazine articles for the firm.

She was instrumental in revamping UNO's Network for Disability Awareness
while at university. NDA is a branch of student government dedicated to
providing disability awareness on campus. They do network with the
Student Disabilities Services Office on campus, but NDA provides
advocacy and awareness as opposed to services and accommodations. She
also helped to develop the CROP, UNO's student-ran writing group.

She has had personal essays published in small publications such as
Slate & Style and Breath and Shadow. Her articles have appeared in The
Nebraska Independent, Omaha World Herald and UNO's alumni magazine.

Kuenning-Pollpeter lives in Omaha, Nebraska with her husband, Ross, and
their five-month-old son, Declan. She continues to write nonfiction and
fiction as much as possible.

"With a new bundle of joy, it can be difficult to find time to write,
but I still have the drive and inspiration. I write when I can," says
Kuenning-Pollpeter.

 
Editor's Note
By Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

Seasons have changed, time has passed and Slate & Style sadly has been
left under the debris of the shifting seasons. I apologize for this,
dear reader.

I'm happy to announce that my son, Declan, was born August 29, 2012.
He's home, healthy, happy and much loved, but this wasn't the case upon
his birth.

I experienced a rough pregnancy, but Declan was unharmed throughout the
duration of it. However, upon his entrance into this world, he showed
signs of fetal distress, and we spent six weeks in the neo-natal
intensive care unit as he recovered. He's a fighter though and has come
out through the other side.

So, due to four hospitalizations and other problems during my pregnancy
and Declan's subsequent hospitalization, I was not able to focus my
attention to Slate & Style; hence the stagnancy of the magazine.

Declan is well and completely recovered now, and I'm once again able to
place more of a priority on Slate & Style. At least as much as I can
with being a new mommy.

Since being appointed senior editor, I have implemented changes in the
magazine that have been applauded by most of our readers. We have made
formatting and structure changes as well as attempting to broaden the
scope of the magazine. We are trying to include other forms of writing
along with retaining literary writing.

As we enter 2013, we continue to seek submissions along with
subscriptions. Our goal is to enter the market as a viable, quality
literary magazine. We love our Federation roots and readers, but we hope
to include outside readers and gain attention among other grass root
publications.

Many of us are hibernating for the winter, but I encourage all of us to
keep our writing skills sharp. Stylist, the divisions listserve, has
been encouraging writing and fostering discussions on relating topics.
The following writing exercises have been posted on Stylist recently:

1.	Use gratitude as your muse and explore what this word means to
you. It can be any form of writing, but wrap your subject matter around
the concept of gratitude- whether it be a positive or negative concept
of gratitude.

2.	Take a favorite story or character and create a piece of fan
fiction. Recreate or retell the story. Write it from a different point
of view. Place the story/character in a different setting or with a new
set of circumstances.

3.	Write a personal essay revolving around blindness. Don't focus
solely on your personal experience, but broaden the topic in which to
find a universal truth. Be creative and don't box yourself in by the
subject but explore its many directions. Also play with format and
structure. Be creative an think outside the box with concept and style.

4.	Write a piece of short fiction, poetry or essay and use a song
title, or part of a lyric, as your first line. It can be about anything
you wish and go in any direction. See where your muse takes you.

Stylist participants have also been selected to post monthly articles
informing on various topics relating to writing. In November, Katie
Colton posted about play righting. In December, Eve Sanchez sparked a
discussion about writing descriptions and the details of our stories. In
January, Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter posted an over-view about creative
nonfiction. For February, Lynda Lambert has been posting poems by
respected African-Americans in honor of Black History month.

Most recently we have been discussing Braille and reading along with the
use of screen readers and how learning to read and write differs between
people who have sight and people with visual impairments.

For more information about Stylist and how to join, visit
www.nfbnet.org, or the division's website, www.nfb-writers-division.net.

Thank you for your patience, dear reader. I'm greatly disappointed we
were not able to produce a magazine until now, but I'm back, and please
look forward to Slate & Styles spring issue.

 
 NFB WRITERS' DIVISION MEMBERSHIP

If you'd like to join NFB-Writers' Division, please choose one of the
following payment methods:

.	Access our PayPal button from the Writers' Division's Website
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net.

.	Fill out and send in a print copy membership form, listed below.

Dues help finance division activities, including the publication of
Slate & Style, and our division's annual writing contest. 


NFB WRITERS' DIVISION MEMBERSHIP APPLICATION

NAME:	

ADDRESS:	

CITY:	STATE:	ZIP CODE:	

PHONE NUMBER (Include area code):	

EMAIL:	

Which format do you prefer for Slate & Style:

	BRAILLE		PRINT		EMAIL

Total enclosed:		Dues		Donation

Send $10 membership fee in a check or money order, made out to: 

NFB Writers' Division
504 S. 57th St.
Omaha, NE 68106

Do not send cash. Do not make your check out to an individual. Thank
you.

 
Slate & Style submission guidelines

Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the Writers' division of the
National Federation of the Blind (NFB Writers). It's dedicated to
writing pursuits including literary pieces along with resources and
information about various writing styles. A majority of Slate & Style's
contributors are visually impaired, but we welcome submissions from any
contributor, professional or amateur. We also accept submissions
touching on any subject matter.

Slate & Style accepts short fiction, short creative nonfiction, poetry,
articles discussing and providing tips for various writing styles
including literary, technical, editing, public relations and academic,
literary criticism and resource information.

Subject matter is not limited though it will be up to the editor's
discretion to publish.

Slate & Style accepts material from adults and children. We prefer email
submissions. Please no hand-written or Braille submissions.

An annual subscription costs $15. The costs for an individual issue is
$5. Members of the Writer's Division receive issues free of charge. An
annual membership costs $20. Visit our website to pay via PayPal at:
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net, or contact us at newmanrl at cox.net
for other payment options.

We accept submissions from January first through September first. Please
give Slate & Style six weeks to hear back from us. All submissions are
considered for publication but not all pieces will be published. We may
keep submissions to be used for later publication. The editor may
respond with comments and suggestions, giving contributors an
opportunity to resubmit. Please be patient and wait the full six weeks
before contacting us about a submission.

Submissions are welcome at all times, however, Please read through the
guidelines carefully. Submissions that don't follow these guidelines
will not be considered for Slate & Style. 

Submission guidelines are as follows:

.	Length requirements are: articles, 1500 words or less, fiction
and memoir/personal essay, 4000 words or less, poetry, 36 lines or less.

.	Include a title page along with your submission with author
name, title of piece and contact info-phone, email and address. Please
include this as an attachment and not in the body of an email.

.	Please include a brief bio of yourself-no more than 150 words.
Do not send an entire history, just include key items you feel are
important for readers to know. 

.	Book reviews should have a more academic approach. Don't just
state you liked it or not, and don't simply summarize a book. Address
tone, format, style, character and plot development and the over-all
writing. The length for book reviews is 500 words. Bios do not need to
accompany book reviews.

.	All email submissions must be attachments and sent to
bpollpeter at hotmail.com. Do not paste entries into the body of an email.
Entries simply pasted into an email will not be considered.

.	In the subject line of your email, write: Slate & Style
submission, name, title and genre. EX: Slate & Style, Bridgit
Kuenning-Pollpeter, title of submission, genre.

.	Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all
submissions. No other formats are accepted, and therefore will not be
considered. Please do not send hand-written or Braille submissions.

.	Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before
submitting. Submissions with too many errors will either be returned
with corrections to be made if you wish to resubmit, or it will not be
considered at all.

Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication. However,
please be careful with graphic sexual and violent content as well as
language and anti-religious, anti-gender, anti-racial and
anti-homosexual orientation content. Characterization and plot often
require this type of material, but it must serve a purpose. Gratuitous
material with no purpose or meant only for derogatory reasons, will not
be considered, however, material will be published according to the
discretion of the editor.

Please direct questions and comments to Bridgit KuenningPollpeter at
bpollpeter at hotmail.com,.

 
2013 NFB Writing Contest

NFB Writers annual youth and adult writing contests opens January 1st
and closes April 1st. 

The adult contests, poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and Young
Adult/Children's Literature written by adults, is open to all entrants
eighteen years and over. 

The youth portion of the contest, poetry and fiction, is to promote
Braille literacy and excellence in creative writing. Entries will be
judged on creativity and quality of Braille. Age groups are divided as
follows: Elementary, Middle and High School. 

Prizes for contest winners range up to $100 for adult categories and up
to $30 for youth categories. All contest winners will be announced
during the Writers' division business meeting during the NFB national
convention to be held in Orlando, Florida, the first week of July, 2013.
In addition, shortly after convention, a list of winners will appear on
the Writers' Division Website, www.nfb-writers-division.net First,
second, and third place winners in each category will be considered for
publication in the Writers' Division magazine, Slate & Style. 

Rules and Guidelines:

Youth:

.	All youth submissions must be Braille. Please note if you have
not yet learned uncontracted Braille.

.	You must use either a slate and stylus or Braille writer. No
computer Braille entries will be considered. Please use Braille paper.

.	No more than 1000 words for fiction entries, and no more than 20
lines for poetry entries. Multiple submissions are welcome but must be
unpublished, original pieces.

.	A cover letter must be included with the following information:
name, age and grade, school, contact info (phone, email, address), title
and genre (fiction or poetry) brief bio about yourself and note if you
haven't learned contracted Braille yet.

.	Identical submissions and cover letters must also be sent
electronically either as a MS Word document or RTF. Attach the document
and email to: newmanrl at cox.net. Send hard-copy Braille submissions and
cover letter to Robert Newman at:
504 S. 57th St.
Omaha, NE 68106

.	There is no fee for youth entries.

Adults:

.	All entries must be sent electronically attached to an email
either as a MS Word document or RTF.

.	Email submissions and cover letter to: newmanrl at cox.net.

.	Fiction, nonfiction and stories for youth must be in a normal
prose style. The font must be 14 point, Aerial and single-spaced.

.	No hard-copies will be accepted.

.	Include a cover letter with the following information: name,
email, phone, and address. List title of each entry along with genre and
payment method.

.	All entries must be unpublished, original work.

.	Fiction, stories for youth and nonfiction must be 3000 words or
less. Poetry must be 36 lines or less.

.	Fiction entries can be any genre and style.

.	Nonfiction entries must be either memoir or personal essay.

.	Stories for youth must be written in an intellectual level
appropriate for a youth reader.

.	Multiple submissions are welcomed for each category.

.	There is a $6 fee for all prose entries.

.	There is a $6 fee per three poetry entries.

.	To pay via PayPal, go to: www.nfb-writers-division.net.

.	Make checks out to NFB Writers and write contest in the memo. To
pay via check, mail checks to:
Robert Leslie Newman
504 S. 57th St.
Omaha, NE, 68106

All contestants should double check their work before submitting.
Entries with too many spelling and grammar errors will not be accepted.

For questions, email Robert Leslie Newman, president, NFB Writers, at
newmanrl at cox.net.

 
NFB Writers' Division Critique Service

Have you just written your masterpiece? Finished that article you've
been working on? Completed a compelling memoir? Would you like a
seasoned writer to give you an evaluation of your material? 

The NFB Writers' Division has established a critique service. For $10,
you will receive a written evaluation for any of the following: 

.	Short story, max 3000 words

.	First chapter, or first 20 pages, of a novel

.	up to 3 poems, 36 lines or less per poem

.	Children's story, max 3000 words

.	First chapter of a Memoir, or first 20 pages

.	Nonfiction article, 20 pages max

The critique will contain feedback on the following: 

.	Format

.	Mechanics

.	Overall quality

If interested, submit work as an email attachment using MS Word. Double
space and email to: 

Robert Leslie Newman, president, NFB Writers' Division
newmanrl at cox.net

Material may be submitted at any time. Critiques will be Emailed back
within 30 days from receipt of reviewer. We have a small pool of editors
available, so submissions may need to sit before an editor is free to
review.

The $10 fee can be paid via check or online. For checks, make out to:
NFB Writers' Division, and send to:
Robert Leslie Newman
504 S 57th St.
Omaha, NE 68106

For PayPal, visit the Writers' Division website at:
www.nfb-writers-division.net.
-------------- next part --------------
A non-text attachment was scrubbed...
Name: 2013 winter S & S.doc
Type: application/msword
Size: 169472 bytes
Desc: not available
URL: <http://nfbnet.org/pipermail/nfb-editors_nfbnet.org/attachments/20130219/b3008604/attachment.doc>