[stylist] Essay using third person, Once Upon a Time
Bridgit Pollpeter
bpollpeter at hotmail.com
Tue Sep 28 01:12:35 UTC 2010
Robert,
I initially wrote the whole piece in first person and it was not until
about a 10th revision that I decided to do something different. I
simply chose to use a fairy-tale theme because, one, the initial
language allowed for it, and two, I feel it is a bit of a fairy-talish
story anyway.
The mother/daughter relationship is a cunnumdrim and I don't know why.
Some say it is cliché, but if these are memories and experiences I lived
through, then I get to write about them.
Lots of fiction is written in third person, but not a lot of
non-fiction, at least stuff I have read. Actually, most fiction is
written in third person, or a third person limited.
I would like to revisit this piece sometime and play with the fairy-tale
aspect more, but, like a lot of stuff, it is on the back burner for now.
Bridgit
-----Original Message-----
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Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 12:00 PM
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Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
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Today's Topics:
1. Re: Assignment for tonight- my contribution (Priscilla McKinley)
2. Wings.doc (Pat Harmon)
3. Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no language or
adult content (Bridgit Pollpeter)
4. Re: Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no language
or adult content (Alan)
5. From Shelley Metrolink708: engineer Hunter (Shelley J. Alongi)
6. New Member to list (davidw)
7. Hello again (davidw)
8. Re: Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no language
or adult content (Priscilla McKinley)
9. Re: Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no language
or adult content (Robert Leslie Newman)
10. Re: New Member to list (Robert Leslie Newman)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Message: 1
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 12:19:15 -0500
From: Priscilla McKinley <priscilla.mckinley at gmail.com>
To: newmanrl at cox.net, "Writer's Division Mailing List"
<stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Assignment for tonight- my contribution
Message-ID:
<AANLkTimLZhgQir9Es=h6Zaa6rA+3himKP6TMkcDVWK2y at mail.gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=windows-1252
Hey listers,
I hope that several of you can make the meeting this evening. If you
haven?t written anything, don?t worry. We will be discussing style and
voice in general. Of course, this can apply to fiction as well, so
don't worry if you aren't a nonfiction writer.
Since our president contributed, I decided I would add a few examples
from my own writing. I am pasting below a few examples of beginnings
that I have already written. Two are finished projects, while the one
on Internet dating is a work in progress. The first starts in a scene
with another person, the second starts with a dream that leads to the
scene, and the third starts with a scene with just me.
Until this evening,
Priscilla
** Beginning of book-length memoir about losing my sight during the
birth of my son and the complex relationship with my mother
I stare through the passenger's window, watching winter fade on the
horizon. The rich, black soil sticking out from beneath the melting
snow appears as blotches of ink on blankets of white. Occasionally a big
white house, a big red barn, and a grove of evergreens break the
monotony. But am I really seeing these things? Or are they just images
stored in memory? I've been travelling this road every two weeks for
the past several months, so it's hard to tell. Mile after mile, the
scenery looks the same.
"So do you really plan to bring this baby home with you in a couple
of months?" my mother asks, interrupting the long, peaceful silence.
I don?t know how to respond. The swelling in my stomach is like a
protruding pimple ready to pop, a blemish that cannot be hidden. While
my mother and I are very aware of the situation, we have never talked
about what will happen when the baby comes. Does she really think I
will consider adoption now that I'm seven and a half months along? "Um,
what did you think I was going to do?"
My mother's expression is noncommittal, her eyes still glued to the
road, her silvery-gray hair framing her long, narrow face. "How do you
think you're going to take care of a baby? You don't even have a job,"
she unnecessarily reminds me.
I feel a sharp kick and press down on my stomach. "I can start
looking for another job as soon as...uh...in a few months,? I stumble
over my words, not wanting to use the word baby.
Turning her head, my mother looks at me with her cool, hazel eyes,
the thick bifocals magnifying her pupils, two dark tunnels pulling me
in. "And if you can't find a job?"
"I will! Now just drop it," I say, turning back to the window, to
the landscape of snow, ice, and cold.
** Beginning of a personal essay on my second kidney transplant
My mother and I stand by her dining room window, looking out at the
fish pond in her yard. I notice a few small goldfish floating on
top, and I know the filter isn?t working. All the fish will be dead
soon. I open a box of chocolates. Each of the paper wrappers holds a
small brass bell. The bells are ringing, and I check to see if my hands
are steady. They are. I look at my mother. She looks at the bells.
She knows danger is coming. When the thunder and lightening start, the
rain hits hard against the side of the house. The celery-colored
curtains whip wildly as the wind pushes through the open windows. My
mother tries to close them, but they won?t move. I look outside and see
hundreds of children running through the yard, crying and screaming in
fear. The bells ring louder and louder?
I wake up to the ringing, but I can?t move. I am paralyzed with
fear. Finally I roll over, pick up the receiver, and listen to the
hotel?s automated voice. ?It?s 7:30 AM, June 11, 2001, and 65 degrees
in downtown Rochester, Minnesota.? Quickly pulling up the starched sheet
and heavy spread, I hang up the phone and fumble for the remote control
on the night stand. I turn on the television and flip through the
channels until I hear a news reporter.
??let out a couple of deep breaths, then a fluttery breath. The
color seemed to drain from his face as the second drug was
administered?lips turned white. When the final drug was administered at
7:13 AM, McVeigh was still. His eyes rolled back up into his head. At
7:14, it was over.?
Shivering, I turn off the television. I can?t listen, not today.
The day one man is being executed, I am having my second kidney
transplant. While no one has been injecting lethal doses of sodium
thiopental, pancuronium bromide, or potassium chloride, the drugs used
in executions, with the failing kidney, my body has been producing its
own lethal toxins. Without the transplant, I will be facing my own
execution in a matter of time.
** Beginning of a book-length memoir on Internet dating as a person with
multiple disabilities (The preface set up the situation a bit)
So tonight, as Becky, Seth, and Chase, my three college-aged
housemates/renters, prepare to go out to the bars for the evening,
trying to find love, which seems to be what we all are looking for, I
lie on my queen-sized, pillow-top bed, a bed that I bought when I moved
back into my house ten months ago after leaving my husband, packing all
of my possessions, and having my son Jonathan drive the U-Haul trailer
more than nine hundred miles from Alexandria, Virginia, to Iowa City,
Iowa. As I flip through the channels on the television, I pet Isabella,
my five-pound Maltipoo puppy, occasionally hearing her growl slightly,
more than likely dreaming about the two yellow labs that passed by the
house with their owner a few days before.
Let?s see. I can watch TV Land with another episode of Andy
Griffith or CNN with more media coverage of the upcoming 2008
Obama/McCain presidential election. I can watch MSNBC News and hear
clips of Saturday Night Live over and over, Tina Faye impersonating
Sarah Palin, when she realized that she couldn?t phone a friend or ask
the audience about democracy abroad, saying, ?Well, in that case, I?m
just gonna have to get back to ya?,? re-emphasizing the ridiculousness
of McCain?s choice for a running mate. I can watch HLN and hear Nancy
Grace say, for the hundredth time, ?Bomb shell tonight,?" referring to
new evidence to prove that Casie Anthony killed her two-year-old
daughter, Caylee. I can watch QVC and order more things that I don?t
need, like the interactive animated baby gorilla that sits on my night
stand, or I can watch the Animal Channel and learn about the habits of
pack wolves living in the wild. What a choice. Finally, I settle on
Andy Griffith, one I have seen at least a hundred times, the one where
Barney dresses as a woman and tries to take on some bookies himself.
As I listen to the show, I space off, thinking of my housemates
going to the bars, socializing with other people, flirting with members
of the opposite sex, and of my local friends, all having fun with their
spouses and significant others. Intesar and Michael would be watching
episodes of Friends, since I loaned them all ten seasons, and, like me,
Intesar has become an addict. Darrel and Eric would be down at The
Studio, drinking and ?shaking some ass,? as Darrel would say. Dan and
Roxanne would be awake, doing different things in separate rooms, she
watching television or searching for the best cruise deals to Alaska and
he playing interactive games on the computer. I can?t call any of them
at midnight and say, ?Hey, I?m bored. Do you want to go to IHOP for
breakfast?? Then I remember a conversation with my friend Rachel from
California, the only person I keep in touch with from my high school.
She told me to try Internet dating as a way to meet people, as I told
her I was becoming bored since moving back to Iowa. Finally, I take my
laptop from the night stand and set it on my lap, and all of a sudden I
am filling out the forms on Match.com, something I swore I would never
do. Like my housemates, I am going to find love, or at least a
companion who can fill a void in my life.
On 9/26/10, Robert Leslie Newman <newmanrl at cox.net> wrote:
> Here is what the assignment was to be: If you have a few lines or
> paragraphs, you can send them to the rest of the group before the
> meeting on Sunday night, as well as read to the others. We will then
> discuss the importance of style and voice in the memoir, as well as
> the importance of finding a theme to hold the book or essay together.
>
>
>
> --My paragraph follows:
>
>
>
> "I use to believe I was a very lucky guy. Now I am not so sure. Though
> there are many who would not agree that my blinding at age fifteen was
> at all lucky, I feel that it was a good happening. And now that I have
> had a health related life threatening experience, I find that I
> question my luck. And so as I think and feel through my thoughts and
> write them down, I believe I need to examine --- what is luck; what is
> life and death; who am I; who do I want to be?"
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Robert Leslie Newman
>
> President- NFB Writers' Division
>
> Division Website
>
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>
> Personal Website-
>
> http://www.thoughtprovoker.info
>
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/priscilla.mck
> inley%40gmail.com
>
------------------------------
Message: 2
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 17:43:45 -0400
From: "Pat Harmon" <pharmon222 at comcast.net>
To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Wings.doc
Message-ID: <000501cb5dc3$e5799ef0$bab15144 at default3gx6vng>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
WINGS
Nobody noticed my wings when they were developing. They remained hidden
under the white cotton shirt, starched in the front and on the collar.
No need to bother with the "wrinkle removal" on the arms and back, which
remained unseen because of the navy blazer with white piping. My blue
gym uniform with "Pat U" across the pleated chest area definitely
disguised tiny growing wings. When I waved my field hockey stick at the
men and women in automobiles preparing to cross the George Washington
Bridge, those gorgeous wings remained a secret. When I sat in a tiny
pizza parlor because it was not yet time for the commuter bus to
Bergenfield, the only noteworthy part of my outfit were the pettypants
in hot pink with black lace or wild tiger print. (These colorful
replacements for slips must be re-created for today's fashion! They
allow for creative expression by all woman!) Mother did not notice
wings protruding underneath the uniform shirt. My brassiere, the one
stuffed with cotton balls, had caught fire at a friend's home, while
hanging on a lamp. The fragrance of smoke and fire was undeniable. I
was forced into true confessions. Unlike Pinocchio's nose, untruths did
not create wing growth. Mom had to select the battles, and cigarettes
took the top position.
Little wings created little movements. No soaring came in high school.
When this first Ullmann child only reached the waiting list for the
Academy of the Holy Angels, Dad accompanied her to the red brick
building for the interview with the principal. He charmed Sister, and I
moved into a desk at AHA. Annually, Dad and I celebrated by moving
across the gym floor to perform square dancing feats. The event
produced wing growth because I felt angelic dancing with my father.
Strapless gowns were against the rules, but that problem was often
resolved by sewing thick ribbons across the shoulders. My favorite was
a strawberry pink dress with wide green velvet Mom-made straps for the
junior prom. Those darn wings were pushed under the puffy fabric along
the back of the dress, squished by the tight corset. No School Sister
of Notre Dame pointed out the straps or the wings, so I passed the "gym
inspection." Like breasts, my wings developed slowly.
The flight on prom night concluded in New York City. My date and I got
as far as Port Authority when we were forced to return. This evening
was not the romantic, memorable event I had intended it to be. Catching
the final bus across the Hudson was a must!
The miniature wings took me to the Jersey shore and Washington D.C.
Since I automatically covered my madras plaid swimsuits with huge sweat
shirts, no wings peeked out. For flower-printed dresses, I covered up
with hand-knitted black shawls and oversized hooded wraps. After all,
it was the hippy way, and I was a hippy-want -to-be throughout the
sixties--and beyond. My clumsy, free-styled poetry was long and
dramatic. That artwork was painted with red marks by Sister Mara over
and over because I never understood iambic pentameter. She loved the
romantic themes, but never the patterns. The old wooden desks tolerated
the pounding of the beat, but the Shakespearean concept of the sonnet
escaped me.
Even when my eyes drifted out the Creative Writing classroom window, my
wings were small. Flights were limited to hooky in New York City,
evening runs to Palisades Amusement Park, breakfast down near the
Hudson, hot dogs at Howard Johnson's and Bergen Catholic fall football
games. Red purses with many, many charms were the fashion, allowing
Catholic school girls to flaunt some sort of individual personality.
Frequently my individualized purse took the journey to Jersey City
because I got off the bus without it. Dad picked it up at the end of
the bus run, threatening to send me "there" to get it. I thought
perhaps my purse possessed wings, but it never flew home alone.
Like the study of Geometry and Algebra, the development of my wings
rarely received focus. They were never polished for use tomorrow. They
were just there, like my freckles, curly hair, bobby socks and fashion
interests. I never painted them gold to create a distinguished
appearance. The use of the wings was restricted by my own lack of
imagination. I never dreamed of flying across the country. New Jersey
was enough. My daydreams revolved around vine-covered cottages at the
shore, not in Hawaii. My cooking visions pictured leg of lamb and roast
beef, not green chili stew with corn tortillas. Wings delivered me to
college, but never did I fly to high, aiming for academic achievements
or outstanding social successes. To be honest, I was ordinary, quiet,
chubby and usually obedient. Basement dancing was a practiced skill,
and I mastered the slop, the stroll, the twist and "rock-'n-rolling."
No one held me tight, so wings went unnoticed.
Wings went unnoticed, safely hidden under trench coats, camel hair
jackets, homemade knitted vests and huge flannel nightgowns. Other
young women did not discuss them, so I never knew if they were part of
growing up for all young teens. Every once in a while, my arms went
around my body and discovered them. They had not grown wildly, but they
were there. To myself, I whispered, "thank God." I definitely needed
wings. Wings were going to take me somewhere, anywhere.
Like the gorgeous Christmas voices in the rotunda or the wooden stairs
polished by aging, little Sisters, I counted on my wings. My wings were
there when I needed them. They provided the guts, the momentum, the
motivation, the push, the fuel.
Whoa! Did I ever need wings! Colorado Springs was the beginning of the
journey--perhaps it honestly was the continuation. Doctors weren't
questioned then, so I went back and forth for laser beam treatments.
The mountains were majestic, as the jet plane circled the Denver
airport. The men in cowboy hats were magnificent. My vision was
beginning to fail, but miracles were possibilities. My wings were
working, although they remained tiny and slightly tarnished.
They performed perfectly when I flew like a "bubbily" butterfly, moving
from hospital bed to hall couch and back. I longed for talk and
laughter and friendships and consolation and confirmation concerning a
new lifestyle. Wing magic worked! Before the treatments concluded, I
was enrolled at the University of Northern Colorado in a special
education program, which resulted in a masters degree. Many SSND
Sisters shook their heads in disbelief, realizing I earned a master's
degree. My personal flight skills were far from perfect as I moved from
class to class and dormitory to party. However, I got there, with or
without assistance. I talked with strangers. I giggled with fellow
students. I accepted counsel from supervisors and professors. Alone in
my tiny room late at night, I rubbed the wings like they were gypsy
beads . School was supposed to result in employment. Where was that?
One position came to my attention.
By small plane or bus, Alamogordo, New Mexico, was accessible.
Outrageous! I did what I had to do. The teaching position I had to
accept was at the New Mexico School for the Visually Handicapped.
There was merely a black patent leather trunk to pack. It was filled
with Easter dresses in pink and purple linen. There were picture hats
with scattered flowers. I was reminded of a yellow pleated dress,
purchased just because Mother had denied the appeal of her first-born in
the color yellow. That was certainly why I wanted the dress and the
yellow pumps.) I did not feel especially brave, gutsy, courageous,
bold, self-confident, intelligent or passionate. Wings had delivered me
to a hot sweaty desert, and I desperately wanted to work.
For more than thirty years I worked there in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I
taught fifth grade, high school English, creative writing, reading and
Braille. The strong wings of angels carried me through my final years
of employment as I accepted the challenge of teaching Braille to staff
members. Patience was essential because many adults had convinced
themselves they were unable to learn the Braille code. My task was to
change their minds. As I worked, I married; I raised my daughter; I
kept the home and prepared meals. Eventually, divorce devastated my
daydreams for tomorrows. In good times, summers were designed for
travels to Jersey, Hawaii, New Orleans, Disneyland, Iowa and Texas.
Wings are guides and re helpers by nature.
My wings developed strength, not size. Like Native American jewelry, my
wings sparkled silver in the sun of the Southwest. As retirement
quieted my daily life, I believed my wings and I were destined to
remain in the Land of Enchantment forever and ever. "Forever and ever"
ended with 2007. My wings were polished and reshaped. Frown wrinkles
were removed. A challenge presented itself. My aging wings flaunted
themselves, singing and dancing without embarrassment. "Make the move!
Do not resist this opportunity!" Spontaneously, with little
contemplation, in my mother's mink, I accepted her house in New Jersey.
In my mother's mink, my wings are inconspicuous. No one in Toms River,
New Jersey, spots them protruding through the long gray and navy
sweaters or Mom's old flannel nightgowns. It is enlightening to realize
and believe that wings are present when the need surfaces. Wings
provide the courage to accept challenge when it is the best route for
you. They offer a way to get somewhere when you are still questioning
the wisdom of the destination. A little attention brings wings fuel and
guidelights. Believe, and wings take you.
The possibility for me to move back to this Garden State appeared like a
star on a navy dark night over the ocean. Almost without deep thinking,
I was selling my Alamogordo home, packing a truck with furniture and
flying East. Friends drove the truck with my valued belongings inside.
Two siblings shared their part in Mom's house, settling the estate
simply. Performing reality checks frequently, my wings delivered me
back to the state of my birth and childhood. In April of 2007, I
arrived permanently.
Wings have been my sighted guides. They directed me to school in
Colorado for teaching credentials. With a smile of all-knowing wisdom,
wings directed me to Alamogordo, New Mexico, for thirty-four years. The
Land of Enchantment held me in its magic spell, and offered me spirit
for my life as a blind woman.
Patricia Ullmann Harmon, Class of 1963
222 Bonaire Drive
Toms River, New Jersey 08757
Pharmon222 at comcast.net
------------------------------
Message: 3
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 21:34:38 -0500
From: Bridgit Pollpeter <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no
language or adult content
Message-ID: <BLU0-SMTP105EBAB817D62CF8E542068C4650 at phx.gbl>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
For those at the monthly phone gathering:
I am posting the essay I spoke about during the meeting that I wrote
like a fairy tale. It has gone through a couple of rewrites, but it is
still in the process. It was also written a while ago. It is not my
best, but it gives an example of writing about yourself in third person.
Bridgit
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time there was a young girl, who lived in a large Victorian
house. Her wild imagination found the old house to be the perfect place
to dream up fantastic stories. It was a bright yellow, which was
changed in short order by her mother who felt mauve suited the house
better. The covered red brick porch perfect for imaginative ponderings
during rain storms was eventually torn down and replaced with a simple
marble walkway and stone steps. The surrounding yard was brought to
life by the plants and foliage her mother pain-stakingly ministered
over. This garden was home to the fairies who built their dwellings
among the roses, forget-me-nots, and carnations. The little girl danced
around the garden while the sun sank low in the horizon, and she and the
fairies prepared for their midsummer romps. With wand in hand, the girl
directed the troupe to sing and dance. Always the night ended when the
girl's mother stood on the stoop with arms crossed and directed, "It is
time to come in. What will the neighbors think with you out here?" With
a wave of the wand, the little girl made the fairies disappear, and she
trooped into the house eager for the next night to begin.
Connected to the back of the house was an old-fashioned cellar, which
the young girl and her siblings would play on top of creating so many
fancies until it was replaced by the swimming pool. The pool was fun
and became the neighborhood hang-out for children, but the little girl
would miss the days when a simple cement platform was a wide field
perfect for battle or an ancient discovery full of chalk drawings left
behind by a people long forgotten.
The most magical place for her, though, was in the back yard where a
small grove of fir trees towered among a circle of stones and dirt that
resembled a very tiny island. She believed this island to be ancient
and full of mystery, and was, therefore, resolute it not be destroyed.
She did not want to invoke the anger of some ancient god. The little
girl would hold long conversations with the people who lived on the
island. The girl and her companions would jump and dive into the
surrounding ocean to play with the mermaids. Sitting on a giant rock,
the girl would write the stories of the island people so they would
never be lost. The girl's contemplation was only broke when a voice
strained through the screen door on the back porch. "It is time to come
in for lunch. You are such a mess. Why can't you play like a lady?
People will begin to think your odd talking to yourself out there. Hurry
up now." The girl sat on the porch as her mother took a warm cloth to
the girl's small face and attempted to comb through the tangles in the
girl's long, blonde hair. The mother complained as she fussed over the
girl. "How do you manage to get so much dirt on you? When I was your
age I played with dolls or practiced my baton. You really are something
else."
The mother signed the girl up for pageants and Girl Scouts in hopes of
breaking the wild streak coursing through the little girl. The girl
enjoyed these past times, but the girl packed along her imagination
wherever she went. The girl loved to dress up and stand in front of the
full-length mirror admiring how princess-like she looked, but her spirit
needed room to run free, to discover, to play.
One summer day she returned home from a sea voyage to the Mediterranean,
and found her parents conspiring together in the large office her father
all but lived in. She tiptoed to the French doors that stood slightly
ajar and listened. Her father sat at his large cherry desk while her
mother paced the rich green carpeted floor of the den. Mother was
nervous and excited, but easy to understand, while Father spoke in low
murmurs. The young girl strained to hear what they said as, after all,
she was an international spy. The words spoken that day changed the
fate of the little girl. She learned to live in a dark tower that day
and only years of solitude stood as her companion.
"I don't know what to do with her anymore," Mother sighed.
"Is it really that bad," Father asked.
"It's not normal," she snapped.
"She's only six years old. Shouldn't we wait before doing anything?"
"You are so weak when it comes to her. I don't want her growing up
being odd. Other children don't talk to themselves or make up stories
like she does."
"She's just playing."
"She is too old to be playing with imaginary friends. I think we need
to find a psychologist," Mother choked.
"Really? She's just a kid."
"Its child not kid and her behavior is not normal. She spends hours
outside speaking to herself. She comes in and begins speaking about
people and places she has never met or been to. She told me about some
place where a fairy princess was in danger. She is not living in
reality!"
Mother grew frantic as she spoke. Her voice grew in pitch and she began
to sob. The desk chair creaked and muffled foot steps padded as father
stood and went to her.
"Don't. She needs help and you can't give into her," she said sharply.
"Alright, we will do what we have to. Call a shrink and see what we
need to do," he soothed.
The girl was crazy. She was crushed, and to this day she can still feel
the sinking sensation within her. The young girl did not want to cry,
but as she breathed in heaving gulps, she felt the trickle of tears down
her face. Suddenly she was the princess in danger, but no one would
come along for years to rescue her. Until she met Ross, her husband,
the thought alone of this memory would twist her stomach up. He taught
her what love was. He taught her about acceptance, and he brought
dreaming back into her life. At six, though, she was not normal and
this was the first of many thorns she would produce in her mother's
side. The older she became, the less she did correctly. "You will
never find a man who will want to stay with you as long as you act so
undemure. You really think it is a good idea to leave the house without
make-up?" the mother chanted. The girl felt like a stain that could not
be removed.
She never spoke again about her adventures to her family, and she
listlessly played on her island until she stopped all together. Even
though the doctor found nothing wrong with her, she could not get past
the fact that her parents believed she was insane. She may not recall
the exact flower, and it may not have been the Mediterranean she voyaged
to that afternoon, but she was the little girl who found her world
falling apart that day. She shut herself away in her mind, and no one
was allowed to enter.
I struggled against my captivity for years. By nature I was wild and
rebellious, but when one is repeatedly told that they are crazy one
begins to believe it. I thrived on my fantasies since it was an escape
from my reality. I forgot to live for a time, though, and soon the only
life I had was led inside my head. I knew security within my
imagination. I did not belong on the outside. My mother stands tall
and perfect in my memory. This shining beacon of womanhood that I could
never live up to. I sought to gain her approval and failed each time.
My journey to reach perfection left me broken and incapable of
maintaining a human relationship. "You don't need friends. People only
hurt and it is better to be alone. The only source of friendship a
person needs is themselves and God," my mother said each time I felt
betrayed or hurt. I grew up learning not to trust. Now it amazes me
how people have life-long confidants. I guard myself against any who
attempt to penetrate my armor. Yet I am fragile and do not even trust
myself. I tend to hang back and observe my friends instead of
participating. They laugh and hold hands as exciting news is shared.
Mobile phones buzz and ring incessantly as my phone sits quietly. I
know I close myself off from the world, but I don't know how to interact
with others. My mind becomes home where I can slip in and out of
scenarios that I control. I have come so far from the little girl who
found freedom in her imagination. She morphed into the crazy woman who
never found a niche to fit into.
I left my dreams behind and walked towards the bleak future I saw in the
distance. I accepted my loneliness and knew I was drifting away from
the person I was created to be. My dreams were beat out of me. Each
goal was chucked into the waste bin.
After high school I applied to the American Music and Dramatic Academy
in New York. I was flustered when a call came to schedule my audition.
"There is no way you can survive in New York. Besides, I don't want
your hopes crushed. You have a very nice voice, but it is not good
enough for the stage," my mother told me. The acceptance letter serves
as a reminder of my lost youth.
I recently sat sipping coffee and eating pie with my father. Somehow,
the conversation turned to my years in modeling school.
"Can you believe how far Jamie King has come?" Dad asked.
Jamie King and I were in the same class at the Nancy Bounds modeling
school in Omaha. Jamie has been successful with her modeling career as
well as film acting. She was caste in Pearl Harbor and Sin City among
other roles. I often wonder what it would be like if Jamie and I
switched places. I am the star-crossed girl while Jamie dwells in the
real world of dreams achieved.
"I know, it's crazy," I said.
"I remember when the director thought you and Jamie stood out in class.
You two were the promising students she told us."
"What?"
"She spoke with your mom and me and thought you and Jamie had the
potential to go far."
I sat stunned. I was never told this. I was told by my mother that I
didn't have what it took. I held my coffee mug unsure what to think.
Here I was, twenty-eight years old looking down the tunnel of chances
not seized. Again I conjure the little girl whose life was waiting for
her. I feel sad for her and wonder where she went.
Can my story have a happy ending? Through years of loneliness and
missed opportunities, I have been able to escape my dark tower, but not
without a fight. I was a knotted mess unable to latch onto another
soul. The girl so full of dreams and hopes turned into a statue. My
world did change, though. February 22, 2005 was the day the door to my
tower was unlocked. I truly had a knight in shining armor rescue me
from my cold, dreamless life. Ross entered my world and once again I
felt warmth and freedom. One by one he helped me unravel the pain and
solitude. His touch grounded me to earth. His voice brought reason to
my tormented mind. He held me as I released my story to him. Wiping my
tears he whispered, "I love you. I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner to help
you, but you are strong and I know you are better than this. I will
always stand by your side." I cried out years of untold sorrow and
struggle onto his shoulder. The girl who dreamed of a prince finally
found him.
I have learned to view the past as a directional guide to point where to
move next. My mother believes I still make stories up, but I understand
I have my own life to live and I must do what I think is right. Despite
what you may be told, my story is real. I have traveled a long and
winding road, but I have the photographs of my experience. The gloom of
the dark tower is not forgotten, but I can now move beyond the realm of
what I once knew. I now realize that I was not crazy. I was a kid who
imagined beauty in this world. I was potential waiting to be tapped.
That little girl who saw beyond reality was capable of so much. I may
not be that girl anymore and she may have missed out on so much during
her hundred-years of slumber, but I understand who I am now. I do miss
her at times, but I have a new path to construct. My dreams now are
twined with another and our future is a blank page eager for words to be
written. Some day once upon a time will read, "A beautiful woman let
her locks down and discovered the world outside her dark tower."
------------------------------
Message: 4
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 22:01:14 -0500
From: "Alan" <awheeler at neb.rr.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a
Time" no
language or adult content
Message-ID: <CC5703371B09407A9AD6570EFE1C2179 at OwnerPC>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
reply-type=original
I like this...a lot. You have me thinking about how I would write about
my
life like this. Hmm, perhaps a western instead of a fairy tale?
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Sunday, September 26, 2010 9:34 PM
Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person,"Once Upon a Time" no
language
or adult content
> For those at the monthly phone gathering:
>
> I am posting the essay I spoke about during the meeting that I wrote
> like a fairy tale. It has gone through a couple of rewrites, but it
> is still in the process. It was also written a while ago. It is not
> my best, but it gives an example of writing about yourself in third
> person.
>
> Bridgit
>
> Once Upon a Time
>
>
>
> Once upon a time there was a young girl, who lived in a large
> Victorian house. Her wild imagination found the old house to be the
> perfect place to dream up fantastic stories. It was a bright yellow,
> which was changed in short order by her mother who felt mauve suited
> the house better. The covered red brick porch perfect for imaginative
> ponderings during rain storms was eventually torn down and replaced
> with a simple marble walkway and stone steps. The surrounding yard
> was brought to life by the plants and foliage her mother
> pain-stakingly ministered over. This garden was home to the fairies
> who built their dwellings among the roses, forget-me-nots, and
> carnations. The little girl danced around the garden while the sun
> sank low in the horizon, and she and the fairies prepared for their
> midsummer romps. With wand in hand, the girl directed the troupe to
> sing and dance. Always the night ended when the girl's mother stood
> on the stoop with arms crossed and directed, "It is time to come in.
> What will the neighbors think with you out here?" With a wave of the
> wand, the little girl made the fairies disappear, and she trooped into
> the house eager for the next night to begin.
>
> Connected to the back of the house was an old-fashioned cellar, which
> the young girl and her siblings would play on top of creating so many
> fancies until it was replaced by the swimming pool. The pool was fun
> and became the neighborhood hang-out for children, but the little girl
> would miss the days when a simple cement platform was a wide field
> perfect for battle or an ancient discovery full of chalk drawings left
> behind by a people long forgotten.
>
> The most magical place for her, though, was in the back yard where a
> small grove of fir trees towered among a circle of stones and dirt
> that resembled a very tiny island. She believed this island to be
> ancient and full of mystery, and was, therefore, resolute it not be
> destroyed. She did not want to invoke the anger of some ancient god.
> The little girl would hold long conversations with the people who
> lived on the island. The girl and her companions would jump and dive
> into the surrounding ocean to play with the mermaids. Sitting on a
> giant rock, the girl would write the stories of the island people so
> they would never be lost. The girl's contemplation was only broke
> when a voice strained through the screen door on the back porch. "It
> is time to come in for lunch. You are such a mess. Why can't you
> play like a lady? People will begin to think your odd talking to
> yourself out there. Hurry up now." The girl sat on the porch as her
> mother took a warm cloth to the girl's small face and attempted to
> comb through the tangles in the girl's long, blonde hair. The mother
> complained as she fussed over the girl. "How do you manage to get so
> much dirt on you? When I was your age I played with dolls or
> practiced my baton. You really are something else."
>
> The mother signed the girl up for pageants and Girl Scouts in hopes of
> breaking the wild streak coursing through the little girl. The girl
> enjoyed these past times, but the girl packed along her imagination
> wherever she went. The girl loved to dress up and stand in front of
> the full-length mirror admiring how princess-like she looked, but her
> spirit needed room to run free, to discover, to play.
>
> One summer day she returned home from a sea voyage to the
> Mediterranean, and found her parents conspiring together in the large
> office her father all but lived in. She tiptoed to the French doors
> that stood slightly ajar and listened. Her father sat at his large
> cherry desk while her mother paced the rich green carpeted floor of
> the den. Mother was nervous and excited, but easy to understand,
> while Father spoke in low murmurs. The young girl strained to hear
> what they said as, after all, she was an international spy. The words
> spoken that day changed the fate of the little girl. She learned to
> live in a dark tower that day and only years of solitude stood as her
> companion.
>
> "I don't know what to do with her anymore," Mother sighed.
>
> "Is it really that bad," Father asked.
>
> "It's not normal," she snapped.
>
> "She's only six years old. Shouldn't we wait before doing anything?"
>
> "You are so weak when it comes to her. I don't want her growing up
> being odd. Other children don't talk to themselves or make up stories
> like she does."
>
> "She's just playing."
>
> "She is too old to be playing with imaginary friends. I think we need
> to find a psychologist," Mother choked.
>
> "Really? She's just a kid."
>
> "Its child not kid and her behavior is not normal. She spends hours
> outside speaking to herself. She comes in and begins speaking about
> people and places she has never met or been to. She told me about
> some place where a fairy princess was in danger. She is not living in
> reality!"
>
> Mother grew frantic as she spoke. Her voice grew in pitch and she
> began to sob. The desk chair creaked and muffled foot steps padded as
> father stood and went to her.
>
> "Don't. She needs help and you can't give into her," she said
> sharply.
>
> "Alright, we will do what we have to. Call a shrink and see what we
> need to do," he soothed.
>
> The girl was crazy. She was crushed, and to this day she can still
> feel the sinking sensation within her. The young girl did not want to
> cry, but as she breathed in heaving gulps, she felt the trickle of
> tears down her face. Suddenly she was the princess in danger, but no
> one would come along for years to rescue her. Until she met Ross, her
> husband, the thought alone of this memory would twist her stomach up.
> He taught her what love was. He taught her about acceptance, and he
> brought dreaming back into her life. At six, though, she was not
> normal and this was the first of many thorns she would produce in her
> mother's side. The older she became, the less she did correctly.
> "You will never find a man who will want to stay with you as long as
> you act so undemure. You really think it is a good idea to leave the
> house without make-up?" the mother chanted. The girl felt like a
> stain that could not be removed.
>
> She never spoke again about her adventures to her family, and she
> listlessly played on her island until she stopped all together. Even
> though the doctor found nothing wrong with her, she could not get past
> the fact that her parents believed she was insane. She may not recall
> the exact flower, and it may not have been the Mediterranean she
> voyaged to that afternoon, but she was the little girl who found her
> world falling apart that day. She shut herself away in her mind, and
> no one was allowed to enter.
>
>
>
>
>
> I struggled against my captivity for years. By nature I was wild and
> rebellious, but when one is repeatedly told that they are crazy one
> begins to believe it. I thrived on my fantasies since it was an
> escape from my reality. I forgot to live for a time, though, and soon
> the only life I had was led inside my head. I knew security within my
> imagination. I did not belong on the outside. My mother stands tall
> and perfect in my memory. This shining beacon of womanhood that I
> could never live up to. I sought to gain her approval and failed each
> time. My journey to reach perfection left me broken and incapable of
> maintaining a human relationship. "You don't need friends. People
> only hurt and it is better to be alone. The only source of friendship
> a person needs is themselves and God," my mother said each time I felt
> betrayed or hurt. I grew up learning not to trust. Now it amazes me
> how people have life-long confidants. I guard myself against any who
> attempt to penetrate my armor. Yet I am fragile and do not even trust
> myself. I tend to hang back and observe my friends instead of
> participating. They laugh and hold hands as exciting news is shared.
> Mobile phones buzz and ring incessantly as my phone sits quietly. I
> know I close myself off from the world, but I don't know how to
> interact with others. My mind becomes home where I can slip in and
> out of scenarios that I control. I have come so far from the little
> girl who found freedom in her imagination. She morphed into the crazy
> woman who never found a niche to fit into.
>
> I left my dreams behind and walked towards the bleak future I saw in
> the distance. I accepted my loneliness and knew I was drifting away
> from the person I was created to be. My dreams were beat out of me.
> Each goal was chucked into the waste bin.
>
> After high school I applied to the American Music and Dramatic Academy
> in New York. I was flustered when a call came to schedule my
> audition. "There is no way you can survive in New York. Besides, I
> don't want your hopes crushed. You have a very nice voice, but it is
> not good enough for the stage," my mother told me. The acceptance
> letter serves as a reminder of my lost youth.
>
> I recently sat sipping coffee and eating pie with my father. Somehow,
> the conversation turned to my years in modeling school.
>
> "Can you believe how far Jamie King has come?" Dad asked.
>
> Jamie King and I were in the same class at the Nancy Bounds modeling
> school in Omaha. Jamie has been successful with her modeling career
> as well as film acting. She was caste in Pearl Harbor and Sin City
> among other roles. I often wonder what it would be like if Jamie and
> I switched places. I am the star-crossed girl while Jamie dwells in
> the real world of dreams achieved.
>
> "I know, it's crazy," I said.
>
> "I remember when the director thought you and Jamie stood out in
> class. You two were the promising students she told us."
>
> "What?"
>
> "She spoke with your mom and me and thought you and Jamie had the
> potential to go far."
>
> I sat stunned. I was never told this. I was told by my mother that I
> didn't have what it took. I held my coffee mug unsure what to think.
> Here I was, twenty-eight years old looking down the tunnel of chances
> not seized. Again I conjure the little girl whose life was waiting
> for her. I feel sad for her and wonder where she went.
>
>
>
> Can my story have a happy ending? Through years of loneliness and
> missed opportunities, I have been able to escape my dark tower, but
> not without a fight. I was a knotted mess unable to latch onto
> another soul. The girl so full of dreams and hopes turned into a
> statue. My world did change, though. February 22, 2005 was the day
> the door to my tower was unlocked. I truly had a knight in shining
> armor rescue me from my cold, dreamless life. Ross entered my world
> and once again I felt warmth and freedom. One by one he helped me
> unravel the pain and solitude. His touch grounded me to earth. His
> voice brought reason to my tormented mind. He held me as I released
> my story to him. Wiping my tears he whispered, "I love you. I'm
> sorry I wasn't here sooner to help you, but you are strong and I know
> you are better than this. I will always stand by your side." I cried
> out years of untold sorrow and struggle onto his shoulder. The girl
> who dreamed of a prince finally found him.
>
> I have learned to view the past as a directional guide to point where
> to move next. My mother believes I still make stories up, but I
> understand I have my own life to live and I must do what I think is
> right. Despite what you may be told, my story is real. I have
> traveled a long and winding road, but I have the photographs of my
> experience. The gloom of the dark tower is not forgotten, but I can
> now move beyond the realm of what I once knew. I now realize that I
> was not crazy. I was a kid who imagined beauty in this world. I was
> potential waiting to be tapped. That little girl who saw beyond
> reality was capable of so much. I may not be that girl anymore and
> she may have missed out on so much during her hundred-years of
> slumber, but I understand who I am now. I do miss her at times, but I
> have a new path to construct. My dreams now are twined with another
> and our future is a blank page eager for words to be written. Some
> day once upon a time will read, "A beautiful woman let her locks down
> and discovered the world outside her dark tower."
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
>
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rr.com
>
> __________ NOD32 5478 (20100925) Information __________
>
> This message was checked by NOD32 antivirus system.
> http://www.eset.com
>
>
------------------------------
Message: 5
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 20:08:23 -0700
From: "Shelley J. Alongi" <QueenofBells at roadrunner.com>
To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] From Shelley Metrolink708: engineer Hunter
Message-ID: <007a01cb5df1$3fab17f0$6601a8c0 at Shelley>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
I don't think I posted this railroad writing. It dates back to august
10, 2010. Yes and it may just be about all the men in my life.
http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smreadtitle.cgi?action=display&file
=essays/AlongiSJ-Metrolink708EngineerHunter.htm
Shelley J. Alongi
Home Office: (714) 525-9632
Read my Metrolink writings and other essays and stories
http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=1&author=A
longiSJ&alpha=A
Updated: September 18, 2010
------------------------------
Message: 6
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 21:45:07 -0700
From: "davidw" <dwermuth1 at earthlink.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] New Member to list
Message-ID: <6CE21DA39F814B5F83DAD05B4C1808CC at DHDBFM71>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
reply-type=original
Hello Everyone,
I have been on this list for a few days now and wanted to introduce
myself.
My name is David and I have just completed my auto biography. It is my
first book written and I hope you don't mind a couple questions:
My editor and I are looking for a fair price for her to charge me, she
is
well written but little experience in book editing. I'd like to pay by
the
hour.
My auto biography book is approximately 280 pages by word count using a
typical paperback book format.
I have the option of self publishing and would like more information on
this
as well.
Then again if I could find a publisher I'd certainly consider that
route.
I hope to contribute as much knowledge to this list as possible and I'm
hopeful others will contribute theirs as well.
Thank You,
David Wermuth
------------------------------
Message: 7
Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 22:02:14 -0700
From: "davidw" <dwermuth1 at earthlink.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Hello again
Message-ID: <E1695BE3EB4544849529162EE376EB2B at DHDBFM71>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
reply-type=original
Sorry one more question.
I wrote my book using a tenth grade vocabulary. Is this about correct
for
an adult audience?
I can adjust it either way but I thought that would allow most if not
all
people to be able to read it. Thanks,
David Wermuth
------------------------------
Message: 8
Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 01:07:11 -0500
From: Priscilla McKinley <priscilla.mckinley at gmail.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no
language or adult content
Message-ID:
<AANLkTim1yx_GMN_5=-evWfcTE9fZAQug2LOBzLQ0YiTk at mail.gmail.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
Bridgid,
I like the idea of using the third person in a prologue to a book-length
memoir or a collection of essays on your relationships with your mother
and Ross, as well as general topics. The images of typical storybook
themes could be used to hold the piece(s) together
-- the castle, queen, princess, prince, and so on.
What is it with those mothers whose children are never good enough? It's
amazing how those childhood memories can carry into our adult lives.
Nice work of illustrating this point!
Thanks for sharing,
Priscilla
On 9/26/10, Alan <awheeler at neb.rr.com> wrote:
> I like this...a lot. You have me thinking about how I would write
> about my life like this. Hmm, perhaps a western instead of a fairy
> tale?
>
>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Sunday, September 26, 2010 9:34 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person,"Once Upon a Time" no
> language or adult content
>
>
>> For those at the monthly phone gathering:
>>
>> I am posting the essay I spoke about during the meeting that I wrote
>> like a fairy tale. It has gone through a couple of rewrites, but it
>> is still in the process. It was also written a while ago. It is not
>> my best, but it gives an example of writing about yourself in third
>> person.
>>
>> Bridgit
>>
>> Once Upon a Time
>>
>>
>>
>> Once upon a time there was a young girl, who lived in a large
>> Victorian house. Her wild imagination found the old house to be the
>> perfect place to dream up fantastic stories. It was a bright yellow,
>> which was changed in short order by her mother who felt mauve suited
>> the house better. The covered red brick porch perfect for
>> imaginative ponderings during rain storms was eventually torn down
>> and replaced with a simple marble walkway and stone steps. The
>> surrounding yard was brought to life by the plants and foliage her
>> mother pain-stakingly ministered over. This garden was home to the
>> fairies who built their dwellings among the roses, forget-me-nots,
>> and carnations. The little girl danced around the garden while the
>> sun sank low in the horizon, and she and the fairies prepared for
>> their midsummer romps. With wand in hand, the girl directed the
>> troupe to sing and dance. Always the night ended when the girl's
>> mother stood on the stoop with arms crossed and directed, "It is time
>> to come in. What will the neighbors think with you out here?" With a
>> wave of the wand, the little girl made the fairies disappear, and she
>> trooped into the house eager for the next night to begin.
>>
>> Connected to the back of the house was an old-fashioned cellar, which
>> the young girl and her siblings would play on top of creating so many
>> fancies until it was replaced by the swimming pool. The pool was fun
>> and became the neighborhood hang-out for children, but the little
>> girl would miss the days when a simple cement platform was a wide
>> field perfect for battle or an ancient discovery full of chalk
>> drawings left behind by a people long forgotten.
>>
>> The most magical place for her, though, was in the back yard where a
>> small grove of fir trees towered among a circle of stones and dirt
>> that resembled a very tiny island. She believed this island to be
>> ancient and full of mystery, and was, therefore, resolute it not be
>> destroyed. She did not want to invoke the anger of some ancient god.
>> The little girl would hold long conversations with the people who
>> lived on the island. The girl and her companions would jump and dive
>> into the surrounding ocean to play with the mermaids. Sitting on a
>> giant rock, the girl would write the stories of the island people so
>> they would never be lost. The girl's contemplation was only broke
>> when a voice strained through the screen door on the back porch. "It
>> is time to come in for lunch. You are such a mess. Why can't you
>> play like a lady? People will begin to think your odd talking to
>> yourself out there. Hurry up now." The girl sat on the porch as her
>> mother took a warm cloth to the girl's small face and attempted to
>> comb through the tangles in the girl's long, blonde hair. The mother
>> complained as she fussed over the girl. "How do you manage to get so
>> much dirt on you? When I was your age I played with dolls or
>> practiced my baton. You really are something else."
>>
>> The mother signed the girl up for pageants and Girl Scouts in hopes
>> of breaking the wild streak coursing through the little girl. The
>> girl enjoyed these past times, but the girl packed along her
>> imagination wherever she went. The girl loved to dress up and stand
>> in front of the full-length mirror admiring how princess-like she
>> looked, but her spirit needed room to run free, to discover, to play.
>>
>> One summer day she returned home from a sea voyage to the
>> Mediterranean, and found her parents conspiring together in the large
>> office her father all but lived in. She tiptoed to the French doors
>> that stood slightly ajar and listened. Her father sat at his large
>> cherry desk while her mother paced the rich green carpeted floor of
>> the den. Mother was nervous and excited, but easy to understand,
>> while Father spoke in low murmurs. The young girl strained to hear
>> what they said as, after all, she was an international spy. The
>> words spoken that day changed the fate of the little girl. She
>> learned to live in a dark tower that day and only years of solitude
>> stood as her companion.
>>
>> "I don't know what to do with her anymore," Mother sighed.
>>
>> "Is it really that bad," Father asked.
>>
>> "It's not normal," she snapped.
>>
>> "She's only six years old. Shouldn't we wait before doing anything?"
>>
>> "You are so weak when it comes to her. I don't want her growing up
>> being odd. Other children don't talk to themselves or make up
>> stories like she does."
>>
>> "She's just playing."
>>
>> "She is too old to be playing with imaginary friends. I think we
>> need to find a psychologist," Mother choked.
>>
>> "Really? She's just a kid."
>>
>> "Its child not kid and her behavior is not normal. She spends hours
>> outside speaking to herself. She comes in and begins speaking about
>> people and places she has never met or been to. She told me about
>> some place where a fairy princess was in danger. She is not living
>> in reality!"
>>
>> Mother grew frantic as she spoke. Her voice grew in pitch and she
>> began to sob. The desk chair creaked and muffled foot steps padded
>> as father stood and went to her.
>>
>> "Don't. She needs help and you can't give into her," she said
>> sharply.
>>
>> "Alright, we will do what we have to. Call a shrink and see what we
>> need to do," he soothed.
>>
>> The girl was crazy. She was crushed, and to this day she can still
>> feel the sinking sensation within her. The young girl did not want
>> to cry, but as she breathed in heaving gulps, she felt the trickle of
>> tears down her face. Suddenly she was the princess in danger, but no
>> one would come along for years to rescue her. Until she met Ross,
>> her husband, the thought alone of this memory would twist her stomach
>> up. He taught her what love was. He taught her about acceptance,
>> and he brought dreaming back into her life. At six, though, she was
>> not normal and this was the first of many thorns she would produce in
>> her mother's side. The older she became, the less she did correctly.
>> "You will never find a man who will want to stay with you as long as
>> you act so undemure. You really think it is a good idea to leave the
>> house without make-up?" the mother chanted. The girl felt like a
>> stain that could not be removed.
>>
>> She never spoke again about her adventures to her family, and she
>> listlessly played on her island until she stopped all together. Even
>> though the doctor found nothing wrong with her, she could not get
>> past the fact that her parents believed she was insane. She may not
>> recall the exact flower, and it may not have been the Mediterranean
>> she voyaged to that afternoon, but she was the little girl who found
>> her world falling apart that day. She shut herself away in her mind,
>> and no one was allowed to enter.
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> I struggled against my captivity for years. By nature I was wild and
>> rebellious, but when one is repeatedly told that they are crazy one
>> begins to believe it. I thrived on my fantasies since it was an
>> escape from my reality. I forgot to live for a time, though, and
>> soon the only life I had was led inside my head. I knew security
>> within my imagination. I did not belong on the outside. My mother
>> stands tall and perfect in my memory. This shining beacon of
>> womanhood that I could never live up to. I sought to gain her
>> approval and failed each time. My journey to reach perfection left me
>> broken and incapable of maintaining a human relationship. "You don't
>> need friends. People only hurt and it is better to be alone. The
>> only source of friendship a person needs is themselves and God," my
>> mother said each time I felt betrayed or hurt. I grew up learning
>> not to trust. Now it amazes me how people have life-long confidants.
>> I guard myself against any who attempt to penetrate my armor. Yet I
>> am fragile and do not even trust myself. I tend to hang back and
>> observe my friends instead of participating. They laugh and hold
>> hands as exciting news is shared. Mobile phones buzz and ring
>> incessantly as my phone sits quietly. I know I close myself off from
>> the world, but I don't know how to interact with others. My mind
>> becomes home where I can slip in and out of scenarios that I control.
>> I have come so far from the little girl who found freedom in her
>> imagination. She morphed into the crazy woman who never found a
>> niche to fit into.
>>
>> I left my dreams behind and walked towards the bleak future I saw in
>> the distance. I accepted my loneliness and knew I was drifting away
>> from the person I was created to be. My dreams were beat out of me.
>> Each goal was chucked into the waste bin.
>>
>> After high school I applied to the American Music and Dramatic
>> Academy in New York. I was flustered when a call came to schedule my
>> audition. "There is no way you can survive in New York. Besides, I
>> don't want your hopes crushed. You have a very nice voice, but it is
>> not good enough for the stage," my mother told me. The acceptance
>> letter serves as a reminder of my lost youth.
>>
>> I recently sat sipping coffee and eating pie with my father.
>> Somehow, the conversation turned to my years in modeling school.
>>
>> "Can you believe how far Jamie King has come?" Dad asked.
>>
>> Jamie King and I were in the same class at the Nancy Bounds modeling
>> school in Omaha. Jamie has been successful with her modeling career
>> as well as film acting. She was caste in Pearl Harbor and Sin City
>> among other roles. I often wonder what it would be like if Jamie and
>> I switched places. I am the star-crossed girl while Jamie dwells in
>> the real world of dreams achieved.
>>
>> "I know, it's crazy," I said.
>>
>> "I remember when the director thought you and Jamie stood out in
>> class. You two were the promising students she told us."
>>
>> "What?"
>>
>> "She spoke with your mom and me and thought you and Jamie had the
>> potential to go far."
>>
>> I sat stunned. I was never told this. I was told by my mother that
>> I didn't have what it took. I held my coffee mug unsure what to
>> think. Here I was, twenty-eight years old looking down the tunnel of
>> chances not seized. Again I conjure the little girl whose life was
>> waiting for her. I feel sad for her and wonder where she went.
>>
>>
>>
>> Can my story have a happy ending? Through years of loneliness and
>> missed opportunities, I have been able to escape my dark tower, but
>> not without a fight. I was a knotted mess unable to latch onto
>> another soul. The girl so full of dreams and hopes turned into a
>> statue. My world did change, though. February 22, 2005 was the day
>> the door to my tower was unlocked. I truly had a knight in shining
>> armor rescue me from my cold, dreamless life. Ross entered my world
>> and once again I felt warmth and freedom. One by one he helped me
>> unravel the pain and solitude. His touch grounded me to earth. His
>> voice brought reason to my tormented mind. He held me as I released
>> my story to him. Wiping my tears he whispered, "I love you. I'm
>> sorry I wasn't here sooner to help you, but you are strong and I know
>> you are better than this. I will always stand by your side." I
>> cried out years of untold sorrow and struggle onto his shoulder. The
>> girl who dreamed of a prince finally found him.
>>
>> I have learned to view the past as a directional guide to point where
>> to move next. My mother believes I still make stories up, but I
>> understand I have my own life to live and I must do what I think is
>> right. Despite what you may be told, my story is real. I have
>> traveled a long and winding road, but I have the photographs of my
>> experience. The gloom of the dark tower is not forgotten, but I can
>> now move beyond the realm of what I once knew. I now realize that I
>> was not crazy. I was a kid who imagined beauty in this world. I was
>> potential waiting to be tapped. That little girl who saw beyond
>> reality was capable of so much. I may not be that girl anymore and
>> she may have missed out on so much during her hundred-years of
>> slumber, but I understand who I am now. I do miss her at times, but
>> I have a new path to construct. My dreams now are twined with
>> another and our future is a blank page eager for words to be written.
>> Some day once upon a time will read, "A beautiful woman let her locks
>> down and discovered the world outside her dark tower."
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>>
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>> stylist:
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/awheeler%40n
>> eb.rr.com
>>
>> __________ NOD32 5478 (20100925) Information __________
>>
>> This message was checked by NOD32 antivirus system.
>> http://www.eset.com
>>
>>
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
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> inley%40gmail.com
>
------------------------------
Message: 9
Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 06:07:42 -0500
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a
Time" no
language or adult content
Message-ID: <BC50B29A734242768A82B5AF88026074 at Newmans>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Interesting treatise --- A tale in 3rd person --- fits a tale, though
this be a sad, sad, tale.
How is this different then a fable? Or --- is it that a fable has a
prescribed purpose?
And yes, 3rd person can be found in modern day fiction too, right? (I'm
just blank on this --- coming up with an example.)
-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Priscilla McKinley
Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 1:07 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no
language or adult content
Bridgid,
I like the idea of using the third person in a prologue to a book-length
memoir or a collection of essays on your relationships with your mother
and Ross, as well as general topics. The images of typical storybook
themes could be used to hold the piece(s) together
-- the castle, queen, princess, prince, and so on.
What is it with those mothers whose children are never good enough? It's
amazing how those childhood memories can carry into our adult lives.
Nice work of illustrating this point!
Thanks for sharing,
Priscilla
On 9/26/10, Alan <awheeler at neb.rr.com> wrote:
> I like this...a lot. You have me thinking about how I would write
> about my life like this. Hmm, perhaps a western instead of a fairy
> tale?
>
>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Sunday, September 26, 2010 9:34 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person,"Once Upon a Time" no
> language or adult content
>
>
>> For those at the monthly phone gathering:
>>
>> I am posting the essay I spoke about during the meeting that I wrote
>> like a fairy tale. It has gone through a couple of rewrites, but it
>> is still in the process. It was also written a while ago. It is not
>> my best, but it gives an example of writing about yourself in third
>> person.
>>
>> Bridgit
>>
>> Once Upon a Time
>>
>>
>>
>> Once upon a time there was a young girl, who lived in a large
>> Victorian house. Her wild imagination found the old house to be the
>> perfect place to dream up fantastic stories. It was a bright yellow,
>> which was changed in short order by her mother who felt mauve suited
>> the house better. The covered red brick porch perfect for
>> imaginative ponderings during rain storms was eventually torn down
>> and replaced with a simple marble walkway and stone steps. The
>> surrounding yard was brought to life by the plants and foliage her
>> mother pain-stakingly ministered over. This garden was home to the
>> fairies who built their dwellings among the roses, forget-me-nots,
>> and carnations. The little girl danced around the garden while the
>> sun sank low in the horizon, and she and the fairies prepared for
>> their midsummer romps. With wand in hand, the girl directed the
>> troupe to sing and dance. Always the night ended when the girl's
>> mother stood on the stoop with arms crossed and directed, "It is time
>> to come in. What will the neighbors think with you out here?" With a
>> wave of the wand, the little girl made the fairies disappear, and she
>> trooped into the house eager for the next night to begin.
>>
>> Connected to the back of the house was an old-fashioned cellar, which
>> the young girl and her siblings would play on top of creating so many
>> fancies until it was replaced by the swimming pool. The pool was fun
>> and became the neighborhood hang-out for children, but the little
>> girl would miss the days when a simple cement platform was a wide
>> field perfect for battle or an ancient discovery full of chalk
>> drawings left behind by a people long forgotten.
>>
>> The most magical place for her, though, was in the back yard where a
>> small grove of fir trees towered among a circle of stones and dirt
>> that resembled a very tiny island. She believed this island to be
>> ancient and full of mystery, and was, therefore, resolute it not be
>> destroyed. She did not want to invoke the anger of some ancient god.
>> The little girl would hold long conversations with the people who
>> lived on the island. The girl and her companions would jump and dive
>> into the surrounding ocean to play with the mermaids. Sitting on a
>> giant rock, the girl would write the stories of the island people so
>> they would never be lost. The girl's contemplation was only broke
>> when a voice strained through the screen door on the back porch. "It
>> is time to come in for lunch. You are such a mess. Why can't you
>> play like a lady? People will begin to think your odd talking to
>> yourself out there. Hurry up now." The girl sat on the porch as her
>> mother took a warm cloth to the girl's small face and attempted to
>> comb through the tangles in the girl's long, blonde hair. The mother
>> complained as she fussed over the girl. "How do you manage to get so
>> much dirt on you? When I was your age I played with dolls or
>> practiced my baton. You really are something else."
>>
>> The mother signed the girl up for pageants and Girl Scouts in hopes
>> of breaking the wild streak coursing through the little girl. The
>> girl enjoyed these past times, but the girl packed along her
>> imagination wherever she went. The girl loved to dress up and stand
>> in front of the full-length mirror admiring how princess-like she
>> looked, but her spirit needed room to run free, to discover, to play.
>>
>> One summer day she returned home from a sea voyage to the
>> Mediterranean, and found her parents conspiring together in the large
>> office her father all but lived in. She tiptoed to the French doors
>> that stood slightly ajar and listened. Her father sat at his large
>> cherry desk while her mother paced the rich green carpeted floor of
>> the den. Mother was nervous and excited, but easy to understand,
>> while Father spoke in low murmurs. The young girl strained to hear
>> what they said as, after all, she was an international spy. The
>> words spoken that day changed the fate of the little girl. She
>> learned to live in a dark tower that day and only years of solitude
>> stood as her companion.
>>
>> "I don't know what to do with her anymore," Mother sighed.
>>
>> "Is it really that bad," Father asked.
>>
>> "It's not normal," she snapped.
>>
>> "She's only six years old. Shouldn't we wait before doing anything?"
>>
>> "You are so weak when it comes to her. I don't want her growing up
>> being odd. Other children don't talk to themselves or make up
>> stories like she does."
>>
>> "She's just playing."
>>
>> "She is too old to be playing with imaginary friends. I think we
>> need to find a psychologist," Mother choked.
>>
>> "Really? She's just a kid."
>>
>> "Its child not kid and her behavior is not normal. She spends hours
>> outside speaking to herself. She comes in and begins speaking about
>> people and places she has never met or been to. She told me about
>> some place where a fairy princess was in danger. She is not living
>> in reality!"
>>
>> Mother grew frantic as she spoke. Her voice grew in pitch and she
>> began to sob. The desk chair creaked and muffled foot steps padded
>> as father stood and went to her.
>>
>> "Don't. She needs help and you can't give into her," she said
>> sharply.
>>
>> "Alright, we will do what we have to. Call a shrink and see what we
>> need to do," he soothed.
>>
>> The girl was crazy. She was crushed, and to this day she can still
>> feel the sinking sensation within her. The young girl did not want
>> to cry, but as she breathed in heaving gulps, she felt the trickle of
>> tears down her face. Suddenly she was the princess in danger, but no
>> one would come along for years to rescue her. Until she met Ross,
>> her husband, the thought alone of this memory would twist her stomach
>> up. He taught her what love was. He taught her about acceptance,
>> and he brought dreaming back into her life. At six, though, she was
>> not normal and this was the first of many thorns she would produce in
>> her mother's side. The older she became, the less she did correctly.
>> "You will never find a man who will want to stay with you as long as
>> you act so undemure. You really think it is a good idea to leave the
>> house without make-up?" the mother chanted. The girl felt like a
>> stain that could not be removed.
>>
>> She never spoke again about her adventures to her family, and she
>> listlessly played on her island until she stopped all together. Even
>> though the doctor found nothing wrong with her, she could not get
>> past the fact that her parents believed she was insane. She may not
>> recall the exact flower, and it may not have been the Mediterranean
>> she voyaged to that afternoon, but she was the little girl who found
>> her world falling apart that day. She shut herself away in her mind,
>> and no one was allowed to enter.
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> I struggled against my captivity for years. By nature I was wild and
>> rebellious, but when one is repeatedly told that they are crazy one
>> begins to believe it. I thrived on my fantasies since it was an
>> escape from my reality. I forgot to live for a time, though, and
>> soon the only life I had was led inside my head. I knew security
>> within my imagination. I did not belong on the outside. My mother
>> stands tall and perfect in my memory. This shining beacon of
>> womanhood that I could never live up to. I sought to gain her
>> approval and failed each time. My journey to reach perfection left me
>> broken and incapable of maintaining a human relationship. "You don't
>> need friends. People only hurt and it is better to be alone. The
>> only source of friendship a person needs is themselves and God," my
>> mother said each time I felt betrayed or hurt. I grew up learning
>> not to trust. Now it amazes me how people have life-long confidants.
>> I guard myself against any who attempt to penetrate my armor. Yet I
>> am fragile and do not even trust myself. I tend to hang back and
>> observe my friends instead of participating. They laugh and hold
>> hands as exciting news is shared. Mobile phones buzz and ring
>> incessantly as my phone sits quietly. I know I close myself off from
>> the world, but I don't know how to interact with others. My mind
>> becomes home where I can slip in and out of scenarios that I control.
>> I have come so far from the little girl who found freedom in her
>> imagination. She morphed into the crazy woman who never found a
>> niche to fit into.
>>
>> I left my dreams behind and walked towards the bleak future I saw in
>> the distance. I accepted my loneliness and knew I was drifting away
>> from the person I was created to be. My dreams were beat out of me.
>> Each goal was chucked into the waste bin.
>>
>> After high school I applied to the American Music and Dramatic
>> Academy in New York. I was flustered when a call came to schedule my
>> audition. "There is no way you can survive in New York. Besides, I
>> don't want your hopes crushed. You have a very nice voice, but it is
>> not good enough for the stage," my mother told me. The acceptance
>> letter serves as a reminder of my lost youth.
>>
>> I recently sat sipping coffee and eating pie with my father.
>> Somehow, the conversation turned to my years in modeling school.
>>
>> "Can you believe how far Jamie King has come?" Dad asked.
>>
>> Jamie King and I were in the same class at the Nancy Bounds modeling
>> school in Omaha. Jamie has been successful with her modeling career
>> as well as film acting. She was caste in Pearl Harbor and Sin City
>> among other roles. I often wonder what it would be like if Jamie and
>> I switched places. I am the star-crossed girl while Jamie dwells in
>> the real world of dreams achieved.
>>
>> "I know, it's crazy," I said.
>>
>> "I remember when the director thought you and Jamie stood out in
>> class. You two were the promising students she told us."
>>
>> "What?"
>>
>> "She spoke with your mom and me and thought you and Jamie had the
>> potential to go far."
>>
>> I sat stunned. I was never told this. I was told by my mother that
>> I didn't have what it took. I held my coffee mug unsure what to
>> think. Here I was, twenty-eight years old looking down the tunnel of
>> chances not seized. Again I conjure the little girl whose life was
>> waiting for her. I feel sad for her and wonder where she went.
>>
>>
>>
>> Can my story have a happy ending? Through years of loneliness and
>> missed opportunities, I have been able to escape my dark tower, but
>> not without a fight. I was a knotted mess unable to latch onto
>> another soul. The girl so full of dreams and hopes turned into a
>> statue. My world did change, though. February 22, 2005 was the day
>> the door to my tower was unlocked. I truly had a knight in shining
>> armor rescue me from my cold, dreamless life. Ross entered my world
>> and once again I felt warmth and freedom. One by one he helped me
>> unravel the pain and solitude. His touch grounded me to earth. His
>> voice brought reason to my tormented mind. He held me as I released
>> my story to him. Wiping my tears he whispered, "I love you. I'm
>> sorry I wasn't here sooner to help you, but you are strong and I know
>> you are better than this. I will always stand by your side." I
>> cried out years of untold sorrow and struggle onto his shoulder. The
>> girl who dreamed of a prince finally found him.
>>
>> I have learned to view the past as a directional guide to point where
>> to move next. My mother believes I still make stories up, but I
>> understand I have my own life to live and I must do what I think is
>> right. Despite what you may be told, my story is real. I have
>> traveled a long and winding road, but I have the photographs of my
>> experience. The gloom of the dark tower is not forgotten, but I can
>> now move beyond the realm of what I once knew. I now realize that I
>> was not crazy. I was a kid who imagined beauty in this world. I was
>> potential waiting to be tapped. That little girl who saw beyond
>> reality was capable of so much. I may not be that girl anymore and
>> she may have missed out on so much during her hundred-years of
>> slumber, but I understand who I am now. I do miss her at times, but
>> I have a new path to construct. My dreams now are twined with
>> another and our future is a blank page eager for words to be written.
>> Some day once upon a time will read, "A beautiful woman let her locks
>> down and discovered the world outside her dark tower."
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
<http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>>
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>> stylist:
>>
http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/awheeler%40neb.
rr.c
om
>>
>> __________ NOD32 5478 (20100925) Information __________
>>
>> This message was checked by NOD32 antivirus system.
>> http://www.eset.com
>>
>>
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
<http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
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> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
>
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ley%
40gmail.com
>
_______________________________________________
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<http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
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------------------------------
Message: 10
Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 06:50:37 -0500
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] New Member to list
Message-ID: <8D5E179D91E64C1BBDA99DA15E387A65 at Newmans>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Greetings David
I do believe we have several people on this list who can give you input
on
your questions.
I'll write you off list about other Division features.
-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of davidw
Sent: Sunday, September 26, 2010 11:45 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: [stylist] New Member to list
Hello Everyone,
I have been on this list for a few days now and wanted to introduce
myself.
My name is David and I have just completed my auto biography. It is my
first book written and I hope you don't mind a couple questions:
My editor and I are looking for a fair price for her to charge me, she
is
well written but little experience in book editing. I'd like to pay by
the
hour.
My auto biography book is approximately 280 pages by word count using a
typical paperback book format.
I have the option of self publishing and would like more information on
this
as well.
Then again if I could find a publisher I'd certainly consider that
route.
I hope to contribute as much knowledge to this list as possible and I'm
hopeful others will contribute theirs as well.
Thank You,
David Wermuth
_______________________________________________
Writers Division web site:
http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
<http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
stylist mailing list
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To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
stylist:
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net
------------------------------
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