[stylist] Wings

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Patricia,
 
This piece is really good.  It reminds me, a bit, of my Once Upon a Time piece, but better.  Your language is beautiful and some of your sentences are very lyrical.
 
Priscilla is right, a lot of these paragraphs could be expanded to become a chapter, but this essay works as is too.  You pack a lot into a small space.
 
Bridgit
 
> From: stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 27
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 20:13:57 -0500
> 
> Send stylist mailing list submissions to
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> Today's Topics:
> 
> 1. Priscilla's assignment for tonight (Bridgit Pollpeter)
> 2. Priscilla's assignment for tonight (Bridgit Pollpeter)
> 3. Essay using third person, Once Upon a Time (Bridgit Pollpeter)
> 
> 
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Message: 1
> Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 19:52:30 -0500
> From: Bridgit Pollpeter <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] Priscilla's assignment for tonight
> Message-ID: <BLU0-SMTP1987EEF46DD47ECE9DF169AC4660 at phx.gbl>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
> 
> First, I didn't get this Stylist email until today so sorry.
> 
> Your style, Priscilla, is great. You have great specifics and very
> vivid images. I like your language as well. You place us in the moment
> locationally and emotionally.
> 
> These blurbs also demonstrate the "creative" side of creative
> non-fiction, and how we can incorporate fictional elements into memoirs
> and essays.
> 
> I really look forward to the internet dating memoir. It sounds funny
> and interesting and I think writing about pop culture, right now, is a
> creative way to bring a fresh perspective to non-fiction, just like
> internet dating is a fresh perspective on dating.
> 
> Bridgit
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
> Behalf Of stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 12:00 PM
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> 
> 
> Send stylist mailing list submissions to
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> 
> To subscribe or unsubscribe via the World Wide Web, visit
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> or, via email, send a message with subject or body 'help' to
> stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> 
> You can reach the person managing the list at
> stylist-owner at nfbnet.org
> 
> When replying, please edit your Subject line so it is more specific than
> "Re: Contents of stylist digest..."
> 
> 
> 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:
> >
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/awheeler%40neb.
> 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: 
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/priscilla.mck
> > 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/>
> >
> > 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.mckin
> ley%
> 40gmail.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:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/newmanrl%40cox.
> net
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> 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
> 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/newmanrl%40cox.
> net
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> _______________________________________________
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> 
> 
> End of stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> ***************************************
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> Message: 2
> Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 19:58:23 -0500
> From: Bridgit Pollpeter <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] Priscilla's assignment for tonight
> Message-ID: <BLU0-SMTP197F4FF901F588DC342C46DC4660 at phx.gbl>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
> 
> Priscilla,
> 
> First, I did not get this Stylist email until today, so sorry.
> 
> All your examples have great specifics and vivid images. You place us
> in the moment locationally and emotionally. I like too that you try
> different things from piece to piece.
> 
> These blurbs also demonstrate the "creative" side of creative
> non-fiction. Great examples of how to incorporate some fictional
> elements into a work of non-fiction.
> 
> I look forward to the internet dating memoir. It is funny and
> interesting.
> 
> Bridgit
> 
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
> Behalf Of stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 12:00 PM
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> 
> 
> Send stylist mailing list submissions to
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> 
> To subscribe or unsubscribe via the World Wide Web, visit
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> or, via email, send a message with subject or body 'help' to
> stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> 
> You can reach the person managing the list at
> stylist-owner at nfbnet.org
> 
> When replying, please edit your Subject line so it is more specific than
> "Re: Contents of stylist digest..."
> 
> 
> 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:
> >
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/awheeler%40neb.
> 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: 
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/priscilla.mck
> > 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/>
> >
> > stylist mailing list
> > stylist at nfbnet.org
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> > To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> > stylist:
> >
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/priscilla.mckin
> ley%
> 40gmail.com
> >
> 
> _______________________________________________
> 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
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> 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
> 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/newmanrl%40cox.
> net
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> _______________________________________________
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> 
> 
> End of stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> ***************************************
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> Message: 3
> Date: Mon, 27 Sep 2010 20:12:35 -0500
> From: Bridgit Pollpeter <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person, Once Upon a Time
> Message-ID: <BLU0-SMTP147A3457B089DBC6E47576CC4660 at phx.gbl>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
> 
> 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 clich?, 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-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
> Behalf Of stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 12:00 PM
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Subject: stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> 
> 
> Send stylist mailing list submissions to
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> 
> To subscribe or unsubscribe via the World Wide Web, visit
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> or, via email, send a message with subject or body 'help' to
> stylist-request at nfbnet.org
> 
> You can reach the person managing the list at
> stylist-owner at nfbnet.org
> 
> When replying, please edit your Subject line so it is more specific than
> "Re: Contents of stylist digest..."
> 
> 
> 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
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> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> 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:
> >
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/awheeler%40neb.
> 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 
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> > stylist: 
> > http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/priscilla.mck
> > 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/>
> >
> > 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.mckin
> ley%
> 40gmail.com
> >
> 
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
> 
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
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> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
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> net
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> 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
> 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/newmanrl%40cox.
> net
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> _______________________________________________
> stylist mailing list
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> 
> 
> End of stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 26
> ***************************************
> 
> 
> 
> 
> ------------------------------
> 
> _______________________________________________
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> 
> End of stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 27
> ***************************************