[stylist] Wings

[Pat Harmon]

This review of my writing is just what I need to do more!I appreciate it!
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: "writers division" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, September 28, 2010 4:02 AM
Subject: [stylist] Wings


>
> 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
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>>
>> To subscribe or unsubscribe via the World Wide Web, visit
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>> or, via email, send a message with subject or body 'help' to
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>>
>> When replying, please edit your Subject line so it is more specific
>> than "Re: Contents of stylist digest..."
>>
>>
>> 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
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>> > 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
>> > 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: 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
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> > _______________________________________________
>> > 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
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>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
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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
>> ***************************************
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> ------------------------------
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>>
>>
>> End of stylist Digest, Vol 77, Issue 27
>> ***************************************
>
> _______________________________________________
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>
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> stylist:
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