[stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun

Tue Jul 19 19:12:53 UTC 2011

Given the drama that goes on between my wife and my daughter, this is all very believable.  I would guess that her mother never really said that, but that the daughter interpreted that as meaning that no one would ever want her.

And then again, I could be wrong.

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Donna Hill
Sent: Tuesday, July 19, 2011 2:43 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun

Bridgit,
Funny you should mention fairy tales. As I was reading this piece, I thought
it was going to involve the supernatural -- the wind that comes up and then
just as quickly disappears. I hope you will expand on this someday. Those
raw feelings, the drama and all of that vivid imagery seem to be screaming
to go somewhere. The part about her mother thinking no one would want her is
also telling. Why? I know blind women who had the experience of being told
by family and friends that no man would ever want a blind wife. In this
case, however, it would seem that this was before you lost your sight.
Donna

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Monday, July 18, 2011 6:15 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun

I still have a similar writing style, though I seem to have a couple of
styles depending on what I'm writing.  I've always been drawn to the
melancholy and dramatic.

I believe this was something I started with the thought of turning it
into a fairytale.  Growing up, I was obsessed with fairytales and
fantasy stories.  I liked the idea of dabbling with fairytales and
contemporizing them.  I read a book, Sleeping Beauty, by Sherry S.
Tepper, and fell in love with it.  She takes fairytales and puts a
contemporary spin touching on social issues and world concerns.  I
wanted to emulate this.  Donna Jo Napoli is another author I loved.
Napoli does a similar thing with her books.

This was the beginning of a Cinderella-type story.

I was also trying to find ways to release everything swirling around
inside myself.  Writing was a catalyst that allowed me to release it and
be whatever I wanted.

It's hard to believe this is about 13 years old! LOL

Bridgit

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Editor, Slate & Style
Publication of the National Federation of the Blind
NFB-Writers division website:
 <http://www.nfb-writers-division.>
http://www.nfb-writers-division.netMessage: 3

Date: Sun, 17 Jul 2011 21:56:08 -0500
From: "Barbara Hammel" <poetlori8 at msn.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun
Message-ID: <SNT139-ds8D88919BC911F80762A4BEB4A0 at phx.gbl>
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Now that sounds like a great beginning of a story.  Unless that's your 
writing style now, I wonder how hard it would be to keep up that
language 
for a while?  It's melancholy, but I like it.
Barbara

Let every nation know whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall
pay 
any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend,
oppose 
any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of
liberty.--John 
F. Kennedy
-----Original Message----- 
From: Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Sunday, July 17, 2011 4:32 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun

Hello,

I found some old stuff I wrote a long, long time ago.  I thought it
would be fun to share.  *smile*

This is from when I was a teen.  I was very caught up in my angst.  I
was the poster-girl for teen angst, and a lot of my writing reflects
this.  *grin*  Enjoy.

The moon sat high in its clear night sky.  Light trickled through the
bows of the trees surrounding the still, small pond.  The glen shimmered
with the illumination from the silvery orb lending a dream like quality
to the setting.  A shape was discernable near the ground, and upon
closer inspection the shape became a young girl.

Knees folded to her chin, she sat on the bank.  Humming softly, she
tugged furiously at the grass beneath her.  Anyone finding this scene
earlier would have found her weeping with great shuddering sobs and
contorted features.  Now her face was still as she stared out towards
the pond's reflection.  The only remains of sadness were held in her
grave expression and the irridescent tears clinging to her long, dark
lashes.

Slowly, softly, she spoke .  The words were faint, but a slight breeze
ruffled the leaves as they swished and the sheaves of grass rippled
faintly.  The breeze strengthened as her voice intensified.

"I'm not crazy; I'm not crazy; I'm not crazy."  Determination rang
through her chant.

She stood, pacing, repeating her rhythmic mantra.  Suddenly she screamed
as the wind wipped around her .  Fury flashed in her green eyes, and a
stoney edge set around her features.  As quickly as the wind started, it
died.

Fire blazed in her eyes even as her face softened.  Dropping rigidly
back to the ground, tears streamed in silence.  Thoughts swirled
together in a blur of colors and shapes.  Rubbing her temples, she
attempted to alleviate the thudding pressure pulsing incessantly.  Try
as she might, thoughts crowded in .

Where can I go?

Different possibilities hummed like a swarm of bees. The images fired
quickly like pictures in a view-finder.  Clicking through them, she knew
none would bring a resolution.

Is there anyone I can turn to?  Would anyone lend a helping hand?  Who
will listen?

A knot grew in her stomach as loneliness spread through her being.
Closing her eyes, she resisted tears.  A quiet thump distracted her
tears as she pounded her leg with a fist.

Mother's right, ; no one will ever want me.  What good am I?

She laughed bitterly.  The voice whispering from her depths tried
clinging to hope.  A pregnant strength grew inside her forming like a
great round power, but grief rose from her pores, and hope was difficult
to focus on.

Standing, she brushed away bits of dirt and grass from her loose gown,
and smoothed her windswept auburn locks.  Rummaging through a hidden
pocket in the folds of her dress, she clasped tightly onto a smooth,
hard object.

I'll go back and do as I'm told, but one day, one day, I'll show them
all.

Moving quickly from the glen that was her only sanctuary, she did not
suspect she would never return to this childhood haunt.

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Editor, Slate & Style
Publication of the National Federation of the Blind
NFB-Writers division website:
<http://www.nfb-writers-division <http://www.nfb-writers-division/> .>
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net
<http://www.nfb-writers-division.net/>

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Message: 4
Date: Mon, 18 Jul 2011 10:17:34 -0400
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun
Message-ID: <27BB2FC238E941409F933E38806BF102 at ChrisPC>
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	reply-type=original

Bridgit,

I think this writing is very good coming from an angst-ridden teenager. 
Sure, it's overly-dramatic, but the spark of the writer within is
clearly 
visible. Thanks for sharing.

chris

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