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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link=blue vlink=purple><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>Chris,<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Always enjoy your writing.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>You probably know the things I’m going to say, wink.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I know this is just a prompt, but I like the second para for a first para. I think it draws the reader in more.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I find the “captivating but creepy” comment about the eyes funny and paints a good picture. Captivating doesn’t necessarily mean attractive, just that something captures your attention. Nice detail.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>When we get into the introduction of the drinking companion, it can use more direct action. It sort of a reported scene at this point, but, and here it comes, right, right (LOL) I like that action, placing us directly into a scene.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I like the detailed description of what he looked like; combined with his taste in music, it does a lot to characterize.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>It’s brill how you can’t remember his name, but instead of stating it so, you say “Ken, Bill,” as if trying to remember.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>In the para where you describe your happiness theory and his subsequent argument, it’s a little clunky. I had to read a few times, and I’m still not entirely sure it’s fully computing. I also read it out loud to slow it down and try to connect more. Perhaps it can be re-worded, find more succinct ways to relay all this. Also breaking up the para would help. Even writing exactly what you have hear but as actual dialogue would help.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>In the sentence about not being good hiding your expressions, it’s a little clunky. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>***I have to be honest—I did not see that coming, and since I’ve never been too good at hiding my emotions through intentional manipulation of facial expressions, I assume I telegraphed my shock.***</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Re-wording, cutting, something to make it flow better.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Great use of simile and imagery in this piece.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>If you wanted to further develop this prompt, there’s a lot of directions you can go in. It can be a piece on communication in society, even weaving political themes throughout. It can be about projection and representation and how we see ourselves vs. how other’s see us. With my nonfiction, I’m always writing for a bigger universal, a larger theme, using my personal experience as a catalyst or strand to braid together, as you know. And in a prompt like this, I see a lot of potential for a universal direction.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Fantastic as always.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Bridgit<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><div><div style='border:none;border-top:solid #E1E1E1 1.0pt;padding:3.0pt 0in 0in 0in'><p class=MsoNormal><b>From:</b> Stylist <stylist-bounces@nfbnet.org> <b>On Behalf Of </b>Chris Kuell via Stylist<br><b>Sent:</b> Friday, October 4, 2019 12:43 PM<br><b>To:</b> 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist@nfbnet.org><br><b>Cc:</b> Chris Kuell <ckuell@comcast.net><br><b>Subject:</b> [Stylist] miscommunication<o:p></o:p></p></div></div><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Here is my prompt response. All feedback is welcomed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Chris<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:"Arial",sans-serif'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:"Arial",sans-serif'>Miscommunication<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:"Arial",sans-serif'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal>It was the late 80s and I was in grad school, synthesizing novel antitumore drugs in hopes of making the world a better place and obtaining my Ph.D. Typically, chemistry grad students work 12 hour days, but since I was approaching the end of my fourth year, mine were closer to 14 hour days, followed by a wind-down libation at my favorite pub, ‘The Other Place’, which was a mere 58 steps away from our apartment building.<span style='font-family:"Times New Roman",serif'><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>On this particular night, I was mentally writing my thesis, analyzing experiments, deciding what still needed to be done. I needed a break, some down time or else I knew I’d lay in bed thinking, thinking, thinking. I’d tried meditation without success, but <span style='color:#1F497D'>discovered fortuitously that </span>a few cold ones usually did the trick. I stepped out of the brisk Vermont night’s air into the warmth of the pub, laughter and conversation washing over me like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>I made my way around a few tables and up to the bar. I ordered a beer from Noel the bartender and said hey to Brad, a long-haired, long-bearded frequenter of this particular pub. He had husky-blue eyes that were both captivating and a little creepy. I’d seen him playing his beat-up acoustic guitar and singing on a street corner late on a Friday night and thought if he wore a toga and sandals people might mistake him for Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>I bobbed and weaved with my pint and settled in at a small table to sit, sip, and eavesdrop. The atmosphere was energetic and comradely, such a welcome change from the solitude of working late by yourself in a research lab.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>A guy in his early 20’s, carrying a pitcher of beer and an empty glass asked if I minded if he sat with me. The pub was fairly crowded and I’m generally a fairly amiable guy so I said sure. He filled is glass before he sat, then topped off my beer from his pitcher.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip and assessing my new drinking buddy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>His hair was bleached an unnatural blonde, and consisted of maybe a hundred little tufts twisted loosely into points, as if he’d made a hundred little pony tails, but got tired so he did a half-assed job. He was Caucasian, had four or five little hoops in one ear and a safety pin in the other. He wore a beat up leather jacket and a white tee shirt decorated with lots of small knife slits. In short, he made me think of a guy who was about 8 years late to the Ramone’s concert. Caught somewhere between true punk and the alt goth of the late 80s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>He said his name was Ken or Bill or something, he was in his second year at UVM, a psychology major. He came from New Jersey and his father had made a bundle of dough doing hair transplants. We laughed about this and finished his pitcher. I went to the bar to get another.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>We talked a bit about music, naturally. I remember he was into the C bands of the time—The Cure, The Clash, the Carnivores. I told him that a song or two of that head-banging music was okay with me, but I certainly didn’t want a steady diet of it. We agreed that U2, a relatively new rock band from Ireland, had a great sound and probably would be around for many years to come. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>When we finished that pitcher, Ken or Bill went up to the bar and got another.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>We talked about how cold Northern Vermont winters were, and I regaled him with a story about the time my brother came up and we went ice fishing on Lake Champlain. It was 27 below zero, we weren’t catching anything, and I bet him if I spit it would freeze before it hit the ground. I won and we left.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>He told me that he and some of his dorm buddies had taken a pair of jeans last winter, soaked them in a bathroom sink, wrung them out and brought them outside. Within 60 seconds they were frozen solid enough to stand up on their own, as if a ghost or invisible man was standing there in them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>He bought us a couple of shots of Jameson and I got us another pitcher. Our talk turned more philosophical as it tends to do at this time of night with this kind of blood alcohol level. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>We talked about God, and he said that he didn’t believe in the old man in a white beard pulling strings like a puppet-master kind of God. God is energy, he said. There’s a positive kind of energy, and a dark kind of energy, and humans are wired to tap into either one or the other. You can change your frequency, but it’s not easy to do, so most people don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>I told him my happiness theory, that happiness is a simple equation: Happiness equals reality minus expectations (and here I mean personal expectations, not societal expectations). If you don’t set your expectations too high, you’ll be happier more of the time. He argued, correctly, that you shouldn’t set your expectations low, that was jackassery. We agreed you needed to set them high sometimes, and not so high other times, and disappointment was a necessary state when living on the spectrum of human emotions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>I finished my beer and announced that it was time for me to go. Ken or Bill leaned over and quite unexpectedly put a hand on my thigh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>“Do you want to come home with me tonight?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>I have to be honest—I did not see that coming, and since I’ve never been too good at hiding my emotions through intentional manipulation of facial expressions, I assume I telegraphed my shock.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>“Nope.” I said. “It’s late and my girlfriend is at home waiting for me. Thanks for the beers, though.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>We probably said something like catch you later, but I can’t remember that. I just wanted to get out of there, breathe in some fresh air and sober up as best I could during my 58 step walk home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>As I walked, I tried turning things over in my mind. Had I done or said something to indicate that I might be interested in Ken/Bill? I didn’t think so. I just talked to him like anybody interesting I might chat with in a pub. Should I have picked up that he was gay? Not sure what to say about that one. Some folks claim they have some sort of gay-dar, but obviously I don’t. The truth is, I just don’t think about which team people might play on or not. That’s their business, not mine, so I don’t waste any time thinking about it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='color:#1F497D'>As I fumbled to fit my apartment key into the lock on the door, I just wrapped it up to a matter of miscommunication. However well intentioned, it happens, and in this instance no harm was done. Ken or Bill didn’t get lucky that night, and I’m sure he was a little disappointed. Perhaps he should set his expectations lower.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:"Arial",sans-serif'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:"Arial",sans-serif'> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>