SLATE AND STYLE 
The Magazine of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Summer, 2019

Editor Shelley J. Alongi 

Poetry Editor: Barbara Hammel 
 
Table of Contents 

Editor's Musings, Shelley J Alongi

Five Paying Poetry Outlets, writer Magazine April 2019

Writers' Division Monthly Telephone Gatherings, Shelley J. Alongi 

What Happens when you Make a Mistake in Print, Pete Croatto, Writer Magazine June, 2019

Educated by Others, David Russell 

Member Feature, Shelley J Alongi

Underground People, Shawn D. Jacobson 

Writers' Resource

Slate and Style Submission Guidelines 

Join the Division

Note: To quickly locate articles in this issue please do a search for ** and move your cursor down one line to read the title of the next article.  

Editor's Musings
Shelley J Alongi

As this issue is released, a great deal of the country has passed through a vastly serious tornado season. Even north Texas has not escaped at least the appearance of these marvelous and destructive wonders of nature. If there is life in a galaxy far away, one wonders if when observing through telescopes if that life form doesn't at least show some curiosity about how this life form survives such wonders of nature. The current issue of Slate and Style does not address such issues. It does however contain a science fiction offering and a continued discussion of philosophy spawned by perceived supercharged capabilities of the blind. Our main educational article offers one man's experience on making mistakes in print and their psychological impact, and yet another offers reflections on one writing journey, and as always, features individual accomplishments in writing. 

And finally, a bit of housekeeping is before us. It has been decided that beginning with the fall 2019 issue, Slate and Style will no longer be sent to Stylist. From this time forth, issues will only be emailed to currently paid members. As per past issues contributors are not required to be members of the NFB or the Writers' Division since writing is an open craft. We feel that the enjoyment of your quarter eddition is a benefit of NFB Writers' Division membership. This said, please know that we value your participation on Stylist no matter your status. Stylist has become a place for members and nonmembers alike to exchange ideas. As always, they are welcome. 

Slate and Style is the fruit of the labors of many writers and therefore is one of the benefits of Membership in the division itself. Contributors will continue to receive free copies of the issues to which they contribute. Each issue will continue to be placed on the division web site for guests to enjoy. We hope to encourage new memberships in that way also. 

Please consider joining or renewing your membership in the division in order to continue enjoying your quarterly magazine. 

Until we meet again online or other places, we hope your weather experiences this spring have only been pleasant and that your upcoming summer adventures will be even more pleasant. May the writing wind always be at your back. 
**
The Balloon Blower (part 2)
By Anthony R. Candela

[Part 1 of this conversation was published in the spring issue of Slate and Style. Now read on for its conclusion.]

In Part 1, the author described a conversation he recently had on a subway in New York. It focused on his objection to people thinking that his ability to function is due to the direct intervention of a deity. As his companion and he unwind the strands of this complicated psychology, they get to the point where these views truly divide.

"What do you mean?"
"Help me get this right if I am misunderstanding. I think you are saying that God is affecting my every moment, my every move, thought, breath, feeling, and so on."

"Yes," he applauded. "That is right. God is present in our lives. Why do you seem to fight that notion?"

"Hmm," I said. "I'm not sure whether I believe that God is in our every moment. But before I go there, let me say that my main reaction wasn't to that particular belief. It was to the fact that the more people give credit to God for what I am and what I do, the less connected they are to me as a regular person who is simply or not so simply dealing with a difficult situation. I think this is why people who are different in some way, especially people with disabilities and particularly blind people, so often feel alienated."

"Slow down," he pleaded. "What are you saying? I don't feel like I've done that."

"I know," I conceded. "It doesn't seem that way to me either. You are certainly sticking with me in this conversation!" I smiled. “But the more people don't try to understand what it is like to be me, at least the mechanics of how I do what I do, the more at arm's length from each other we remain."

"I still don't get it," he said. "How does saying that God is a part of the formula make you less human?"

"Less human in the eyes of others," I answered. “Especially those who think there is some magic or divine intervention that protects me.”

"So?" he queried. "What in the end is the problem?"

"It lets them off the hook. They don't have to deal with me or more important I guess, what I represent - their own vulnerabilities.” I thought for a second and said, “It makes me feel alone in the world.”

"Wow," he replied. “I don’t think we are aware of any of this. Besides, I see people helping each other all the time. New Yorkers are great that way.”

"Yes,” I admitted. “You are right. Perhaps people don’t fully trust that God is immediately available all the time. They certainly jump to my rescue at the least sign of danger!”

“God wants us to be involved with each other,” he replied. “But I see what you mean about the magical part. It’s like a vicious circle."

This man kept surprising me with his insight. 
"What do you mean by ‘vicious circle’?"

"I guess the more we keep from dealing with the facts,” he proceeded, “the longer we can keep trying to explain someone like you by letting God handle it. And that might keep us from ever dealing with the facts.”

"Yes!" I clapped. "You've got it!"
I pondered for a moment and said ruefully, "Perhaps I am asking too much of people. Maybe I should cut them some slack."

"Good for you," he replied. "Now you are thinking again. God is present in our lives and he keeps us moving forward."

"OK," I said. "Let's put that on hold for a minute. A while ago I mentioned there were two reasons why I object to being imbued with enhancements from God. The first reason is what we've been talking about: the "dehumanization factor" as I call it. The second reason is more theological."

He chuckled. 
"I wish my pastor were here. I cannot imagine what you are about to talk about!”
Undaunted, I proceeded. 
"Well, here it is: In my humble opinion, we should save God for the important things.” I smiled nervously, but kept on going.
”The effect he has on us on a moment by moment basis is not the most important thing."

"That's absurd," he said. "Pardon me, but what could be more important than God's presence in our lives? After all, it is what makes the world go 'round."

"Actually, you've almost hit the nail on the head," I jumped. "I don't think God is actually affecting people, nature, or how the laws of physics are playing out in the universe. I think God is the 'uncaused cause.'"

"The 'uncaused cause'?"

"Yes," I continued. "That’s a phrase from St. Thomas Aquinas. I think we should keep God in reserve for only one thing: to explain the origins and continuing existence of the universe. After that, everything else is random chance."

"I don't understand," he sighed.
Realizing this topic is outside of what people usually think about, I tried to soften my rhetoric. "Most people not only believe that God is the beginning and the end, but that he didn't stop there. They believe he shapes and guides the universe, nature, and each of our lives."

"Yes," my companion replied. "That’s what I’ve been saying. What about that do you think is incorrect?"

“I think God caused the first big bang and that is all. He's just been watching ever since. If he does anything else, it is perhaps to make sure the universe keeps on existing."

My companion blurted, “Of course he will make sure the universe continues to exist. What else would he do?"

"Well," I answered slowly as I thought about it. "God could just as easily let things go back to before there was a universe, if such a time ever existed."

"OMG! God has always been and always will be."

"Let's say I agree, which by the way, I do. However, it is possible that the universe did not always exist.  Or, it is possible the universe has always existed. But science throws monkey-wrenches into both theories."

"Does this have something to do with the 'Big Bang?'", he queried.

"Yes," I replied. "Each time the universe regenerates itself, God watches from outside to make sure it happens."

"Are you saying that God stands outside of the universe?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," he mused. "I suppose most of us think God is part of and exists within every particle of the universe. I guess we intuitively understand that at the same time God must stand outside of it too. After all, in the beginning there was darkness and God created everything."

"Yes," I pursued. "God could do that only if he were outside of the universe, able to exist before the beginning and when there was absolutely nothing."

"I can't wrap my mind around ‘nothingness’," he admitted. "It is an act of faith I guess, that something always existed."

"I have faith in some things too," I said. "It is a probability calculation I make about how likely is something to happen. Like, that person will come to my aid if I need it."

"Yes," he answered. "You really don't know, but you have faith."

"It certainly seems friendlier to our emotional existence to have faith than to dwell in the unknown," I admitted. "But, I also think it is less intellectually honest."

"Again, you are being quite hard on all of us. What then do you think is God's role?"

"God is the balloon blower."

My friend burst into laughter. 
"What?"

I allowed myself to wax in my own thought processes. 

“The universe began as a single point of highly compact matter and energy,” I thought to myself. “My faith is that God caused this original point to exist. Before that, there was nothing at all, no light, no heat, no matter, not even space. This highly compacted point was so pressurized from inside that it burst out. It exploded. This was the Big Bang."

“God saw to it that the Big Bang occurred,” I said aloud.
"Ah, the Big Bang," he clapped his hands. "There it is again."

"Until the big bang, space itself didn't even exist," I continued. "This is hard for most people to comprehend."

"Yes," he said. "Most of us think that space is this empty place that gets filled up with things. If there ever was a time when there was nothing, then space was empty."

“No. It is more complicated than that. There could have been a time when even space didn’t exist. Einstein said space has fabric. It can be affected by things like large masses that cause gravity. It is not nothing. Space is something.”

"So what does this have to do with God?" he sounded fatigued. The train was well downtown now and I figured I'd better finish what I was saying so he could tell me what he thought before he had to leave.

"As the particles and energy expanded in all directions, so did space, stretching and stretching just like a balloon does. All God did is set the inflation in motion. One major theory says that when the universe, including space itself expands until it can no longer expand, it will contract or crunch back on itself - all the way back to the original point - a kind of super black hole. Steven Hawking called it a ‘singularity’."

"OK. Then what will happen?"

"I think God just let's what will happen, happen. Presumably, the inner pressures will cause the black hole to explode out again and the universe will begin anew. If God has a role at all here, I believe - and this is my act of faith - he just makes sure the new explosion actually happens."

"Then what else does God do?"

"Nothing," I answered. "He lets the universe unfold in whatever way it is going to unfold. Conceivably," I conjectured, "the next universe could be different from the previous one. It's all chaos when it starts and random chance how it ends up."

"Thanks for explaining things, but I still think that God remains present in the everyday working of each universe and in our lives. He couldn't possibly just stand around out there, outside the universe, and do nothing from one eternity to the next. God isn’t just a ‘watchdog’ who does nothing but sees how the dice rolled with each Big Bang."

"Sure he could," I pushed. "God is the balloon blower. After that, he watches as it expands on its own and contracts and starts again. At most all he might do is jump-start things if they don't start on their own."

"That’s impossible,” he said. “The universe is too complicated and too beautifully formed for random chance to be the only explanation.”

“I believe that random chance could lead to the universe we see today,” I replied.

“Many religions believe that God created human life to share himself. Besides, if God held himself back and did nothing,” he continued, “it would be the same as if he undid himself. And God cannot undo himself.”

“Yes,” I can see the paradox that would exist if God didn’t use his power.”

“God is good," my companion pursued.  "He is an influence on everything”
"Hmm. Now it is my turn to stop and think," I said. "You have struck a chord."

"Tell me what you are thinking that you were not before," he prodded.

"I am thinking that God would have to be not much more than a machine to have only the role of balloon blower," I mused. "Even I think this would be an oversimplification of such a powerful thing."

“Well,” he quipped, “at least you are thinking about it!”

“Believe me. I would like to think that God is in our lives and in every part of the universe all the time. But, since I can’t figure out how God would actually influence things, I remain, well, agnostic.”

“Do you really need to know how?” he pursued.

“Yes." The scientific side of me welled up. “How would God deliver his influence?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “We assume God is all-powerful and it is his very essence that causes the influence.”

“Does God emit energy?  Does he act through omnipotent thoughts?” I mused.

“Yes and I don’t know,” he laughed. “One thing is for sure,” he continued, “Everything is done for good reasons, even when they seem quite terrible.”

“Well, now we are back where I started, a bunch of unknowns and paradoxes,” I complained. “Is God so wise that he always knows the right thing to do or does he set things in motion and allow everything from the fundamental laws of physics to our free will to take over? Did he simply toss the cosmological dice?”

"I don’t know, but I am glad you have joined the ranks of the confused,” he laughed. “Keep working on it. I would love to hear your thoughts on how all this works.”

"I hope to see you again when I've come up with something," I said.  "It won't be easy."

"We are getting close to my stop," he announced. “Please come to my church if you can. You will gain a lot there, I'm sure. It might help you with your thinking."

"I will," I said even though I wasn't at all sure I would.

"It was fantastic talking to you," he said. Grasping my hand, he continued, “One thing is for sure. I have a new sense of what we mean by ‘humanity’.”

"That makes me happy," I said. "It really was the only reason I brought all this stuff up."
He departed. A bystander sat in the vacated seat. 
"That was some conversation,” she said. “I only caught a part of it, but I hope you realize that you probably won’t have one like that in a subway ever again."
We laughed. The train kicked into gear and sped us to a future unknown.
***
Five Paid Poetry Outlets
[Editor's Note: I came across this in perusing the Writer magazine email newsletters and thought all you aspiring poets would find this useful. Good luck to anyone who submits.] 
 
Rattle is a shining star in the literary community: Not only do they pay solid rates (the best on our list, in fact), but they also don’t charge submission fees. Submit up to four poems at a time of any length. All entries are automatically in the running for the $1,000 Neil Postman Award for Metaphor.
Payment: $100/poem + 1-year subscription for print; $50/poem for online. 
Submission fee: $0
Notable quote from the submission guidelines: “While most magazines suggest reading their back issues to get a sense of what they like to publish, we’d suggest reading to get a sense of what we’re having trouble finding – if you notice a style or subject matter that we don’t seem to be publishing, send us that!”

Tahoma Literary Review
The Tahoma Literary Review stands out both for its commitment to paying contributors and editors as well as its feedback option, which is available for up to 100 poems per reading period. Send a maximum of six poems per reading period. 
Payment: $50/short poem; $125/longer poems (7+ pages)
Submission fee: $4
Notable quote from the submission guidelines: “Send us poems that show the deeper side of ordinary, the new or explosive word choice, ones that are monumental in rhythm or character, ones that are passionate in their message and conveyed with a mastery of the poetic image.

AGNI
AGNI is a twice-yearly print magazine associated with Boston University, published in April and October. Submissions are only accepted from September 1st to May 31st, so submit this spring or you’ll need to wait until fall to be considered.
Payment: $20 per page, up to a maximum of $150
Submission fee: $0
Notable quote from the submission guidelines: “We have no formula. We seek fresh vision and listen for dynamic voices that address our common reality.

Strange Horizons
Strange Horizons seeks “high-quality literary, SF/F, speculative, and slipstream poetry;” in fact, the journals’ editors say they don’t see enough unique sci-fi poetry. Submissions are open all year for a maximum of six poems. 
Payment: $40/poem
Submission fee: $0
Notable quote from the submission guidelines: “We want poems that understand “literary” doesn’t equal “boring,” poems that know how to write strange without being senseless, and poems that balance inventiveness with traditional structures. We like mischievous poems, pensive poems, and everything in between.

The Fiddlehead
Published four times a year, The Fiddlehead is housed at the University of New Brunswick and has been around since 1945. Submittable reading periods are January 1 to April 30 and September 15 to November 30; however, mailed submissions are welcome all year round.
Payment: $60 CAD per published page + two copies of the journal.
Submission fee: $0
Notable quote from the submission guidelines: “We particularly welcome submissions from Indigenous writers, writers of colour, writers with disabilities, LGBTQQIA+ writers, and writers from other intersectional and under-represented communities. If you are comfortable identifying yourself as one or more of the above, please feel free to mention this in your cover letter.” 
Read more on paying markets for poetry
**
How to cope with making mistakes
by Pete Croatto
[The Writer magazine is a rich resource for traditional and out-of-the-box articles. This is a bit of both. Everyone worries about making mistakes. Find more articles at http://www.writermag.com.]

Every writer’s worst nightmare is finding an error in print…but it happens, often, and to the very best of us. Here’s how to cope. 
All writers dread making mistakes in print. 
My first job out of college was at the Courier News, then a 40,000-circulation daily newspaper covering central New Jersey. In a work history rife with nametags and “How may I help you?,” it remains the worst job I’ve ever had. I’d write multiple stories a day as part of a skeleton crew covering sprawling Hunterdon County, toiling through nights and weekends, scarfing down greasy lunches in plastic containers, failing to convince myself that my work had any impact. 
I endured from June 2000 to July 2001, an era when newspapers began their prolonged, job-killing slide from indispensable daily reference to an indispensable daily relic. The publisher’s strategy to stay relevant in the internet age involved more projects for an already-overtaxed, ever-dwindling staff. Faced with mounting deadlines and responsibilities, I began the lengthy, inevitable process of burying myself alive. I willed the days to stand still; they rarely complied. With every blurt of the police scanner, each court case involving children exposed to unspeakable horrors, I bungled facts and misspelled names. My editors, who were too busy drowning, threw me a rubber duck and called it a life preserver: They had me write out my questions for each story beforehand and fax the list to them for approval. 

How was that supposed to enhance my accuracy? I still don’t know. 
I was 23 years old. Every day I woke up feeling like a failure. One beautiful summer night, long after the lead-footed students in the dance studio above my office had left for the day, the phone rang. The managing editor rushed through pleasantries, then harangued me for making another mistake.
When she said, “We’ve given you every opportunity to improve,“ the world melted away to molten rage. 
“You know what, Marilyn? You’re not happy, I’m not happy, so why don’t you fucking fire me!”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said

I quit the next day.
This ain’t the movies. After two years of reflection – read: too much daytime TV and two bookstore gigs – I found another writing job. It took another four years of answering phones, data entry, making bank runs, ordering office supplies on top of helping to write, edit, and report 28 magazine issues a year to summon the courage (and common sense) to freelance full time. It took seven years to get routinely published in publications that didn’t have friends and relatives seeking an origin story: “It’s a sports blog” or “it’s a local publication.” Yet those early newsroom days stuck like gum in my hair. I’d get published somewhere of note – the New York Times, Grantland – work like hell to make sure everything was right, and immediately hunt for errors even after the piece was published. For days, I’d wait for the email from an angry source claiming I’d gotten an important fact wrong or the phone call from an editor admonishing me for being sloppy. As soon as I filed something, I felt like I had gotten away with a crime.
I have always been a nervous person, so I cast my travails as another layer of my daily mania. I adopted the attitude of the sports heroes I read about as a boy and played through the pain. I’d outwork the anguish and anxiety, and eventually I would feel functional. 
Guess what? The “rub some dirt on it” approach to mental health is awful. Five years ago, my anxiety was so pronounced I had trouble enjoying anything in my life. Every activity – a day off, watching TV, even sex – took on the weight of a Greek tragedy. 
That’s when I started therapy. It took years, but I can slowly walk away from a story. I still have flare-ups, but I now have the self-confidence so that these bouts don’t corrode my soul. Am I going to start giving motivational speeches? No. But I am comfortable to celebrate success without fearing a Scarface-like comeuppance. My therapist also convinced me, for years, to take anti-depressants. When I acquiesced, I found that they sharpened my clarity and perspective.

Self-care also allowed me to develop an evolving game plan for coping with mistakes. By no means do I consider myself cured. But I am happy. Here’s how I got there. 
It’s not always your fault.
For years, I shouldered my failings at the Courier News, and it poisoned every success. Then my wife provided a flash of insight.
“Did you ever think,” she asked, “that you’re not to blame?”
At the time, I needed to improve as a reporter, but there was limited instruction on how to do that. And there was less investment in me as a person; I was just a doughy information machine that was malfunctioning. The frantic environment didn’t promote development, which writers need at every age.
After 15 years, I could finally say it: The Courier News was a terrible job, made worse with the internet’s sudden growth. A veteran reporter would have struggled with that workload in a frantic environment, let alone someone a few years removed from having their parents drive him to school. 
You’ll do better.
After I wrote a piece for Columbia Journalism Review, a few people (rightly) pointed out shortcomings. I was bummed, until a colleague wrote the following during an exchange: “You’ll do better next time.”
Writing is not a one-and-done process. You get a little better every time, and what you learn carries to the next assignment. It’s what makes writing an enjoyable and exasperating occupation.

Not all mistakes are created equal.
Facts are writing. Nobody wants to make mistakes, but they happen. So you have to find a way to cope without living in denial. Don Van Natta Jr. of ESPN the Magazine was once asked about the mistakes in one of his investigative stories. Those errors, he asserted, were “in the margin” – minor issues that didn’t ding the piece’s soundness as a whole. Jon Krakauer flubbed facts in an award-winning article and then wrote Into Thin Air to atone. 
The essence of the stories was true. They captured the feelings, events, and facts that engaged readers. Truth matters, but telling a true story matters most.
You don’t work in a vacuum. 
We don’t just write stories. We research. We interview. We copy edit and fact-check and proofread. But freelance writers are a one-man band. Sometimes, we’re going to miss notes. That’s just the way it is. Forgive yourself – no one else is going to do it for you. 
Ditch the defining piece of work mindset.
With so much writing available, readers bolt to their next distraction or bit of enlightenment. Follow suit. Move on to the next project and take another step toward the career you want, instead of wallowing in what might have been. 
The highs and lows of writing pass. Your day-to-day happiness is worth more than any byline.
[Pete Croatto (Twitter: @PeteCroatto) lives just outside Ithaca, New York, with his wife and daughter. He’s currently working on a basketball book for Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster.]
***
Educated By Others
by David Russell
[David Russell's story, "Little Man No Big Ham," appears in the Spring
2019 issue of New Authors Journal (Volume XV Number 2), available on
Amazon at the following link:
https://www.amazon.com/NAJ-Spring-2019-XV-Number-2-Mr-Mario-Farina/dp/1798126486/ref=sr_1_fkmrnull_1
Homecoming: A Memoir, David C. Russell (Amazon 2017)
About the Author
David C. Russell is prolific at the piano, old enough to be a
qualified kibitzer but still young enough to kvell over good bestowed
by the King of the Universe. Practically, David is a husband, the
father of two adult children, and grandfather to two granddaughters.
David resides with his wife, Sherry, in Lower Michigan, and he is
semi-retired.
Professionally, David is a short story writer, a pianist specializing
in adult contemporary music, and formerly a music therapist and
medical transcriptionist.
David's work has appeared in several anthologies including:
Waiting for Messiah, by David C. Russell and others (Smashwords,
September 2017)
His blog, called "Grafted in and on the Journey," is faith-based and
life-based. Go here to read it:
http://www.graftedinandonthejourney.blogspot.com
He is also involved with online writing groups and with
Scribophile.com, which provides writers the opportunity to give and
receive helpful critiques.
Contact Information
Email: david.sonofhashem@gmail.com]

Lately, I have been thinking of the others who are, and have been involved in my life as a writer. Up to recently, the answer given when asked, "When did you start to write?"
My answer was around 2010. I was impassioned about an issue under the guise of ‘faith matters’ - that resulted in my spending over a year to compose a novella. Thankfully, it is out-of-print today. The tone was somewhat terse in expressing my angst. I would like to think the quality known as mansuetude has beset me. That is said to be the quality of being gentle, meekness, tameness. (merriam Webster)
  Truth be told, writing for most of us began way back in our elementary school years. Perhaps it was pen, pencil, Perkins brailler, slate and stylus, or typewriter.
  Ms. Tenney was my first writing instructor. At age six, the full braille cell, all six dots huddled together like a macadam, felt like a freshly cooked bowl of oatmeal. Or, such was the case to my young perceptive mind.
  At age nine, Mrs. Evans introduced me to the typewriter. This was a lot of fun typing a s d f g h j k l ; - slow at first, and then with some speed. My parents owned a Royal Typewriter at the time. Occasionally, when proficient, my Christmas wants or supper ideas were typed and given to Mom. It was usually met with, "This is not a toy. Use it for school or not at all."
Mom used the typewriter for my father's electrical contracting business. She handled bookkeeping, which included mailing statements, invoices, or any business-related matters.
~
Every story has a new scene or two, and this one is no exception. At the Michigan School for the Blind, science teacher Mr. Burnette, had us write term papers during the middle school years. I would use the World Book Encyclopedia in the MSB library for my research and or reference. In college, we had to do a term paper on the middle east. My grade was a D+ with accompanying teacher’s note, 
 "Thanks for trying." 
 To be late adolescent, I handed in my first copy in braille and told the teacher, "This is my rough draft."
  "David, you handed in a very rough draft, and I can't read it." She did give me one day to retype the draft. The joke was over!
   Thankfully, my grade improved significantly when doing a five-page paper on current treatment for suicidal ideation. There were several more papers after that occasion until graduation in 1979.
~
From 1998 to 2013, I worked as a Medical Transcriptionist. I would transcribe verbatim dictation by other doctors or medical professionals.  Their reports were typed from dictation on a standard computer keyboard, and uploaded to a server operated by the transcription company.
Most medical reports follow a prescribed outline and eventually, it can seem like dry stuff. However, quality was emphasized and did embed taking a sense of pride in the document produced. Quality is perhaps the key component in transcription!
~  
For the past five years, I have worked part-time for an article content service called Textbroker International. Even though my writing ventures occur from home, my online teachers have been several.
  In brief: Sample articles I chose from The Christian Science Monitor, USA Today, Chicago Tribune,  or numerous websites and or blogs by businesses ranging from replacing the garage door to a business biography on a given person. These aid my ability to produce an article for Textbroker International client.
  I also enjoy writing fiction, short stories are my main niche. Teachers have included Grammar Girl, Quick and Dirty Grammar Tips; Moira Allen or Victoria Grossack, www.writing-world.com;
-	 Beth Hill, The Editor's blog; grammar tutorials offered by dictionary.com, Collins dictionary.com or Cambridge Dictionary.com. 
-	I have attended one physical writer's conference in my life, Rochester Writers at Oakland University, Rochester, Michigan.
  I live in a small town where buses in and out are sparse if at all. Writing groups such as Writers 750 at www.goodreads.com, www.scribophyle.com – critique group, and several face-book writing groups round out the virtual faculty.
  In most instances, we keep learning and never know it all. Our experiences continue to shape us into the writing we do and the people we are. One certainty, most everyone agrees on the advisement, Don't give up!"
***
Writers' Division Telephone Gatherings 
Shelley J Alongi

On the fourth Sunday of each month except for July the Writers' Division meets for a telephone conference call. Put together by Shelley these gatherings have featured member authors presenting their work, and sometimes nonmember authors. Anyone who offers a valuable resource to writers in general is encouraged to let your voice be heard by sending an email to Queenofbells@outlook.com to apprise us of your offering. This is free advertising for you and information gathering for us. If you have presented before and have updates to your services or book publications we want to hear about them. The last few months have featured the experiences and work of some vastly creative poets in the division. We will take a break in July because it is convention to break for convention. When I was first a chapter member in California thirty years ago, (did I say that?), our chapter did not meet in July because of convention. We take a break to allow others to recover, regroup and reenergize after the NFB national convention which by the way ends on my birthday this year. If you don't make convention chances are you are travelling. That happens a lot around these north Texas parts.  

The gatherings will resume in August and run through October of this year. For the first time in recorded Writers' Division history, we will break from the gatherings in November and December for the holidays. Many of us with families and obligations have just that: families and holiday obligations. Join us in August, September and October for our meetings and see what we offer you then. There is one presentation on the horizon and I'm sure there will be more to come. Stay tuned for more details either by email if you are a member or Stylist if you are not a member or make Stylist one of your internet hang-outs. If you are considering membership in the division or are simply curious, please join us. We will distribute the phone number and access code via Stylist or email if your name is on the current membership list. 

Keep Dreaming! See you on the phone! 
***
Member Feature
 Myrna Badgerow, our current president, and one who can be personally credited with getting me started in self publishing is one of our vastly creative poets. Her experiences range from participation in internet poetry readings to publishing more than one book of poetry. In this issue she is featured because she has been  chosen poetess of the month in a book publishe by Wild Fire publications. Congratulations to Myrna. 
***
Underground People
by Shawn Jacobson
[Shawn Jacobson is current treasurer of the NFB Writers' Division. He is a gifted poet and story writer and has had stories published on Bewildering Stories, an online publication, Magnets and Ladders, and Slate and Style.] 

At the Longworth cafeteria, you can always spot the aliens.  They’re the ones with plates piled high with pizza.  They appear as human as you or I as they move through the check-out line to their seats, but their stacks of pie betray a longing for a familiar taste from a life foregone.  It is typical for the aliens to sit together in their own groups as they eat their slices of pie.  Sometimes though, you will see them sitting with people they knew, people who have kept their humanity through these crazy times.
“So?” the woman asked?  “Have you thought about rejoining humanity?”
“No, not recently,” the alien replied, “I’ve been busy.  We’re trying to get the politicos to approve the new tunnel, the one under the bay.  I’ve been in meetings with hill people all week.  In fact, that’s what I’m doing all afternoon; selling the tunnel.  I don’t think I’ll be thinking about much else until the vote.”
“Mom was asking,” she responded, “she worries you know.”
“How’s mom doing?” the alien asked.  “I’ve talked to her when I can, haven’t seen her in forever though.”
“Mom’s not what she was,” the woman—the alien’s sister—said.  “But then you wouldn’t know. You’re too busy with those mole monsters to care about what happens here on the surface.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s sick,” he said.  “I did call when I could get to a phone.  I just never realized….”
“Of course, you wouldn’t realize!” his sister screamed.  “You wouldn’t care enough to realize.  You were always out doing these dare-devil stunts, like the lake trail, like the blind hockey game, stuff like that.  You about gave mom a heart attack, but you didn’t care.  You didn’t care then, and you don’t care now.  You may think that this thing with those mole monsters of yours is just another adventure, a journey to the center of the earth, but…...”
The alien tuned out the rest as he tore through a slice of pepperoni savoring the medley of tastes.  His sister’s angry words had all been said before, and, no doubt, they would all be said again.  His sister was still ranting as he bolted down the last slice and got to his feet.
“I must be going,” the alien said.  “I have an appointment in ten minutes; I must rejoin my team.”
“Go then!” his sister said.  “Go sell your tunnel to the fools on the hill.  Don’t bother to worry about us.”
…
Later, the alien struggled to focus on the meeting; conversations with his sister ruined his ability to function.  They left him frustrated with the vain attempt to communicate.  He could no longer make her listen to his story, understand his needs.  The gulf between them had grown too large for that.
“We can get you from here to the spaceport in less time and for less money than anyone else interested in the job,” the leader of the delegation said.  “We can even add a ramp from the capitol so that your congressman can get to the spaceport without fighting the traffic.  You’ll see that we are the best choice.”
“hmmm,” the staffer said ruffling pages in the proposal the alien had given him.  “This looks very impressive.”
The leader had explained that talking to staff people was better than seeing actual congressmen.  This was especially true here, on the seventh-floor of the Longworth building, where the truly important representatives had their offices.  Up here, the congressmen huffed and puffed while the staffers did the deals.
“The Kiba claim that their bridge can be built before the due date and under budget,” the staffer said, “and they claim it is proven technology.”
“Yes,” the leader said, “there’s a bridge over the bay already, and it’s crowded and hard to get to; what’s proven about their approach is that it doesn’t work, not for long.  Besides, our tunnel goes down with the rest of the infrastructure away from the sightlines.  It doesn’t blot out the natural beauty of the bay.”
The Kiba, looked somewhat like man-sized flightless birds.  They did not use sound to communicate, and so they recruited from the deaf community.  Rumor had it that there was a lot of talent there, but the alien knew little about that.  The two tribes seldom mixed.
“Blot out the natural,” the staffer muttered as he shuffled pages.
“And then there is the issue of access,” the alien piped up speaking mostly to keep his head in the conversation.  “You’re not going to build a bridge to the spaceport straight from here.  There’s too much stuff in the way. And there’s the subway,” the alien continued, “we can hook our tunnel straight into the Metro so that you don’t even have to leave the system.”
“Thank you,” the staffer said.  “I’ll pass this along to the congressman.”
The delegation left the office for the next meeting.  The leader, older than the rest, told stories of the days before contact, the days when blind people walked the halls of power till their feet were sore advocating for themselves.  His experience was an added benefit to the mole folk who had taken him, along with the blind folk who didn’t want keepers, into their society.
For those who traveled the stars, it was less trouble to adapt human misfits for star-farer lives than it was to have their own people brave a primitive world.  It was good economics for the star folk to welcome inconvenient humans into their societies.
The rest of humanity was pleased to unburden themselves of the load.  Without the need for costly accommodations, the truly needy could be adequately served while the rest could have another round of tax-cuts.  It was good economics for all involved.
At least the final meeting of the day was done, and the team trudged through the tunnel directly from the basement of the congressional complex to the underground homes of the moles.
…..
“You’re coming along well with your advocacy,” the leader said to the alien as he checked his hand.  He counted out fifteens and a double run of three.  “That makes sixteen he said moving his pegs.”
The alien was about to get skunked.  His pegs had merely plodded while the leader’s pegs, fueled by a succession of good hands, had moved nimbly up and down the cribbage board.  ‘Ah well, the alien thought, ‘at least this wasn’t the only thing in his life.’
“You do need to watch the interruptions,” the leader continued.  “You need to be cognizant of human decorum, even if we aren’t, technically, human anymore.”
“OK, got it,” he said.  The alien cared little about humans or their decorum, but he knew to be silent.  He’d learned to respect the leader’s experience.
“Otherwise,” the leader continued, “you did a good job.  You’ll be leading your own team in no time at all.”
“Thanks,” said the alien as he shuffled the worn braille cards.  Moving away from the light had forced him to refresh his knowledge of the code.  This was a work in progress not helped by the worn-down dots on the old playing cards. He wished they would get a new deck, with new dots, but the mole folk wouldn’t understand the need.  They seemed not to go in for cards, or for any games that the alien would recognize.  Besides, he doubted that braille cards were made anymore.
The rest of the folk who’d trekked up to the hill with them didn’t care much about cards either.  They were in the lounge drinking the worm juice that made the mole food palatable.  It wasn’t that the worm juice tasted any better than the food, it just kicked hard enough that, after a couple of shots, you didn’t care.  Rumor had it that the Killosh served their humans nourishment in beers; the alien envied the Killosh humans their meals.
“Do you miss the old life?” the alien asked, “the outside world, being human?”
“Some,” the leader said.  “I miss my family, my friends, movies, hot-dog stands, that sort of thing.  Yeah,” he continued, “I miss some of it.”
“Some?” the alien asked.
There’s a lot I don’t miss,” the leader said as the alien dealt out the next hand.  “I don’t miss touch screens I can’t use.  I don’t miss the feeling that I’m imposing when I ask for help.  I don’t miss waiting for busses that don’t show up.  If I missed that, I wouldn’t be here.”
After a while, the leader asked, “is this about your sister?”
“Yeah,” the alien replied.  “I ate lunch with her today.”
“I thought I heard you arguing,” the leader replied.
“Not me,” the alien said.  “It does no good.  I can’t tell her that the money I send helps take care of our parents.  She wouldn’t believe me.  She just doesn’t understand, but then, this isn’t her life.  She never had to make my choice.  If she bothered to understand,” the alien said while thumbing through his cards, “she might see it my way, but she won’t.”
In time the leader won the game.  He pulled himself to his feet.
“I guess I’ll turn in for the night,” he said.  “I’m just getting old and tired.”
The alien decided that turning in was a good idea.  Today had been long and stressful, and tomorrow would be full of confrontation.
…..
The alien awoke from sleep to find someone sliding into his bed.  Arms reached out and a furry body snuggled close.
“Fidra?” he asked.
“Yes,” a soft voice replied, “it’s me.”
“Her body rubbed against his as his arms reached out.  He scratched her back the way experience told him she liked it.
Fidra had come to Earth with her husband, or, more precisely, a male from her affection group.  He hadn’t stayed; he’d realized that he missed his home planet, and its familiar tunnels, more than he wanted the adventure of a new world; Fidra stayed.  
The alien remembered the first time he’d seen Fidra.  He was taking the tour through the Molly Kathleen gold mine outside Cripple Creek.  She’d given a lecture at the Colorado school of Mines, an interstellar friendship event common in the first days after contact and was following it up by touring the local sites.
Fidra had noticed him, with his cane, keeping close to his mother, and had started a conversation with the family.  She had bidden him come with her for a while.  His mother shocked him by listening to his entreaties; she let him go.
They’d explored the unused tunnels around the mine and he’d felt a sense of adventure, a sense of exploration, that he’d never felt before.  By the time he’d returned to his family, the boy had experienced a world where he could be more than the good, inspiring, blind boy, a world in which he could do exciting things.  She brought out the dare-devil in him, the person his sister didn’t understand.
That day, the boy started a new journey toward an underground existence.  Every time he confronted incomprehensible equipment meant to be run by sight, he moved a little closer to the tunnels in which he now lived.
Finally came the day when he’d tried to get his ticket for a flight back home from a job interview.  He’d struggled with the visual kiosk and had been frustrated because the tide of humanity around him was too busy to help.
“Why don’t you get a keeper you freak?” the airline employee muttered as he grudgingly gave assistance.  By the time he’d boarded the plane, he no longer thought of himself as human.
“I love the people I bring into our society,” she’d said while cuddling with him on the night he’d joined the mole folk.  “You’re so tall and slender,” she continued as her hands explored his body, “and with such smooth skin.”

Over time, Fidra told him many things.  Some things she told him, like the complexities of affection groups, he’d never understood.  Indeed, there was little about his adopted people that he understood well.  He understood that he was the right kind of special; that was enough.  But this was not a night for talking.  It was a night for rubbing their bodies against each other, for stroking and petting, and for other experiments with the sense of touch.  If their bodies were not built to share the ultimate in intimacy, well, this was still pleasant, and the alien drifted off into contented slumber.
The alien awoke in the dead time between the night’s coupling and the wake-up call that preceded breakfast.  He opened his eyes noting the gentle glow of his night light, the one his Mother bought him to stave off cave darkness.
The alien didn’t want to lose the little sight he had.  It might not be good for much, but it provided the beauty of daylight when he surfaced, beauty the alien still desired.  It also told him that Fidra was gone.
He had no claim of jealousy.  He knew that her kind didn’t keep steady partners.  Their love lives were a seeming jumble of liaisons of varied and ever shifting importance.  He was glad for her company when she gave it; he had to be satisfied with that.  The incomplete coupling and the bland food were two of the prices he paid for dignity and whatever adventure galactic civilization might provide.  The price was worth it.
He couldn’t live like his friend Beth whose life was consumed by knitting and the most recent book deemed suitable for her by her keeper.  He could not live like Tom, with whom he’d played checkers matches that were the stuff of braille school legend.  Tom lived to compete in checkers tournaments.  Even if Tom had one of the truly exceptional keepers who made her charges feel like she cared about them as human beings and not just assignments.  Even so, he couldn’t live like Tom.  And for sure he was glad that he had not ended up like Julie who couldn’t be human or alien and was no longer with the living.  Yes, the alien thought, as imperfect as his life was, he had made the right decision for him.
“Wake up,” a voice called into his room.  It was one of the moles, not Fidra.
“Why?” the alien asked.  “It’s not wake-up time.  Is it?”
“You’re the new team lead,” the voice responded.  “You’re needed in the conference room for today’s strategy session.”
…..
Later, the alien assembled his six team members for the day’s meetings.  He’d heard at the briefing that the vote would be close, every representative counted.  They were going to talk to the undecided legislators, as many as would listen, to push the tunnel through.
As they left for the hill, a runner came speeding toward them.
“Cave in!”  She yelled.  “You’ll have to surface.”
The alien wondered how the tunnel had caved in as his team ascended into chaos, a welter of sight and sound.
“Humanoids,” a team member said with disgust.  And with that word, the alien understood what was happening.  He had never carried a picket sign, but older people in the tunnels had been in protest.  This was a protest by people who wanted the aliens gone, a group collectively known as “humanoids.”  As the alien realized the confrontational nature of the group, a scruffy man jumped in his face.
“Why don’t you go back to your people you alien-loving freak?” the man screamed exhaling a nose full of foul-smelling breath.
It was that word, “freak,” that horrible word that taught the alien that he was too inconvenient to be human, that summoned the rage that made him speak.
“When were you my people?” the alien asked.  “Were you my people when I needed help?”  But the man had been too busy to be his people.
“He is not the enemy,” a voice broke through the mob.  “He is just a tool of his masters, like the politicians and the corporate stooges who serve the alien imperialists.  It is the alien monsters who are the real enemy.  It is them, the real enemy, who we must fight.”
The alien thought he recognized the voice.  He appreciated the attempt at salvation from the mob.  He was too proud to like being called a mere tool of evil.  Just the same, he appreciated the effort.
“Traitor scum!” the man yelled as the alien felt a fist slam him.  He staggered flailing at his attacker without success.
It was then that the chaos reached a new level.  Bottles and rocks flew over him as the mob became a howling beast, a monster with a thousand fists.  A team member went down to the right.  As the alien rose to assist, a rock caught him in the head and things got hazy.  As consciousness reseeded, the alien recognized the voice of the speaker who had tried to save him.  It was his sister.
……
He’ll be alright, a voice said cutting through the fog in the alien’s head.  “He needs to rest.”
The alien awoke to the realization that he’d been brought below.  He sensed his people, mole folk those born on earth, standing around him.  He was on a bed, or the mole equivalent.  The alien felt around for his light; it was nowhere to be found.
“Oh, that,” the voice, the alien presumed he was a doctor, said.  “I’m afraid your light got broken in the fight.  You got booted around pretty good up there; be glad that was the only thing those humanoid lunatics broke.”
“Nothing else was broken?” the alien asked.
“No,” the doctor—maybe the one who’d given him the senses the mole folk used to experience the underground—said, “you can consider yourself lucky.  You put up a good fight, but there were too many of them.  You really shouldn’t have shot off your mouth.”
“Yes,” the alien said as he pondered cave blindness; he would no longer see the glories of daylight.  He was unhappy about the loss, another thread that connected him to the family of his birth severed by violence.
The alien admitted that they were right about people being used.  Fidra had said as much in their conversations.  She’d admitted that their business model required locals from the planets to which they traveled.  It was built on the desire for convenience by young races, a desire that had been exploited on a thousand worlds.  The alien suspected that, even the humanoid thugs, were tools of whoever supplied their explosives.
For the alien, the question of exploitation no longer mattered.  Man had washed its hands of folk like him.  It was the hand-washing, not the motivation, that mattered, and the alien was too tired of a world too freaking ready to define humanity by convenience and normality to care if this judgement was unfair or harsh.
The alien contemplated eminent blindness with detachment.  He realized that he lived in a world where sight was no longer necessary.  His people didn’t need sight; they were the folk of the underground.
*** 
Writers' Resource 
[Have you read any good books on writing? Where do you get your idea of style? Which author, web site, dictionary, encyclopedia, or as of yet unnamed source has helped you develop your writing voice? Share it with us in the Writers' Resource column. Send ideas to Queenofbells@outlook.com.] 

Anyone who spends any time on the Internet will find a wide asortment of websites devoted to publishing and writing advice. One such site is inkitt.com. One difference between this site and others I've seen is that they offer a chance to publish your work online and have other readers rate it. Genres include romance, sci fi, fantasy, horrir and beyond. They describe themselves this way: Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom. They also will advertise your writing contest and give you an opportunity to enter one yourself.
    Give them a looksee at inkitt.com.

DIGITAL BOOK WORLD CONFERENCE 

Worth noting for published authors and the simply curious. 

the gathering of the wide world of publishing, takes place September 10-12 in Nashville, Tennessee at the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel. As many as 1,000 decision-makers from all walks of publishing will be there.

Publishers of every type and size, from solo authors all the way on up to the largest publishers, will be in attendance.

Including Penguin Random House, Audible, The National Book Foundation, Simon & Schuster, Kickstarter, Amazon Alexa, The U.S. Copyright Office, Microsoft, and many other companies innovating within publishing will be part of the powerhouse program.

Learn more and get registered at DigitalBookWorld.com.

And if you're looking for a discount as a solo author or independent publisher, become a member of IBPA or ALLi to gain access to exclusive deep discounts.

https://www.digitalbookworld.com/
***
Submission GUIDELINES for SLATE AND STYLE

Here are the guidelines for Slate and Style
They include submission deadlines, contact information, requirements for your bio and cover letter, general information and word counts for genres. Enjoy. 

Submission Dates 
Spring Issue: March 21st---Submissions close February 28th
Summer issue: June 21st---Submissions close May 31st
Fall issue: September 23rd----Submissions close September 2nd
Winter issue: December 21st---Submissions close November30th

Please read through all the guidelines carefully. Submissions that do not follow these guidelines may not be considered for Slate & Style. 

Submission guidelines are as follows:
Length requirements are: articles, 1500 words or less, fiction and memoir/personal essay, 4000 words or less, book reviews, 1000 words or less, poetry, 36 lines or less.

Again, send ALL submissions as email attachments no matter the genre. Include a cover letter along with your submissions with author's name, title of piece(s) and contact info-phone, email and address included. Also include a bio with your submission(s). Your bio should be no more than 150 words. Do not send an entire history, just include key items you feel are important for readers to know. Send as an attachment as well. More than one submission is allowed per email but do list all submissions in the required cover letter. 

Send submissions to s-and-s@nfbnet.org 

In the subject line of your email, write: Slate & Style submission, your name, and number of submissions. Example: “Slate & Style submission, Myrna Badgerow, 3 submissions”.

Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all submissions. No other formats are accepted, and therefore will not be considered. 

Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before submitting. 

Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication. However, please be careful with graphic sexual and violent content as well as language and -religious, anti-gender, anti-racial and anti-homosexual orientation content. Characterization and plot often require this type of material, but it must serve a purpose. Gratuitous material with no purpose or meant only for derogatory reasons, will not be considered. Material will be published according to the discretion of the editing staff.

Please direct questions and comments to the email address listed above for submissions, in your subject line, please include your name and simply write: “QUESTION”. Then write your question in the body of the email.

***
Join the Division

Join a group of creative, active writers involved in all aspects of writing: educational reviews, poetry, short stories and novels. We have writers in all phases of the craft. We have some who enter contests, some who self-publish, and some who have worked with mainstream publishers. We are always looking for writers with new ideas. 

It’s only $10 to join. Pay online by going to http://writers.nfb.org/index.html and clicking on the button that says pay pal. If you're new to a screen reader, you can search for the word pay on the site till you find pay pal and then click on that button. The pay pal information encourages donations, but this link can also be used to pay dues.

The End.