With Help We Will All Be Heard

“K, did you draw on the wall?,” my mother called out from my bedroom as I ate my Cap’n Crunch while catching up with The adventures of the Road Runner.

Or so the story goes. Like many childhood memories, this one was learned as my mother recounted the story over and over again much to my embarrassment. I have no memory of this particular incident. I was told by my mother, she asked several times even bringing me into the bedroom and pointing to the wall. She would go on to say I remained defiant, insistent that I had not drawn on the wall.

Even as she got on her hands and knees with a rag and cleaner, fussing at me, saying I knew better than to draw on the walls, I maintained the state of denial. At some point in her frustration, she told me to stop lying to her. She would go on to say I got really quiet and when she turned to look at me I was hanging my head and tears were falling to the floor. She asked me why I was crying and, according to my mother, I looked up at her and said:“I’m not lyin’. Idid not draw. I write. Pencil, no crayon.“

I do not doubt the accuracy of the story as it was one of the few that never seemed embellished and remained the same with every retelling. Had anyone been paying attention, it was probably a red flag. The four year old was discovering the nuances of the lexicon. My trouble with writing did not stop there.

In the first few years of primary school, I had a paper shortage. My mother would claim I would tell her I ran out of paper every single week. It was not quite that bad. However, The 500 page pack of notebook paper and handful of spiral notebooks given to me at the beginning of the year was most certainly used up before the Christmas break. I assured my mother I was not giving it away. Yes, I had made a few paper airplanes and paper footballs, but I was not giving it away and all my spiral notebooks were full of writing.

Then one day my mom found a box Tucktaway in my toybox. The box was full of paper, every piece written on and many with the telltale sign of hanging strips of paper for they had been torn from spiral notebooks. I did not get in trouble for this, but The rules of paper use work clearly spelled out. Notebook paper was for homework and schoolwork that I had to hand them to the teacher. Spiral notebooks were for doing homework I did not have to hand in and taking notes in class. Then I had a recycling lesson as my mom pointed out I could write on the back side of paper that had already served it’s purpose; The unintended lesson I learned was to throw away everything I wrote that was not school related for then there would be no trace if I was using too much paper. The power of the lexicon was still being learned.

By sixth grade my paper use was pretty well monitored and I had been directed to spend my own money on any extra paper I wanted. Having discovered the lucrative business of selling daffodils and doing errands for my granddad,unnecessary ones, but ones that always netted me a nickel and occasionally a quarter, I was able to keep myself well supplied with paper, pencils, and the smooth riding ink pens I quickly learned not to leave in my pockets since going through the washing machine did not take away all the ink. Now I could write down all of the things I experienced and all of the things I thought about. It never occurred to me to share them with anyone. I just had something to say I needed to put it down on paper even though I had long ago stopped saving them. It was the quiet Childs outlet, silent and hidden.

By the time I had reached seventh grade my mother finally accepted writing things down, even though she had no idea what I was writing, was not a passing fancy. For the first, and last, time, she decided to encourage me and what was clearly a passion or an obsession. For Christmas that year she gave me a red book. It was filled with blank pages and she told me I should write the things in it I really wanted to keep. So I did.

At the time we were just learning about poetry in English class. I never thought I was very good at poetry. I was a teller of The every day events which I always found to be entertaining. But there were a few poems my 12 year old self was particularly proud of, so they were the first things that went into the book, my book.

I still have that red book. It has been through two floods and many moves, a majority of its pages missing, and now kept in a lockbox as a reminder of the power wielded by words.

I will pause my story for a moment to offer a tidbit of information necessary for understanding what happens next with my red book. I have never been able to see well. Never been able to see you like everyone else and wore Glass is literally thicker than a Coke bottle bottom throughout my childhood. But no one knew quite how much I could not see fry was good at hiding it. Truth be told, I went through my entire formal education never being able to see the board, afact only two different teachers ever figured out. Fortunately or unfortunately, they only confronted me and never reveal to anyone else just how much I could not see. By the time I was 17 years old my corrected vision was beyond legally blind. However, we live in a visual world and I had learned by then to hide my disability if I wanted any chance of being treated like everyone else, A deceptive act I kept up for years. Now, you may have a better understanding as my story continues.

One Saturday afternoon several months after receiving my red book, my mother called me into the den. As I stood in the doorway I realize she had my red book in her hands. Before I could say sorry for leaving that out or what are you doing with that, my mother said: “you don’t believe this, do you?“

Like most children, I have learned to pay attention to the tone of a question before I answered, but this was an unfamiliar tone. It was upset, angry and a little fearful. I was clueless to what she was talking about. I did not know what to say. She shook the book at me with both hands and repeat it.“You don’t believe this, do you?“

I started to ask what she was talking about, but she continued before I could get the words out. “You’re not going blind. You’re not going to be blind. Why would you think you’re going to be blind. You’re not going to be blind.“

As I took in her words I realized she was talking about the very first poem I had put into my book. Yet, I still did not understand her reaction. There seem to be so much anger, so much fear, and now she was in tears.

I tried shrugging it off. “It’s just a poem, mom.”

That did not seem to be the right response as she continued saying over and over that I was not going to be blind and why would I think that and what would make me write such a thing. Then I started to tear up out of fear that I had done something really wrong for I have never had my mother react to something this way. I finally walked over to her and held my hand out and she handed me my red book.

“Really, mom, it’s just a poem. It’s no big deal.“

“ well, as long as you don’t believe it. No idea what would put such a thought in your head,“ she said as I turn to go back to my room.

My mother died before we could ever have a discussion on what occurred that day, the day I decided I should never be a writer, because words had a power I did not understand. The fact that words I wrote describing the world around me and what I thought was a clever way had upset the person I loved more than anyone else and I did not understand why or how. Sometimes it is the smallest things in life the change our course.

Here is what I had written. Keep in mind I was 12 and very much not a poet:

“The sun is shining for I can feel its warmth.

The birds are out for I can hear them singing.

The flowers are blooming for I can smell their sweet perfume.

The sea is near four I can taste salt in the air.

Some say I am not aware of these things for I am blind and cannot see.”

As you can tell, it was simply the musing of a 12 year old playing with poetry. I did not believe I was predicting my own future. Looking back, my mother probably had much more of an understanding of how much I could not see. She probably never discussed it with me, because she did have the fear that one day I will be blind. It’s probably a good thing she did not know I cheated at the eye doctors office as I have learned to memorize the eye chart and knew how far down I should be able to read to be “normal.“

It was this incident that kept me from pursuing any type of writing career. I satisfied my passion by being the editor of my high school yearbook, choosing college classes that require writing lots of papers even when the classes had nothing to do with my degree, and I did some ghost riding for local newspapers and magazines.

As time went on I would write reference letters, Cover letters, biographies, and anything else someone suggested they needed. But without being a trained writer, journalist or the likes, parlaying my passion into a profession always seems like a pipe dream I have already flushed.

Life finally got to the point where I could no longer pretend to be a visual person. I knew this would limit my career opportunities. I believe blind people can do almost anything they said they’re mine too and there is the Americans With Disabilities Act that supposedly helps with employment. The reality is much different. When I could get away without using The telltale white cane, people judged me on my skills, knowledge, and abilities like everyone else. But the moment the cane goes in my hands and I am easily identifiable is blind, people automatically assume that also means I’m not very bright, I need to be taken care of, or I am not capable of anything else other than some menial task. I do realize this is not really a conscious thought, but it is usually the reactions when people run across a blind person. It is a big part of the reason why you won’t run into many blind people. We get tired of dealing with it and find it much easier to stay out of society. But that’s not my style. The best way for me to move forward in life it’s to follow my passion as independently as possible with a good dose of reality. This means I know I need the support of others to be successful.

I presently do everything on my phone and the speech to text software on it is limited. Even the new platform a friend introduced me to called Vocal it’s hard to deal with and not extremely accessible. Not that I expect all the world to be accessible or work well with the tools I have available. However, it is hard to look like a professional writer when you have no idea what the page you’re writing on looks like or if your punctuation has come out correctly or even if you’ve caught all the speech to text mistakes (just like we often see what we think is there, we hear what we said even when that’s not quite what the software produced. So, at least for a short amount of time, as I embark upon a new endeavor I will need a copy editor.

Then the problem is what exactly can I write that has reasonable marketing potential?

I have self published a couple of books. They need a better edit but the mistakes do not interfere with the read, as I have been told by my readers. But the books have not been successful, because I am not comfortable with IT and I am no marketer. I need to produce something people want and need that is not just simply entertainment.

Along with acknowledging I am no poet, I also do not sell myself very well. However, I do know promoting others or an idea is some of the best writing I do. And now I’ve discovered there’s a need for that!

Several months into the pandemic someone encouraged me to join a social media group. The group consists of mainly professional women in the metro area. Politics has been the general focus, but discussions on career, education, and social issues are common as well. Much to my surprise, when I made a post in the group about writing to an elected official I also suggested what could be said. I am mediately got several responses that said thanks for letting us know what to say. At first I thought they were being sarcastic and then I realized they truly meant it. Further interactions in this group have led to people asking me to ghost write letters for them, spruce up biographies, and write copy for introductions of speakers and topics.

Moreover, helping people to write advocacy letters for themselves as they deal with bad customer service or government agencies that do not wish to make life easy when there’s a problem has become a sideline. Now it’s time to turn all of that into a profession.

I purchased a domain name about four years ago and have continue to pay for it as I have methodically researched the possibilities of turning riding into a career. It is time to be a public advocate, to be the resource for those who do not know what to say when dealing with someone or some entity with perceived power. And my plan is to target to primary markets. First, the blind for which there are many organizations out there who will do things for them, who will write the letters and make the calls and “take care of them.“

The majority of blind people do not need to be “taken care of“; they simply need A little guidance and assistance and how to stand up for themselves. Listening to their issues and then providing a letter that puts into words their concerns in a concise and effective manner will help them achieve independence. Someone may ask how can it be independence if you’re writing the letter for them?

I will spend time with each client showing them how what I have written for them is what they said just in different words. The goal is to assist them to the point that they feel comfortable doing it themselves. That may take helping them with one letter or that may take helping them with two dozen correspondence, everyone has different learning curves and abilities.

My second target market is busy professionals. I have already made connections with college professors, lawyers, and other professionals who either did not have the time or the inclination to write The stand out letter to a politician, the reference letter for the student or former employee, or even their own biographies.In a 10 minute question and answer session, I can obtain enough information to write exactly what they’re looking for but do not have the time to do them selves.

Moreover, for both target markets as well as anyone else I can reach, I want to help people tell their stories. I am a big believer in gaining knowledge from others and what they have been through in life. I have never run across a person who I could not come on way with a most interesting story and one that has a life lesson woven with in it.

I will also maintain a blog. Oh my self-confidence is limited, but I do know I often have a unique perspective as it comes from the blindside. I have learned to look at things from all possible sides because I am not limited by the constraints of eyesight. I was also fortunate enough to have a mentor at the very young age who was a lawyer. Not only did he teach me to love the law and understand it, but he taught me to win a debate, an argument, a case by being able to argue all sides. The emphasis on knowing all sides of an issue or all possible points of view is a priceless skill that has served me well. Time to put that to use, too.

I am planning a newsletter, social media outlets, the blog, and eventually a podcast. Depending on the level of support I can drum up,, I know everything I want to do will take time and that’s the one thing I have a great deal of.

In conclusion, everyone who can should support my passion for I have something to say, I want to help others say what they have to say, and I want to be an independent productive member of society. I need help to achieve my goals and while achieving my goals, I hope to help others achieve their‘s.