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Jane - people like you because you seem like someone who could live I like Jane Pauley, always have. Jane - people like you because you seem like someone who could live next door.

Skywriting: Sky Billboards 1935 General Motors; How Pilots Create Aerial Advertising

You're one of us and we can connect to that. It's a quick read and entirely enjoyable. Feb 09, Jeff Crosby rated it really liked it. The literary quality is impressive, and the vulnerability especially about mental health was somewhat disarming. If you've read her latest book "Your Life Calling" and enjoyed that, you might want to pick this earlier title up. The rare memoir of a celebr "Skywriting" by the well-known NBC broadcast journalist Jane Pauley is an interesting read - especially for someone like me, who grew up in central Indiana and remembers her at the beginning of her career at WISH-TV Channel 8 in Indianapolis.

The rare memoir of a celebrity that finds one liking and relating to the person more after the reading than before. Dec 17, Peggy rated it liked it. Jane Pauley's autobiography is an OK book. I am glad I read it, because it talks about her battle with depression and bipolar disorder brought on by being given steroids for an allergic reaction. Since I have experienced the same problem with steroids, it was nice to know that someone like Jane had this probem too. You will learn a lot about Jane's childhood, teenage years, her stint on the "Today" show and a lot about her family. It isn't the best written or most interesting book I have read bu Jane Pauley's autobiography is an OK book.

It isn't the best written or most interesting book I have read but it was useful to me. Mar 15, Wendy Eastman link rated it it was ok. I understand she wrote this book to revel her journey about receiving her diagnosis of bipolar but I found it to be disjointed. I never understood her relationships with her families and what that had to do with being bipolar. When she described her hospital stay inn New York, all I could think about was "Oh, the life of the privileged.

Oct 24, Phyllis Jennings added it. Her last sentence sums it up: It is fascinating to read about her almost accidental stumbling into the tremendous television network career she followed, along with raising a family. She's a genuine person through and through. Jul 12, Roxanne rated it really liked it. This book is about the broadcast journalist Jane Pauley. She also hosted her own show.

This is not just a book about her career but about the strong values and strenghts that kept her moving forward. She has suffered from bipolar disease and reminds us to keep things in proportion , and be aware of our health.


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Self knowledge can lighten our load in life. May 26, Sharon Faith rated it did not like it Recommends it for: I thought this would be interesting since I love news and had written for a newspaper. Journalism is a wonderful career, and journalists are very interesting people.

So I thought until I read this book. Jane Pauley was NOT as interesting as I had imagined, and the book was clearly boring, listless, and empty. I wish she had written more about her work and career and less about her 'illness'. Sep 02, subterraneanhomesickalien rated it did not like it.


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An awful book by a terrible writer with nothing to say. Why did I read it? I guess because it was there. In my defense I was mentally ill at the time. The only thing about it I enjoyed was watching a once fairly respectable reporter completely embarrass herself with her self-absorbed drivel, her description of her psychotic break was amusing too, but only because it was so freaking pathetic. I wanted to read this as I heard Jane had bipolar disorder and I was impressed that she was able to achieve all that she had achieved despite her condition.

He bipolar disorder was brought on by hives or the treatment of hives when she was well into adulthood. There was alot of info about her childhood. I found this book at the D. I enjoyed it but found it a bit disjointed. How did she and I get this old? Anyway, it's a quick read, a nostalgic trip through her childhood and provides insight into her insecurities and personal struggles with medical induced bi-polar.

I've always admired Jane Pauley. From her story I learned that the treatment she received from a serious case of hives medically induced depression and bipolar disorder. Favorite quote from the book: Awareness is healthy; alarm is not. Not being an American, I found all the references to American TV programmes uninteresting and lacking in substance. I read the book with a view to finding out about the author's experiences of bipolar disorder and was disappointed at how little there was about this after the opening section.

I read this book expecting a good story about someone who found she was not who she thought she was. The bipolar incident in her life was downplayed and the book was basically fluff, not what I thought it would be. Really enjoyed reading Jane Pauley's memoirs. Her book was as personable as her on-air personality seems to be.

Genuine, empathetic, and open about her strengths and weaknesses. It was a Saturday morning eight or ten years ago when I began following this impulse to find the answers to unformed questions. Skywriting is what I call my personal process of discovery. Encompassing her beginnings at the local Indianapolis station and her bright debut-at age twenty-five on NBC's "Today" and later on "Dateline"-Pauley forthrightly delves into the ups and downs of a fantastic career. But there is much more to Jane Pauley than just the famous face on TVs. In this memoir, she reveals herself to be a brilliant woman with singular insights.

She explores her roots growing up in Indiana and discusses the resiliency of the American family, and addresses with humor and depth a subject very close to her heart: It was a Saturday morning eight or ten years ago when I began following this impulse to find the answers to unformed questions. Skywriting is what I call my personal process of discovery. But there is much more to Jane Pauley than just the famous face on TVs. In this memoir, she reveals herself to be a brilliant woman with singular insights.

She explores her roots growing up in Indiana and discusses the resiliency of the American family, and addresses with humor and depth a subject very close to her heart: Striking, moving, candid, and unique, Skywriting explores firsthand the difficulty and the rewards of self-reinvention. From the Hardcover edition. The layout was defined by three rectangles.

One was an entry large enough to be a vestibule, which lent the space an aura of privacy.

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Itopened into the principal area, but there was a little niche off to the side—so instead of a room with four walls, there were eight, and instead of four corners, there were six, plus the private bath. It gave the room a cozy complexity. But the showstoppers were the two large windows facing east and two more facing south, which framed the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge a quarter of a mile or so away—the one immortalized by Simon and Garfunkel. It spanned the East River ten floors below. New York City would never have a lazy river, would it?

This one flows energetically to the south and then turns right around and flows to the north. All day long it goes back and forth, back and forth, with the big Atlantic Ocean tides. Fast, but still not too fast for the ferries, which roar back and forth, insensible to the havoc left in their jumbo wake. Only the little tugboats go slowly—nudging enormous tankers through a narrow strip of commerce that never gets snarled like the three lanes of traffic heading south on the FDR Drive.

And, of course, the sun moves around a lot, too, rising over Randalls Island with my breakfast, then climbing higher and higher. For lunch, it turns toward the Chrysler Building, and then down and out of sight. This was my home for three weeks in the spring of My tides were fluctuating, too—back and forth, back and forth—sometimes so fast they seemed to be spinning.

It made a little hum, and my eyes sort of burned and felt a little too large for their sockets. But it was a lovely room. When I checked in, late in May, I was lucky to get it. Evidently there were no other VIPs in residence at that time—not at this address, at least. I was allowed to bypass the usual chaos at admitting, a nod to my potential to be recognized, and though technically I was a patient at Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic, I was installed in a room on a general floor, another nod to my singularity.

I never saw it, but I heard that the other floor had locked doors, that psychiatric patients were supposed to wear hospital gowns rather than the fancy pajamas I was given liberty to wear.

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I was here because they said I ought to be—I accepted that much—and had come, under my own steam, for a few days. I became accustomed to mealtime trays with plastic utensils and no knives, to leaving the bathroom door open at least a crack, to sleeping with a lady in white sitting six feet away in the darkness, keeping an eye on me. No hands under the covers, she said on my first night away from home, which made me cry—acutely aware of where I was and why. I cried a little harder. In time, my lovely, sunny room, with African violets thriving under my personal care in the morning light, came to feel like home.

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And I had to wear pajamas only at night—sweats and T-shirts seemed perfectly appropriate for casual entertaining in my room with a view. I used to call them the seven-year itch, because they had first appeared when I was seven, then again at fourteen and, briefly, again when I was twenty-one. That last time, just before I finished college, everyone had a case of nerves: My roommates were either hyperventilating, suffering migraines, or getting married.

When I was twenty-eight—at the next seven-year interval—the hives were silent and, I thought, gone for good. Out of the blue, in March , while I was on vacation with my family and six months shy of my forty-ninth birthday, my unwelcome friends came back for the first time in my adult life and settled.

These were not red, patchy, itchy everyday hives; mine involved soft-tissue swelling in odd places such as the pads of my fingers and feet or the pressure point from a bracelet, but most typically on an upper eyelid or my lips—places most incompatible with a career on camera.

Skywriting: A Life Out of the Blue

That would be the least of it. Chronic recurrent idiopathic urticaria edema is the full name—a diagnosis more worthy of all the attention. After I first spoke publicly about it, scores of people wrote to me, thinking—mistakenly—that, being a TV personality, Jane Pauley would have been given the cure.

But for me, as it turned out, the treatment was far worse than the disease. Steroids were the weapons of choice—the antiinflammatory kind, not the bodybuilding kind, but it felt like a heavy dose of testosterone nonetheless. It was not a decision made lightly; these are powerful drugs that have to be taken in slowly increasing increments over a period of weeks.

Tapering off is done in similar increments. The steroids had the desired effect—the hives subsided—but as a side effect of the drugs, I was revved! I was suddenly the equal of my high-energy friends who move fast and talk fast and loud.

Skywriting : a life out of the blue

I told everyone that I could understand why men felt like they could run the world, because I felt like that. This was a new me, and I liked her! It was very moving. Later, I was back at the same high school, with a bigger idea. After weeks of steroids, I had a more ambitious agenda—a ramped-up voter registration drive. May—June It was nearly midnight, and I could see the flashing lights approaching our apartment building from two blocks away—a fire truck and an ambulance.

I was both relieved and embarrassed. My throat was swelling up. My doctor had suggested I call instead of looking for a taxi to the hospital. Before long, the doorbell rang and I went to answer it, finding two paramedics—a Hispanic woman and a black man, both middle-aged and experienced-looking—standing at the door with two very big bags, ready to save a life. It has the potential to be life-threatening. One paramedic went straight to the paperwork. The other tied off my upper arm and took a vial of blood. She apologized as she inserted a plastic tube in a vein. At first it burned, and a stinging sensation raced all the way up my arm and flooded my throat with a sudden heat.

Warmth filled my belly, and I felt safe in the competent hands of this experienced team. When we arrived at the hospital, I saw three uniformed paramedics rush to the door, and all I could think was how preposterous it was: So I started a second round, and by June they were smacking me down! Instead of feeling powerful, I was just irritable. Instead of motoring me down the hall, my engine was just revving.

I was going nowhere. It was hard to work, and I was exhausted.