A correspondent recounts, in his own words as quoted by Neville: having mentally rehearsed for three weeks receiving a letter from his brother saying he and their mother were feeling much better, he received, on the morning of 24 February (dated the 22nd by his brother), a letter worded almost exactly as he had imagined it -- the first non-negative letter from his family in over ten years.

A man wrote to him that two months earlier he had imagined three scenes of flying in a jet with his eight-year-old daughter Lynn; a month later he proposed a Dads' and Daughters' Day outing, and on 11 April an overpowering impulse on the San Diego Freeway sent them to the airport, to San Diego, the zoo and the Fine Arts Hall — and when footsore with no taxi in sight he and Lynn imagined getting into a cab, and one came within a minute.

A television writer, in one of a series of letters Neville read from, described how after he told his mother — named Bertha in one telling of this story — what he was actually earning per script, she began seriously studying Neville's books. A distressing problem that had burdened her for twenty-five years, which the writer promised to describe in full another time, was, in his words, completely swept out of her life the Friday before this lecture.

A television writer now in the audience gave Neville a long letter this past week telling how his mother, visiting from the east a year ago last Christmas, was unimpressed by his $3,000 a script and simply assumed he got $3,500 — after which the producer pushed him to ask for more and his agent came out with a $3,500-a-script contract.

A writer in his audience handed Neville a letter after the previous Tuesday's meeting, describing how he solved a story problem by imagining himself in Robert Louis Stevenson's shoes, and then realised in the shower that his friend Eddie — the limping, mildly insane man who lives in a tent in the Hollywood hills — was identical to a character he had invented six years earlier.

Retelling a story he told the previous Friday: a professional writer friend realised in the shower that his friend Eddie, met by accident two years earlier, was identical with the central character of a story dictated to him six years before, and re-read Neville's chapter "There is no Fiction" in The Law and The Promise.

Neville received a two-page handwritten letter, from a man present in the audience that night, telling how after four fruitless years of mailing metaphysical books to his ill mother and war-damaged brother in the Midwest (books they threw straight into the ashcan unread), he instead held an imaginary letter in his brother's handwriting for three weeks and then received real letters from both saying they had never felt better.

Neville reads a letter received that week from a man present in the audience: forty years earlier, at seventeen, on the family wheat farm in Washington, a mare called Pansy stepped on his big toe and ruined the nail root; after reading The Law and the Promise he revised the injury in imagination for three nights, and a new perfect toenail grew in, the man ending his letter 'for so little I was given so much'.

While attending Neville's meetings 1,500 miles from his mother, the correspondent lovingly imagined her free of her father's burden; Neville says the unseen imaginal act precipitated the father's behavior and eventual move.

A lady who had recently had a baby wrote to Neville about a dream in which she was three people at once - the sender, the middle teller and the receiver - longing for a little green dog that shone like the sun, and then being told her building was finished and all she had to do was turn around, before her baby's crying woke her.

He retells the story, told the previous week, of his friend Ward who slept in the assumption that he was in a Denver bakery next to the deep freeze and was invited to Denver by a friend the next day, and by a second party the day after.