Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

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Becoming Visible: On Female Characters Beyond Middle Age

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A few days ago I had the pleasure of seeing the play 20th Century Blues, a tale of four women whose 40-year friendship threatens to combust over a set of photographs. We get to know their hopes, dreams, and failures, and we watch them grapple with the challenges of aging in a world that values youth. As their stories unfolded, I found myself nodding my head, laughing, and crying because I could relate.

That doesn’t happen a lot these days.

I love youth, don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of these Millennial haters. In fact, whenever I feel cynical, I hang out with them. I volunteer at DonorsChoose, an organization that supports public schools, and I never fail to come away feeling energized after being around this group of positive young people.

Still, when it comes to art — plays, books, movies, etc. — I want to see my age group from time to time. As a woman, I feel like my life is much more interesting than it was when I was in my twenties. We have the scars of life, and yet we are not done. We often feel young inside, with plenty of hopes and dreams left. Yet too often we are invisible or expected to take to our rocking chairs.

My current WIP has a new working title: On Her Own Terms. I tell the story of Elaine, a wife, mother and grandmother who decides at sixty to have a career of her own. Her family loves the idea as long as it doesn’t interfere with her role as their chief cheerleader. I’m encouraged by other stories, such as Marilyn Simon Rothstein’s Lift and Separate, that are finding audiences.

In the movies, whenever we want to see a badass older woman, casting directors seem to call on Helen Mirren. Mirren is strong, sexy, and intelligent in all that she does. Judi Densch, Meryl Streep, Linda Lavin, and others are still maintaining active careers. More and more, it seems, we’re seeing women beyond middle age on the big screen, and I hope the trend continues.

We also witnessed the historic candidacy for POTUS of a grandmother…and the ageist notion that she should now “take up knitting.” Nothing wrong with knitting, by the way, but there is an assumption by some that she should now go away quietly, but not the same assumption for older male politicians.

There was a time when women our age were completely invisible. I’m not saying the tide has turned completely, but I do see hope on the horizon! And with great projects such as 20th Century Blues, hopefully we will see more.

Goodbye Old Friends

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It’s been a tough 2016 so far for us Baby Boomers. So far we have lost Natalie Cole, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and now Glenn Frey. All were in their 60s — far too young to me now. At 57, I can’t imagine the thought of having a decade or less to live.

We came of age with most of these icons (Alan Rickman came later). Bowie fascinated with his endless reinvention and enigmatic creativity. The Eagles formed a soundtrack for my restless, confused young adulthood. Later, in his solo career, Glenn Frey recorded one of my favorite songs, Soul Searchin’.

Natalie Cole’s Unforgettable, which used technological wizardry to allow her a duet with her late father Nat King Cole, was stunning. Though she grew up in his shadow, she forged her own unique style and career. When she died, I recalled how I felt at age six when I learned of her father’s death, also too soon.

Ours was the generation determined to make the world different. We were sure we would conquer aging, illness, and death. Yet here we are, unable to transcend our impermanence, just like every other generation.

The most stunning part of these deaths is the sheer weight of contributions made in life. They all leave behind an impressive body of work that will live long after them.

Most of us don’t know any of these celebrities, but their deaths hit us hard. They remind us to get busy, to make our lives as meaningful and rich as possible. Bowie managed to release one last album right before he died, and he reinvented himself to the end.

We cannot conquer old age or death, but we can let these icons teach us by example to make every day count. We could be here for decades, but we could be gone tomorrow. We might as well go for it.

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What She Knew is now available for pre-order! Ebook will be available February 29. Release date for the paperback is March 29.

Bedspreads and Novel Writing: It’s the Little Things

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A few weeks ago I got it in my head that I wanted to knit a bedspread. I don’t know why. These notions just sort of show up, and I either wait for them to pass or jump on them. Usually I jump on them and am sorry later as I ask, “What did I get myself into this time?”

So, of course, I’ve jumped in. Again. I’ve given up the quest for self-improvement in favor of self-acceptance, so all I can do is shake my head, smile, and say, “Yep, that’s what I do.”

After some searching, here’s the pattern I settled on. It’s easier than it looks, because I’ll make a lot of little pieces that I then sew together. Of course, making a lot of little pieces can get tedious. I started knitting the little colored strips…80 of them for each of 13 colors. I don’t like doing math, but I can tell you, that’s a lot, and those pieces represent just part of the quilt.

It’s no coincidence that I’m revising a novel at the same time. Without boring you with all the little details, it feels much the same as working on this quilt. There is the whole that is the ultimate goal, which I’m reaching by working on thousands of little, tedious pieces.

I’m reading The Wonder of Aging: A New Approach to Embracing Life After Fifty by Michael Gurian. Based on what I’ve read so far, it would appear that this new approach to quilting, writing, and life is a reflection of my age and current stage of life. I’m okay with taking time to work on the little details. Yes, I’d like to write books faster than I do, but I’m more interested in writing better. Eventually I’ll have enough of those little pieces done to put them together in one of the rings. Eventually I’ll read through a draft and say, yes, this one’s ready to go to the editor, because I’ve done my best.

It seems curious and paradoxical to want to slow down the process. There is so much to write! So much to get done! Sometimes it feels maddening to become more deliberate, more thoughtful, less action-oriented. Yet somehow, I suspect, I will get more done. My drafts may go more slowly, but I will need fewer of them (I hope). In the end, I hope to have a beautiful heirloom quilt and a beautifully written book to share.

Birthday Reflections

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Yesterday I turned 54, a number that I find somehow surprising. Physically, I feel no different from when I was younger. In fact, in many ways I am stronger and healthier than I was then. I’m still limber enough to surprise an unsuspecting massage therapist who decides to stretch my legs. It wasn’t always so. At age 26, when I first took up yoga, I couldn’t touch my toes, so I’ve gotten better with age.

Mentally, I feel smarter and wiser, though part of being smarter and wiser is knowing that you’re not so smart or wise. I still take delight in learning new things. This year, my education centered in the home as I learned the arts of canning food and spinning wool.

We took a big step several months ago and moved from Houston, where I had lived for 30 years. I never thought I would stay there for the rest of my life, but this year, I finally knew where I wanted to go. It’s been a good decision, and I’m excited about where I live now.

If there is a looming discontent, it’s about the increased urgency to leave a legacy. I’ve putzed around with my writing this year, and I’m ready once again to get serious. I don’t want to beat myself up about it; after all, moving cross-country, from a red state to a blue one (sigh of relief), from a major city to a small town, takes some getting used to. Even though I didn’t write as much as I wanted, I felt as though I was gathering new material that would turn up in my stories. Now, though, I want to roll up my sleeves and git ‘er done. I have several books in process and a Google doc file full of ideas, so I need to get on with it. With my health, I can probably expect many productive years left, but we never know at this point. I’ve said goodbye to friends who didn’t make it this far, so I don’t take my life for granted.

I just started reading Neil Young’s book, Waging Heavy Peace. Though I’m not too far into it, what I find most interesting is that he’s looking forward, engaged in new projects that excite him. In fact, he covers quite a bit of ground before he gets into the “memoir” part of it because he’s so involved in what he’s doing now. I love his restless, chaotic, inventive spirit. As I begin another year in the unstoppable march of time, I hope that I can follow his example.

Love Your Body Day

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Today is “Love Your Body Day,” and this post is part of the 2011 Love Your Body Day Blog Carnival. Starting today, the blogs of those of us participating in the carnival will start to appear on this link:  http://www.now.org/news/blogs/index.php/sayit/2011/10/19/lybd-blog-…

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On our last trip, when I worked my way through airport security, a TSA employee asked to check a zippered pocket in the leg of my quick-dry capris. She asked me a curious question: do you have any pain in the leg?

“No, of course not,” I said with a certain defensiveness. I have no idea what caused her to ask the question, but in the moment I said to myself, “She thinks I look old.”

Recently, in Seattle, we bought an ice cream with friends and crossed the street to a park to eat it. A young girl started to harass me. I sensed that she had some sort of mental problem — her speech and demeanor indicated such — and I just tried to get out of her way. Another girl with her came to my rescue, telling the problem child, “You show respect for your elders.” I wanted to say, “Who are you talking about?”

When I look in the mirror, I seldom see my age. Certainly I don’t feel it as we scoot up mountains with our trekking poles, sometimes hiking for hours at a time. And yet the feedback I’m getting indicates that others see something different. I know that my face looks lived in, from some old acne scars of teen-aged years, to the lines along the sides of my mouth, to some puffiness under the eyelids. In an odd nod to vanity, I have kept my forehead covered with bangs for years, since I have had fairly deep lines there for some time.

My hair, which I stopped coloring two years ago, shows a lot of silver peeking through, with the rest of my hair returning to the blonde of my childhood as it heads toward white. My body carries some extra weight in the belly as it fights to hold on to estrogen.

And yet I feel more beautiful than I ever did when I was young.

Why would I want to look twenty again? When I look back on those years, I see a woman in pain, who didn’t like how she looked or who she was. I was unformed as a woman. These days I feel like I’m just starting to get interesting. My joys, my sorrows, the richness of my experience are all showing up on my face. Sure, I could get Botox or a little “work done,” but why would I? I’ve seen some former Hollywood beauties who went under the knife a bit too often, and they look artificial. There’s a reason they call it “plastic” surgery.

I am a firm believer in watching what I eat, and I’m not going to go on some fad diet so I can fit into a slinky dress. Too often, we women do some crazy diet for a special occasion, something that may help us look good on the outside but do damage on the inside. I’ve seen women sacrifice their health just so they can fit into a certain size, and I won’t do that. Yes, I am trying to lose a few pounds, but I’m doing it in a healthy, thoughtful way that provides solid nourishment.

I work on fitness because I want to be strong, with healthy bones and happy joints so I can hike for many years to come. Yes, I like having good muscle tone, but more than that, I love the feeling of reaching a trail’s peak after a long and challenging climb.

I think when we work on ourselves from the inside out, beauty is a natural by-product. There’s nothing lovelier than a woman in her 70s and beyond who has bright eyes, radiant though lined skin, and a contented smile.

On this Love Your Body Day, I invite every woman to see herself as a treasure. Wherever you are, see the beauty of survival, the miracle that we are here at all. Notice how your body moves and functions, often without your direction. What can you do today to love your body even more?

Excerpt from Patchwork and Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art

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by Jeanette Feldman

Dear friend, I have your recent letter in hand and have read it several times.

You ask how is it that I can write a vivid, positive, hopeful poem like Hans Hoffman’s House and yet write intensely, bitterly, negatively about my career failure as a painter, work so painful that I cannot read it or show it to anyone, not even my family. I find that this question has provoked some thought, a question that I can answer only with visual images.

Picture a ballroom in an old and seedy hotel in a small eastern city. It is a high school reunion. The people at the reunion are near the age of fifty. Their high school prom was held in this ballroom. It is bittersweet for them to listen to the musicians play Glenn Miller and to understand that the men and women they are now were boys and girls of years ago. They dance stiffly and formally on the wooden floor.

Above their heads, a great ball of small glass squares revolves. The great ball turns slowly, catching light from little spotlights trained on it. The couples dance, the ball revolves, and the images reflected on the ball are never the same, as both ball and people are always in motion. Their reflections move across the mirrored squares from dark to light, above and below, and back into dark nothingness.

I see myself as one of the people dancing my dance of life under the slowly revolving ball, sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the light, my reflection shattered in many pieces but never the same, never in the same place, many parts of one being never the same twice but always in flux, always in change. I too dance at times in the dark, an then there are times I dance in the light.