Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

memoir

When Breath Becomes Air #bookreview #memoir

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Yes, this is primarily a blog about fiction, but every now and then I gravitate toward memoir. This one is short, sweet, and too lovely not to share.

I knew this would be a tough read. As a neurosurgery resident, Paul Kalanithi was looking forward to graduating when he learned he had lung cancer. It’s not a spoiler alert to tell you he died from the disease.

What is astounding — miraculous, in my opinion — was his ability to write this book while in the process of dying. When Breath Becomes Air is a short book that is padded somewhat with a foreword by Abraham Verghese and an Epilogue by Kalanithi’s widow, Lucy. It seems to stop, largely because life stopped…this is not a flaw, but an achingly poignant end to a valiant effort.

Kalanithi writes about his path to becoming a doctor, something he never thought he would do, and shares honest stories of the joys and challenges of the difficult specialty of neurosurgery. As he navigates his way through diagnosis and treatment without any real knowledge of the time he has left, he examines his life closely to make the choices he feels are best for the remainder of his days, months, or years.

Born with a philosopher’s heart and soul, Kalanithi finds a way to live fully, and this book is a powerful affirmation of how we can live when we understand the finite nature of life.

When Breath Becomes Air is a meaningful book for anyone who may have to face difficult choices. It’s also a wonderful book for anyone in the medical profession who may feel tempted to lose sight of the humanity of their patients. Kalanithi, who continued to operate during part of his illness, finds himself learning how different life looks from the patient’s point of view.

Though this is a sad book, it is really a book about the fullness of life and about what we give to every moment. Kalanithi’s book is a brilliant legacy for a brilliant man who is gone too soon.

NOTE: I wrote this review before the sad and untimely death of author Brian Doyle. Doyle spoke frequently at the Chuckanut Writers Conference, and I had the great fortune to sit in the audience as he enthralled us, coaxed us, made us laugh, and shared his heart. He was another man who lived with fullness and generosity. He will be greatly missed.

 

Nadine Galinsky Feldman is the author of What She Knew and The Foreign Language of Friends, as well as the nonfiction When a Grandchild Dies: What to Do, What to Say, How to Cope.

Book Review — Jesse: A Mother’s Story #bookreview

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I will review a book only if I like it…and I’ve been through some clunkers lately! I am pleased to find one worth praising and sharing with you today.

I’m thinking of adding a second blog post starting Fridays to cover my NYC adventure. I have several weeks of Wednesday posts lined up, so it appears if I want to tell all these great stories, I need to blog more!

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Jesse Book CoverMarianne Leone is a force of nature. If she wasn’t born with the fierceness of a lion, she found that fierceness when her son, Jesse, was born ten weeks early. A cerebral hemorrhage just a few days into his new life caused a host of physical problems, including cerebral palsy and seizures. Yet despite quadriplegia and an inability to speak, Jesse managed to flourish. With the help of his tenacious parents, he lived a full, rich life. His loving mother tells his story in her book, Jesse: A Mother’s Story.

I met Ms. Leone briefly at the recent Port Townsend Film Festival, where she hosted a screening of My Left Foot and discussed her life with Jesse, who died in his sleep in 2006. She talked passionately about her efforts, often rebuffed, to integrate Jesse into mainstream education. She wanted us all to know that their story, though sad, is not tragic. She also wanted to make clear that she is no saint, that she is human and flawed, a woman who did the best she could with a situation that redefines “difficult.”

Jesse is beautifully written, with wonderful imagery. Ms. Leone has also included several photographs and poems Jesse wrote. Her book is a powerful education to people of how to relate to people with disabilities. Often people misjudged Jesse’s intellectual capacities, which were substantial, because of his physical challenges.

Both of us turned to writing a book as a way to bear witness to our children. Mine, When a Grandchild Dies: What to Do, What to Say, How to Cope, addresses the unique grief of grandparents, which is too often underrepresented in bereavement literature. I wrote it to honor my daughter Reba, who was stillborn.

Jesse: A Mother’s Story will join other brilliant books, such as My Left Foot, as testament to what is possible when someone believes in our potential, regardless of what appears on the outside.

Book Tuesday: What is the “Real” Israel?

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In 2008, hubby and I went to Israel. Stunning and stressful, inspiring and frightening, the country showed its many sides to us as we explored it in our rental car. When I came home, I wanted to write about it, but how? Nothing I tried to write did justice to the experience.

Author Martin Fletcher, who walked the western coast of Israel the same year we were there, has written the stories that I couldn’t write in Walking Israel:  A Personal Search for the Soul of a Nation. A longtime journalist, Fletcher had covered many battles and skirmishes throughout the country. He felt that he was missing something, and walked the western coast of Israel in search of the “real” Israel. Along the way he interviews Jews, Israeli Arabs, soldiers, and more.

Exuberant Tel Aviv!

As Fletcher hikes along the coast, my own memories come flooding back. In one example, he writes about Acre, with its medieval walls, where Jews and Arabs live peacefully, for the most part. Just before our visit, though, some violence erupted when an Arab drove his car into a Jewish neighborhood on Yom Kippur (the holiest day of the Jewish calendar). As with all things Israeli, however, it’s complicated, and hubby and I had a nice visit in Acre despite the violence just a week before. Fletcher reflects on this incident, though it occurred several months after his walk, and notes how challenging it is to separate politics from daily life in Israel.

When Fletcher describes the northern town of Nahariyya, I remember meeting my first former Israeli soldier: a pretty waitress in a local cafe. Slim and slight, she recalled doing her military service when Lebanon was bombing Nahariyya in 2006. My stepson was in Israel that year, and we feared for his safety, but his group leaders moved them further south out of harm’s way. I realized again what should be obvious: no matter how intimidating or powerful, many armies are made up of young, fresh-faced kids just starting their lives.

Roman ruins at Caesarea, where Napoleon was turned back.

 

Overlooking Jerusalem

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were so many contradictions and contrasts, too many to describe here. I am grateful to Fletcher for his ability to present them so clearly.

Fletcher doesn’t try to draw conclusions. His reviews are mixed because he hasn’t chosen one side or the other, but that’s why I appreciate it. It’s confusing and complex, and Fletcher doesn’t make it less so. He does, however, show the fascinating and frustrating land of Israel in a way that made me nod my head and say, “Yes, yes, that’s it. That’s what I couldn’t find the words to say.”

Sunrise at Masada, overlooking the Dead Sea

Blog of the Week: The Faces We Live

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Every now and then I run across a blog that demonstrates the genuine union of head and heart. Counselor, cancer “thriver,” author, wife, and mother are some of the many aspects of Dawn Novotny’s life. Her posts on The Faces We Live are meaty with experience and wisdom; she is a woman who has been there and done that.  She’s not only lived to tell the tale, but does so in a way that inspires all of us to dip more deeply into our own inner wells. In exploring her own shadow with compassion, she teaches us by example to do the same.

Dawn has written a memoir, Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing Up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe. I haven’t read it yet, having only recently discovered her blog, but it looks interesting. Given the quality of her blog, I suspect it’s a fascinating read.

Have a great weekend! The construction here at the house drags on, but progress is being made. Next week I’m going to explain my latest obsessions (figs and labyrinths) and review a book that I can’t wait to share with you! It’s so good that it’s making anything else I pick up seem dull and lifeless in comparison. I hope you’ll stop by and visit!

Do you have a favorite blog that you’d like to see featured in the Thursday post? It could be yours! Go ahead and promote yourself or someone else in the comments, and I’ll be happy to take a look at them.

Book Recommendation: Let’s Pretend This Never Happened

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Think of a roller coaster. You get into the seat and feel it inching up, up, up, knowing that at some point you’ll start flying downhill at breathtaking speed, blowing back your hair and facial skin while you scream at the top of your lungs in fear-filled, adrenaline-laced joy.

That about sums up Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) by Jenny Lawson, aka The Blogess.

When I first started reading the book, I felt a little…confused. Was I reading an unedited ramble or comic genius? A West Texas native and the daughter of a taxidermist, Lawson describes an unusual life surrounded by animal blood and guts, among other things. Later, she meets and falls in love with Victor, who appears to be the “sane one,” with the exception of his Republican leanings (oops, there goes my political commentary again).

While Lawson takes us on the roller coaster of her life, I couldn’t help but notice that the wizard behind the curtain has managed a long-term marriage and motherhood, so I suspect that there’s a certain amount of cockeyed method to all the madness. If you noticed the mixed metaphor in the previous sentence, well, it somehow seems fitting when writing about this book.

Once I got used to the book’s style, I really enjoyed it and found myself reading passages aloud, gasping through my giggles, to hubby. I think it helps to be a blogger myself — we’re an odd breed, and I related to and understood much more of this book than I would like to admit. And, darn it, she made me cry, too, though I won’t spoil the moment for the rest of you. Let’s just say you’ll know what I’m talking about when you read that particular chapter. I also have had some experience with taxidermy in my home (don’t ask), though not at Lawson’s level, so when she describes her father’s eccentricities, I nod my head in sympathy.

For women “of my age,” Lawson’s free use of the f-bomb and ADD style may be off-putting, but I ended up having a good time with this book. Humor is hard to write well, and I think that for the most part, she succeeds. I admire that in a writer! Spend some time on her blog first so you get a sense of what to expect, and you’ll be fine. I started from scratch, which perhaps wasn’t the best strategy.

At the end of the ride, you’ll get up dazed and dizzy, but with a big, sloppy grin on your face. Enjoy!

So, What Else Do You Do?

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My late mother-in-law, Jenny Feldman, left behind an extensive body of artwork that she made long after she gave up the dream of getting recognition as an artist. Even when her hands hurt too much to make large works, she adapted by making little spiral-bound books of drawings. At some point in her life, though, she tired of what she called the “fine arts slog” of promoting her work and instead, made art that pleased her. Some of that artwork covers our walls, and we are proud to show off our Jenny Feldman Originals.

I shared her writings in Patchwork and Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art, in part because I loved her, in part because I found her writing compelling, and perhaps, to a larger degree, because I wanted her to have some of the recognition that eluded her in life. I wanted that for her because I want that for me. Perhaps that isn’t the highest and best motive, but I think any writer or artist would understand.

Sitting each day at my computer, I write new work and polish existing work, knowing that much of what I do may never see the light of day. My work is less visible than Jenny’s, stored on computers and websites, but it’s a body of work that continues to grow. Will it sell? I don’t know. I will do what I can to make it so. I will make the best work I can and, if I don’t find a publisher, will put it online as e-books and podcasts in hopes of building an audience.

Whenever I meet someone knew, and they ask me what I do, I explain that I’m a writer. They always ask, “What do you write?” closely followed by, “And what else do you do?” When I went to an office every day, miserable though I was, no one ever asked me “what else do you do?” They accepted that I had a full-time job. Well, I work harder as a writer than I ever did on the job. Each morning I get up and work, writing and polishing. I contribute and submit to a critique group. I read writing books. I read endless novels, some of them not very good, to learn my craft.  I blog to get in more writing practice. My husband, a playwright when he isn’t writing computer programs, understands. Writing is a profession and a practice, but for many of us, the work that we do goes unnoticed, even by family and friends.

So why do it, if there is, for most writers, little respect or money involved? What keeps us going when we have little to show for our efforts, including recognition of those efforts?

The other day I received a note from a grandmother in Massachusetts ordering a copy of When a Grandchild Dies. Her granddaughter, she explained, died at six months, and would I please send her a copy of the book? I knew that though my audience is small, I have felt much affection for those grandparents who sent me notes and told me their stories. People have told me that they passed the book around in their family so everyone could read it, and it helped them get through the pain. These grandparents may never realize how often their outreach to me has pulled me from a writer’s funk.

Today I pulled out a notebook from a novel writing class I attended a few years ago, and some loose pages fell out. When I looked at them, they were lists of possible agents, more people to research and query. Despite my moments of discouragement, I still felt hope when I saw the names. I took it as a message from my teacher, and perhaps a greater teacher, not to give up. Publication may never happen, but what if it didn’t only because I didn’t try hard enough? I don’t have enough rejections to say that I’m done.

Mostly, though, I write because that’s what I do. That is how I was hooked up from the beginning of my life, though it took decades for me to understand this. I feel better. I’m less cranky and more loving with my family. I feel alive. Maybe no one will ever know my characters, but I know them and love them as though they were real people. I laugh with them, weep with them, and sometimes get angry with them, but I can’t wait to get together with them when I get up in the morning. When I fall asleep at night, I ask questions about the story so that my mind can work in my sleep to come up with answers to plot dilemmas.

This morning I finished yet another draft of Change of Plans. Two weeks from Friday, I attend an Agents Conference, and I will share my novel, and my beloved characters, with an agent. I feel shy and afraid, but I know these women, these imaginary friends, inside and out. I will tell their stories in the hopes that the agent will agree that others will love them like I do. And, if I don’t get the message across, I have these lists of agents that fell onto my feet this morning. Hope springs eternal!