Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

memoir

So, What Else Do You Do?

by

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!

Tale of Two Broccoli

by

A fledgling gardener, I am a wide-eyed kid on a daily basis as I watch my garden grow. Yes, the cantaloupe seeds sprouted, even when I was sure they wouldn’t. I picked more than two dozen baby lemons, their tart scent clinging to my fingers, because the precocious tree they came from is too young–it needs to put its energy into roots, leaves, and branches. My grape plants, purchased during a freeze, unplanted for weeks due to a move, finally sprouted. In fact, I’m amazed at the plants and trees, so sad after a series of rare Houston freezes, that now produce new growth, new hope, and a tenacity I wish I had.

I’ve learned that gardening, like life, requires that I accept a certain amount of mystery. Take, for example, my broccoli. Please. Since I’m new at this, I purchased four plants, all from the same nursery, all about the same size, and I cared for them exactly the same way. One of them went crazy and has become the Scary Mutant Broccoli Plant in the garden. We didn’t know if we were ever going to get the actual vegetable, or if the plant instead was destined to become another tree in the back yard. The first head is finally growing, and I’m thinking I may not need to get out a ladder to harvest it. SMBP threatens to overshadow my golden sweet peppers, though they seem to hold their own, tolerating their bully neighbor.

While SMBP threatened to take over the entire garden, two other plants, perhaps intimidated, rolled over and died. I had watered, I had fed them rich, organic fertilizer, I had mulched, and yet they couldn’t hold on.

Which leaves, of course, one last broccoli plant, and this one intrigues me. It’s little, having followed in the path of its deceased siblings, but it didn’t die. In fact, it bravely boasts a few new leaves. It will never match the ferocity of SMBP, but maybe, just maybe, it can grow. I have lowered my expectations. You don’t have to produce any fruit, just don’t die, please. Hang in there, and let’s see where this can go.

My writing, my characters, tend to resemble the mystery of my two broccoli. A new story is emerging, and with it a character, Claire, who has seized the story and made it her own. Yes, she says, I know you’re making an ensemble cast, but one of us has to be in charge, and it’s going to be me. My other characters, who are softer and less dominant, struggle to survive. Still, I think we’re going to get a nice harvest from this story. It feels as though I can hear what it needs from me, and I am stronger in my commitment than I used to be. I feed, I water, I sing to it, and maybe it will grow.

Less successful are Blood and Loam and Patchwork. A completed, harvested book, Patchwork struggles to find an audience, and I have had to admit that even the most beautiful fruit rots when no one eats it. Granted, there is much more I can do, and I am stubborn enough to keep finding ways to let people know it exists, and that it’s worth purchasing.

B&L has a different problem: it doesn’t fit in with the rest of my writing garden. I have made halfhearted attempts to find an agent for it, but truth is, I don’t want to be known for this work. It’s too disturbing, too violent, too much at odds with what I want to contribute to the world. It is a pesky invader, a plant I can’t remove. I haven’t given up on this one, though, either. Once I finish a draft of the new novel, I’m going to dig up B&L by the roots and replant it. I think I know a different way of telling the story, one that retains the drama without requiring that I compromise who I am in order to sell a few books.

One never knows what the garden will actually do. All we can do is plant, feed, water, and observe. Listen in the stillness to what the plants need to thrive. Keep the weeds pulled. Invite the butterflies, the hummingbirds, bats, and bees, but let them come in their own time, when the milkweed expands and blooms. Know that sometimes, the plants will die, while other times, they will awe us with their capacity to survive. And the fruits? Those are the extras, a byproduct of the act of sowing.

All or Nothing

by

We removed the high-sodium foods from my father-in-law’s house last night. After months of begging and pleading, we realized that greater intervention is required. To that end, we replaced his processed foods with healthful, low-sodium, homemade alternatives. He says he wants to feel better, and this action may help remove the fluid that has entered his lungs, making it hard to breathe. We tell him we will help him with whatever is necessary–but he must decide if he’s ready for all or nothing. The halfway decisions–I’ll do this, I won’t do that–no longer work. “All” will bring some relief for the remainder of his days. “Nothing” will bring him to death, something he’s not adverse to at 80 years of age and living without his Beloved. Halfway takes him to death, but with potential for extreme misery and suffering.

All or nothing. We teach our children that with most of life, all or nothing brings a lack of flexibility to life. Find balance, we tell them, between work and play, between caring for others and self, between independence and support. We counsel them to find that Middle Way of equilibrium.

Politically, we make errors in judgment when we think we have to choose between jobs or the environment, for example. We don’t think that perhaps, with some good ol’ ingenuity, have both. We have seen how all or nothing thinking is paralyzing our government as sides polarize ever more deeply. We have forgotten the value of two political parties and of the checks and balances of our system, both of which create needed balance, in favor of partisan bickering and digging up obscure rules to stop the process.

All or nothing. Last night my father-in-law expressed concern that we were not living our own lives in favor of spending the extra time with him that he now requires. Yes, I have those concerns myself. My writing schedule has slid more than I would like, though I manage, like a stealthy lover, to find some time. I haven’t looked much at the garden this week, so I feel disconnected from my plants (something I will remedy today). I haven’t exercised as much as normal, though when I think about it, we’ve managed to throw in some walks, and yesterday I had a refreshing yoga practice. So no, I don’t think we are living all or nothing with our lives. We are finding a balance here and there. We manage.

What I understand, though, is that love must be all. Yesterday I spent the morning cooking…I had raided my father-in-law’s refrigerator to see what junk he was buying, in hopes of recreating what he likes in a form that does no harm. I put on some beautiful music and made the act of cooking a yoga practice. How present can I be? How much love can I stir into the food? How can I savor every moment of the experience, and of the remaining time, quantity unknown, that we have with him?

As I cooked, I found myself recalling knowledge I had somehow forgotten, that with mindfulness we can find a greater level of “all” than we think is possible. All is perhaps not a destination, but a journey we take as we deepen our capacity to love, to give, to live.

I can take this into my writing, too. That doesn’t mean writing all the time at the expense of relationships, but it does mean that when I do my writing practice, I can choose to be in the space of “all.” I can approach my work with greater joy and curiosity, remembering the love of it even in the days when books don’t sell or I become discouraged. Halfway does not work with health, love, or work. It brings us to that slow, painful, miserable death. Today I choose “all.”

In Like a Lion, In Like a Lamb: Whatever, as Long as it’s In

by

A new story entices me. I hear, from time to time, brief whispers of phrases, sentences, dialogue. I glimpse a character or two, milky ghosts that have not yet taken form. March, I had promised myself, would bring a new story in like a lion. Several years ago, when a long illness took away my writing for a time, I learned to keep my promises. My mind, programmed with “March,” is starting to work. Perhaps I need to rethink March–I’m ready now.

In the meantime, I have felt in limbo. Our recent move kept me preoccupied, but now the largest tasks are complete, and the rest can be handled in the nooks and crannies of my week. Returning to the writing routine has been gradual, tentative. I feel a lull, a postpartum depression after completing Patchwork and Blood and Loam, two big projects, at nearly the same time. Yet, I write. A blog here, an article there–two articles last week. I queried an agent about my novel. I tinkered with Exodus and posted the introduction last week. These are necessary tasks that keep my fingers on the keyboards. They feel like scales on the piano. Since I am a tactile person, I “think” with my fingers. The more I type, the more I awaken slumbering ideas.

Wakening my storyteller also involves relaxing and playing. I’m a stout-hearted Midwesterner with a Puritan work ethic, so relaxing and playing do not come naturally. I have to coax myself. Yet this week I have booked a facial (a reward for losing five pounds) and a massage. We are off soon to Costa Rica and a nature-filled adventure. All of these things help me dial down my natural intensity so I can put my imagination onto the page instead of into the intrigues of my life.

I’ve learned, however, that satisfying the work ethic helps me write, too. To that end I have worked extensively in the garden, building a raised bed, fertilizing, mulching, and finally, planting. The combination of physical labor and digging my hands in the dirt reminds me that stories spring like seedlings, and, if well tended, grow into tall tomatoes, exquisite flowering bushes that invite butterflies and hummingbirds, and abundant herbs that, when picked, grow even more.

People who want to write but don’t often say they are waiting for inspiration. Then, they think books will write themselves. Well, sometimes that happens, and I’m certainly open to the concept. For me, though, writing involves a regular, daily practice of writing, study, and doing those things that feed the writer within. Some days, inspiration comes, but most days I put one foot in front of the other, keeping faith that the work will bear fruit. Perhaps March will not come in like a lion, but a lamb…that would be fine, as long as I am writing at all. I welcome the advent of spring and its newness, and the new creation that wants to be born.

The Path to Wonder

by

The backyard calls to me. My blueberry bushes are starting to wake up, with tender new leaves starting to unfurl and reveal themselves. The proud pomegranate displays its many tiny leaves like it is bragging. A precocious lemon tree requires my persistence so that it doesn’t produce fruit too soon. I wait, impatiently at times, to see what the grapevines are starting to do. And now I have a pile of concrete half-blocks to create a raised bed where the vegetables will grow. Wednesday, the new soil arrives so I have something better to plant in besides the stubborn Texas gumbo. I am a novice gardener, taking a class through Urban Harvest, but I have always known that I love digging in the dirt…and I love creating. I am delighted every day as I get to know my plants, and from them, myself.

For many years I talked a lot about life, but didn’t do a whole lot of living it. I thought I would write a book someday, but I somehow never found the time until a long illness taught me how precious and fragile dreams are by taking from me, for a time, a God-given ability. Now, two books are out, a third one is finished and ready to query a publisher, and a fourth one, which I will publish for free online, is close to completion. My writing dreams, as well as many other more personal dreams, are coming true. What has been the difference?

One thing I know for sure: following my dreams has been scary. Each creation has brought up inner fears and doubts. I think that’s why many of us spend so many years just talking about them, and making excuses for why we don’t git ‘er done. When push comes to shove, it’s not lack of time or money that stops us–it’s fear. I haven’t yet found a project that didn’t scare me at some level, but as I study the lives of other authors, I have discovered that this is pretty normal. The difference is that fear becomes a reason to do something, not an excuse not to do it. Fear becomes excitement, because it is my signpost that I am on to something interesting. I am an explorer. The work of creation becomes its own reward, and the completed project, while rewarding, more of a byproduct.

I spent the last month focusing on a move, hence the wonderful back yard with new life developing. Now, settled in, I’m ready to work again. Ready to write more. Ready to finalize a few projects. Ready to query that novel. Ready to work, ready to be scared, ready for wonder.

Sharing Our Stories: An Approach to Patchwork & Ornament

by

Although Patchwork & Ornament will be released officially at the beginning of March, I’ve shared some advance copies with people. Almost everyone who touches it expresses similar sentiments: “Here was a woman with plenty of struggles, who had the right to be bitter, but yet found her passion and created beauty anyway.”

This is the story of Patchwork & Ornament. Here was an ordinary woman, someone who achieved a certain level of recognition in her field, though not at the level she wanted, working through the challenges of her life through art and, as we discovered after her death, a substantial amount of writing. As people read her story, they often find within Jenny Feldman’s words their own stories, their own struggles, their own triumphs. I am so pleased to see this happening over and over. One of the reasons I chose to share Jenny’s work publicly was to get people thinking about their own stories, and maybe even to write them down.

As we enter 2010, I hope that some of you writers out there get busy telling your stories. The time for shyness and timidity is past. We need to know, in both fact and fiction, what you have to say, how you feel about life, what matters to you. I agree to do the same. I’m going to share Patchwork with as many people as possible; work on finding an agent/publisher for Blood and Loam; finish and load Exodus to offer free online; and start a new novel, as yet untitled. I’m learning, more and more, to value what I have to say…and to value what you have to say as well. I’m looking forward in 2010 to learn more about the work of others who, like me, travel an independent writing path.

Share