patchwork and ornament book

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November 1, 2011 by admin

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Good morning! I’ve started my Day 1 of NaNoWriMo and have, so far, about 2,200 words for the day. I’m hoping to hit 5,000 today to get rolling. There are a few days this month where it will be tough to get in a good word count, so I’m trying to start out with a full head of steam. Good luck and happy writing to those of you who are participating!

I’ve been so busy with The Foreign Language of Friends that I don’t always tend properly to another wonderful project of mine. In 2009 I edited Patchwork & Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art by Jeanette Feldman (my late mother-in-law). Originally I had planned to put Patchwork together just for the family, but the longer I worked on it, the more I felt that others might enjoy it, too.

Patchwork went on to win an Indie Excellence Award for Best Memoir of 2010. Feathered Quill and Midwest Book Reviews gave it five stars on Amazon. But it is the comments we receive from individuals who read it that mean the most. As Jenny tells the story of her life in bite-sized essays, poems, and stories, readers reflect on their own lives. Somehow, Jenny’s warmth shines through, and readers feel as though they are having a conversation with her, as opposed to just reading someone else’s life story. Originally, I had planned to make the book just for the family, but I felt its magic as I worked on it, convinced that others could relate to her story.

Briefly, Jenny grew up in poverty during the Great Depression. In the South Bronx, where she lived, there was little hope for the future, but through the power of art, she gained a broader perspective on the world — one that allowed her to transcend poverty, even though she would never realize commercial success as an artist. Patchwork & Ornament includes several full-color photographs of her work.

Here’s an excerpt, from which the title is derived. Enjoy! A FREE BOOK OFFER FOLLOWS THIS EXCERPT!

Patchwork and Ornament
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Why are your artworks so ornamented, when you love cubist and minimalist art?

Shopping Bag — One of many homemade shopping bags - a piece of art on its own

When asked this question I was intrigued and decided to write about it to clarify my answer to myself. I found the answer in my early childhood, from the lives of my grandmother and mother and from the apartments they lived in and decorated.

My aunt, my uncle, their son, and my grandmother lived in a three-room apartment on Freeman Street in the Bronx. There was one bedroom, another room that acted as a dining room/bedroom for my grandmother, and a kitchen with an eating area where the family actually ate their meals.

The floor in each room was covered with printed linoleum, each in a different pattern with no attempt to match or to complement the other. The floors needed to be covered and covered cheaply, and that was that.

The dining room made the biggest impact on me. That was where our family would sit together for holidays or on our infrequent social visits. The linoleum floor in the dining room resembled a version of a Persian rug, with deep reds and blues. My aunt and grandmother made curtains from a heavy, textured cotton called cretonne that was printed with palm trees, exotic tropical flowers and fruits. The cushions on the dining room chairs were each made of different fabrics and colors. Again, nothing matched anything else in the room.

Dishes in the china cabinet were parts of sets, piled together in random fashion. The table was large and covered in a white cloth embroidered in the center and edged with machine crochet lace. A cut crystal bowl filled with fruit sat on the sideboard, and a small beveled glass mirror hung at a height that reflected no one’s face. One would need to twist and bend in order to achieve such a glimpse. This was a room put together in bits and pieces over a period of time by people who did not care one iota about the way anything looked. They were poor immigrants struggling to survive in the cold depths of the Great Depression. They put together a home using what was at hand and went to second-hand stores for the rest.

Collage — Many of Jenny's artwork pieces had a "collage" look to them.

My grandmother was another strong influence. An Orthodox Jew, she wore a proscribed shaitl, or wig, of what looked like red horsehair. A more unattractive wig has yet to be designed. She made dresses for herself styled like muumuus, with a round neck, long sleeves without cuffs, and the hem just short of floor length. She wore a white apron that covered her almost completely from one hip to the other and was tied around the waist. As parts wore through, she patched it with any fabric at hand. She would do the same to the bosom of her dress when her heavy breasts wore the material to shreds. She wore these patched clothes anywhere at all, whether shopping the outdoor markets on Jennings Street or visiting us.

My mother, whose financial situation was much more precarious than my grandmother’s, would never wear patched clothes, never. Bitterly ashamed of her status in life, she tolerated neither raggedness nor patches. She would alter clothes, setting a new waistband into a dress or skirt to lengthen it, or making a shirt from a too-short dress, or attaching a wide velvet border to a coat when the longer look came into fashion. She made curtains, too, comforter covers, tablecloths edged with printed ruffles and seat cushions to match, and most of our clothes and doll clothes from scraps.

I was exposed to cubist and abstract art at Cooper Union, which gave me a different perspective from my influence at home. For a time I restricted myself to the severity and discipline of such art. I loved it. I found peace and order in the strictures of abstract art. At that time, I needed those elements to help structure my life.

Still, looking at great paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and in the Museum of Modern Art opened me to possibilities in combining textures and colors. And of course, the streets and buildings of Manhattan provided the greatest design class of all. Signage, posters, billboards, shop windows, people dressed in every fashion possible, cars, buses, vendors on street corners; I lived, worked, and studied in a vast collage environment.

As time passed, my work and my life became more dense and complex. More ornament, more richness became evident in the work, and storytelling, which has always been pleasurable to me, became important to the visual work. Instead of fighting and trying to work back into abstract or minimalist art, I went towards the new development, using ornament as narrative.
I see in the work I do, in the manner I have furnished our home, the effects of all these experiences. My childhood world of family influences grew to include, as in the manner a collage is made, layers built up from the complexities of my life, one over the other revealing like pentimento, ghosts of previous experiences.

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Thoughts from 2011 #WLTcon

June 15, 2011 by admin

The Writers’ League of Texas held its annual Agents and Editors conference this past weekend in Austin, Texas. I, along with a few hundred of my new best friends, made the trek to attend workshops, make new friends, and pitch to agents. This was my second conference; I attended two years ago. In those two years, a lot has changed!

Much of the focus has moved to social media as a way of branding and marketing a writer’s work. A “tweet-up” allowed attendees to tweet their questions about publishing, and I learned that many agents LOVE Twitter. I’m still not sure about it, but if the agents are using it and sharing publishing information, I’m happy to dive in. Previously, my tweets were occasional, uncertain, and inconsistent. Now, I’m in the know–at least a little bit! I’m now following several attendees, including said agents, and it’s a great way to get information about books, blogs, agents, and writing workshops.

When I attended two years ago, I was trying to decide if I wanted to publish Patchwork and Ornament traditionally or independently. I am glad I chose the latter because it allowed me to print the book before my father-in-law died, allowing him to see and feel the book, read the reviews, and watch it win an Indie Excellence award. I made a fundamental mistake, though, in not hiring a PR service to help me market the book.

When I published When a Grandchild Dies, I had a built-in audience. Between Amazon and Centering Corporation, a publisher and seller of bereavement books, my first self-publishing efforts were more successful than many, and I took it for granted that I had some PR skills. However, Patchwork has not fared as well. Now, having attended WLTcon, I have some leads on PR firms that can help me market my current project and perhaps resurrect Patchwork. These firms work specifically with authors and small publishers, so I will look into them further now that I am home.

I had my first-ever pitch session with Amy Burkhardt of Kimberley Cameron & Associates. Amy represented The Safe Food Handbook by Heli Perrett, where I learned never to eat raw sprouts–just in time to hear about the German e. coli outbreak attributed to raw sprouts. But I digress. The agency also represents women’s fiction, including Free to a Good Home by Eve Marie Mont, which I loved. Amy comes across as reserved and quiet, which helped put me at ease, or at least as at ease as was possible. The good news? She asked for a partial manuscript! Read the submission guidelines, she advised me, and I heard this message frequently throughout the weekend. Agents will not review manuscripts where the author could not be bothered to read the guidelines.

The best part of the conference, other than hanging with other writers, was the optimism of those representing the industry. Times are tough, and it’s harder to sell books these days, but a lot of dedicated people are keeping the faith and working hard. Their passion remains strong, and for that I am grateful.

So, What Else Do You Do?

May 25, 2011 by admin

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!

Conference Preparations

May 19, 2011 by admin

22 days and counting down to the Writers’ League of Texas Agents and Editors Conference to be held in Austin June 10-12, 2011. This is my second conference, having attended two years ago when Patchwork and Ornament was named a finalist in the memoir category. This year I am presenting Change of Plans in hopes of landing an agent. One of my fellow writers on the She Writes website told me today that she found her agent at a conference, so I’m hopeful.

While I’m working diligently on my draft, making changes suggested to me by Diane Tyrel, who as a professional writer and editor has become my new best friend, I’m also working on my mindset for the conference. I have some work to do in that regard.

First, I’ve been an independent publisher for so long that I’m reluctant to go the “traditional” route, but I suspect that this reluctance is more about fear of rejection. Yes, it’s not easy to land an agent or publisher, but I haven’t really tried that hard–yet. I think that sitting down and speaking with an agent will help alleviate those fears. I’ve met more and more women who are writing successfully using agents and publishers, and they’ve actually enjoyed the process! Today, in my She Writes critique group chat, an eighth grade student joined us and wants to be in the group for the summer. I guess if she can step out of her comfort zone at her age, so can I.

Second, I’d rather sit behind a computer than schmooze, and conferences are all about schmoozing. I like meeting other writers and listening to what they’re writing about, but we are to be prepared at all times–you never know who you might meet in an elevator, and several agents have found longtime clients that way. Part of getting comfortable is to come up with a short pitch, which I’m sure I will repeat like a mantra on the drive to Austin, so that it comes out sounding relaxed. The last time I went to the conference, I stayed at a different hotel, which was a mistake since it didn’t allow me the opportunity for those chance meetings. This time, I promise not to hide out.

Finally, part of changing my mindset is letting go of the outcome. Change of Plans is my best work yet and shows a maturing of my writing skills, and whether or not I find an agent, I can be proud of this book. Really, sometimes I forget to acknowledge myself for just finishing the darn thing, let alone creating something that would appear to be both publishable and marketable. Why not just go to the conference and have a good time? Wow, there’s a concept. Maybe I’m growing after all!

I’m spending more time on the yoga mat as I prepare, even changing up my practice for this event to address my natural jitters. I’m dusting off Jeff Davis’s The Journey from the Center to the Page, which helps me connect my yoga practice to my writing practice, and I’ve downloaded some yoga classes from teachers I admire and respect. In this way, I hope to go to the conference with an open mind and heart, and a willingness to learn from the experience–regardless of whether I get what I want.

Revealing the Hidden Female

July 8, 2010 by admin

Kayaking, canoeing, hiking: just another day on the island of Vancouver, where we recently spent several days. We spent most of that time on the wild Pacific edges, or, as some call it, the Graveyard of the Pacific, where rogue waves and sudden storms have smashed ships and killed many in the process. Our experience, was far less dramatic, thankfully, though we did spend a few terrifying moments moving over open water in our little kayak, fighting the current that wanted to pull us out to sea. Awed by the raw beauty of the place, I began to plan future visits even before we left. I wanted to “crack the code” on hiking there, because our tour books offered little information.

When I travel, I love to find good stories about a place, information that gives more flavor than facts, that tells me of its heart and soul. As I dug around, I found pay dirt with my discovery of two powerful women: Cougar Annie and Emily Carr. Well known and revered in western Canada, they were completely unfamiliar to me. So, while I have come late to their party, I am no less passionate about them than the Canadians who keep their memories alive.

Cougar Annie made her living selling the bulbs and seeds from a wild, chaotic garden that she grew. She ran a few other side businesses as well, survived four husbands, and raised eleven children. She gained her colorful monicker after shooting a number of cougars that threatened her livestock, also earning bounties on several of her kills. I should mention as an aside that one of her husbands died by shooting himself in the leg while cleaning his gun–obviously Cougar Annie demonstrated a bit more skill! She lived to age 97, ultimately spending 65 years on her beloved island. Her garden continues to this day, now maintained by environmental and First Nations organizations who limit visitors to protect it.

Emily Carr grew up in Victoria, the daughter of British parents. She demonstrated artistic skill at an early age, which her parents encouraged. Later, she visited several native tribes, sketching the people and totem poles, in part, to preserve them, as she saw native ways waning and wanted to capture them for all time. At the time, female artists were rare, and Carr endured criticism for her “strange,” expressionistic work. She lived a lonely life, even giving up art for several years to run a boarding house. Locals saw her as strange, and success arrived late in her life. In the midst of this new-found fame, she had a heart attack and was forced by doctors to stop painting. Fortunately for us, she turned to writing as a creative outlet, publishing several books in her 70s, and more posthumously. From her we hear stories of the natives she lived with, of life in Victoria as it transitioned to a modern city, and more.

Both of these women lived at a time when women weren’t supposed to be strong, powerful, or independent–and yet, I had never heard of them before now. Yes, as a writer I have read the classics from female authors, such as Jane Austin, Louisa May Alcott, and the Bronte sisters–all of whom led lives with the same independent spirit of Cougar Annie and Emily Carr. Still, sometimes I feel that we know too little of women such as these. I’m sure there were many more, anonymous women whose strength led families, who worked hard, and who created. Having just printed Patchwork and Ornament by my late mother-in-law, Jenny Feldman, I can attest that many have created art and writings that the world will never see.

For me, finally coming into my own at midlife, these women shine a light on my path, inviting me to join them in strength, power, and the joy of creativity. Writing can be a lonely and discouraging avocation, and meeting Cougar Annie and Emily Carr, I feel less alone. I remember that my job is to create with passion and joy, regardless of the outcome. They nudge me to let myself express a more outrageous side–to let those waves crash to the shore without fear, to allow the storms to well up and, at times, overcome, and to keep paddling my inner kayak toward the islands, not allowing the sea to sweep me away, but still letting it bounce me around a bit.

A Whopping Case of Writer’s Block

May 27, 2010 by admin

Writer’s block. It’s happened again. Once more, I am at a loss for words.

I have a great idea for a novel and have done a basic outline. My characters appear as clearly to me as my family, and I know what they want, what they need, and what they lack. After a recent trip to The Netherlands, I came back with detailed stories of my travels, as I did with Costa Rica. They all went into a hand-written journal, where they stay. My characters wait in the wings for me to set them free. I struggle even with this, my blog, where I swore I would write whatever was on my mind and not worry about it. I have, on many occasions, even abandoned my Morning Pages (from the Artist’s Way). Today is the first day this week that I haven’t broken my promise to myself to write something, anything.

Could I make excuses? Sure. We’ve had some challenges this year in our little family. I’ve also put in a garden, which, when begun from scratch, takes a lot of work and energy. But life gets in the way of all writers, and the successful ones are those who write, day in and day out, even when life has encroached into the writing world.

Lately I’ve been sucked in by the news, particularly the oil spill. We’re having a bad year, between earthquakes, volcanoes, spills, unemployment, etc., and it’s hard not to get depressed about it. Of course, the news from the world of publishing isn’t good, either. Writers are having a tougher time getting published, and sales are down. Patchwork and Ornament recently won an award, but the kudos do not translate into sales, not yet.

But is that a reason not to write?

Here’s the thing. Writing helps me live my life better. Those Morning Pages, the three, simple, longhand pages of drivel, center me. They provide meditative benefits that help set the course for my day. While novel writing still feels difficult to me, I like the challenge. I enjoy having my characters do or say something unexpected. When I work out a plot problem, I feel a sense of satisfaction I never felt on any job. When I write each day, I find myself being more creative in other aspects of my life.

So here goes. Here is a simple blog, an honest confession of my writing frustrations. It’s something. It’s a start. In cognitive behavioral therapy, we are reminded to give ourselves credit. I commit to getting back to my Morning Pages. I will gently, kindly, lovingly guide myself back to the path. And I will remind myself of what I learned years ago from 12-Step programs: This Too Shall Pass.