Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

women

Revealing the Hidden Female

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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.

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.

A Dose of Indignation

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“Is that all you’re doing?” asked a former co-worker when I explained that I was writing full-time. My French teacher, when teaching the term femme au foyer (housewife), pointed me out as one of the femmes au foyer in the room. “I start writing at 8:00 a.m. and work all day,” I complained. “Well, you’re not making any money, so you still fit in the housewife category,” she suggested. I don’t believe her. I love her dearly, don’t get me wrong, but her attorney husband also writes poetry, so she sees writing as a bit of an indulgence.

Now, I have nothing against housewives, and a creative homemaker deserves a great deal of credit and honor that she often does not get. But that’s not what I do. Right now I am producing one book, getting another ready for reprints, and writing a third. In addition to the writing, I am starting to gear up the marketing machine while I coordinate with cover designers, photo editors, and printers. I am waiting to get my novel back from my editor in preparation to do substantial rewrites.  My days are busy and full, and often I work on weekends to keep up.

Yet somehow in my home, no one else is capable of filling the water jug in the refrigerator or restocking the soda. Toilet paper rolls remain empty until I fill them. When it’s time to do dishes after I have cooked a meal, people scatter. I could go on and on. In short, I seem to have become the family servant.

So, like a good femme au foyer who believes that her dreams are also important, I went “en grieve.” Like the French, my strike lasted a specific amount of time (one evening). I refused to cook. Instead, I sat on the sofa and played computer card games with my feet up. My husband decided that the recipe I had chosen for the evening was something he could handle. As dinner wound down, I made my grievances understood. My writing, my work, takes time and effort. I root for everyone else to make their dreams come true, and I want support with mine as well.

We writers sometimes have to get tough with those around us to protect and value the time we need to do our work. It’s all too easy to give away our valuable energy to others, leaving ourselves depleted and unable to create. When that happens, we need to get a healthy dose of indignation. We may need to go en grieve. Our work matters. Our dreams matter. Our creativity brings joy, entertainment, and maybe even hope to others, and we need to see it that way–and make sure we communicate that to others.

The Trite and True

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As writers, we are always looking for new ways to describe our characters and their situations. Our first readers often point out the various cliches that manage to slip into our work, despite our best attempts to avoid them.

Sometimes, though, a trite expression, metaphor, or phrase is exactly what we need in a given moment…not in our writing, but in our lives as writers.

Yesterday was a tough day for me. Self-doubt permeated my thoughts. I began to wonder about Patchwork and Ornament: am I overestimating its marketability? Do I have what it takes to get the book in the hands of those who would enjoy it? Am I squandering family money to cover printing and marketing costs? In short, what was I thinking?

Deep in a stereotypical writer’s funk, I went out with my husband Henry to a coffee shop where I could sort out my feelings. We talked for a long time, pouring yet again over my ideas for the book, the progress we’ve made, the layout and cover that are coming together, and all the various places I could market the book. Not to mention that every time I put a draft of the layout into people’s hands, they don’t want to put it down!

We returned home and got ready for bed. As I was falling asleep, I remembered something important about my creative process: it’s always like a birth.

This is where the trite meets the true. Birthing metaphors are as old as, well, the hills. Still, it brings me comfort to understand what’s going on. I’m seven months into this pregnancy. I’m heavy and tired, and my feet hurt. I wonder if I’ll be a good mother. I wonder if my child will be unruly. I worry about a stillbirth.

Years ago, I gave birth to a little girl. She had died in my womb, which is another story for another day, but I went through the full birthing process. I was terrified. I was at seven months, about the same place I am now with Patchwork and Ornament, and I didn’t know how to breathe yet. I had just gotten started with my classes, so I felt helpless and frightened. At one point I looked to my husband at the time and said, “I don’t think I can do this.” Yet a few minutes later, I felt her move through me and into the world where I could see and hold her. And oddly, even in a tragic moment, I felt joy. This was my daughter.

The closer I get to completing book production, the more I feel like that frightened, much younger woman, who said, “I don’t think I can do this.” Yet what I learned from my daughter is that yes, I can do this, I will do this, and in the end I will feel joy.

Trite? Maybe. But it works for me, gives me strength, reminds me that hanging on when I don’t think I can always brings a greater reward. Very soon I will hold a brand-new, colorful, vibrant baby in my hands and begin to carry her into the world.

Juggling Acts

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Saturday afternoon we went to see Cirque du Soleil, my first experience of this wonderful treat. For a few hours we were enthralled by acrobats, clowns, mimes, music, and jugglers. At times there was so much going on onstage that I couldn’t keep up. My eyes darted from one character to the next, back and forth, trying to take it all in.

Sounds a lot like life.

Last week we made the sudden decision to try to buy a house, and now we are in the midst of negotiations. On the one hand, I am thrilled to think that we might have a home of our own. While I love our rental–it’s spacious, bright, and roomy–it’s not mine. On the other, I worry about all my projects.

Here I am, about 75% complete on P&O’s book layout but dealing with the most difficult part, the images. Over the weekend I discovered that I will need to do some unexpected additional work to prepare for When a Grandchild Dies reprints. I’m struggling to find nooks and crannies of time to work on Exodus. Now I’m getting ready to clear out clutter and pack up a three-bedroom house?

Sounds a lot like Cirque du Soleil.

So I get through it like I always do. I set up lists. I re-evaluate all of my self-imposed timelines to see if anything can be moved around. I try to nibble at everything at least a little bit every day. I keep up with my yoga practice, which calms me down and gives me fresh ideas for how to make everything work. And I remind myself that even the best juggler drops a ball now and then.

A Bad Day Writing is Better Than a Good Day Doing Anything Else

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Today I printed a draft layout of Patchwork and Ornament. Taken from the journals and writings of my late mother-in-law, Jenny Feldman, P&O details her life from growing up in the South Bronx during the Depression, to her life as an artist and world traveler.

While I have a ways to go before it’s ready to go to print, I get goosebumps looking at the work. I am totally in love with it, not just because I love the author but because I think it’s really good.

Last year I left my corporate job with the intention of taking a year off to write. At the end of that year, my husband and I decided to extend my hiatus indefinitely, and each day I head to my writing area by about 8:00 a.m. and go to work. As with any job, some days I don’t want to do it. Some days the writing doesn’t go well, or I wonder if I will ever learn to write at all.

But today, when I look at the draft and see how far it’s come in a short time, I am filled with a satisfaction and joy that I find nowhere else. In these moments, just as after childbirth, I forget the pain and gaze with wonder at this new creation.

Writing can be isolating, lonely, and discouraging at times. We work hard, sometimes for years, and the work doesn’t always see the printed light of day. Even if it does, it may not sell. Still, I accept this life because of these magical moments, when everything comes together, and I feel like I know who I am.