Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

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Revision Surprises

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I have written previously about taking twenty years to finish one novel…and I’m still not satisfied. Who knew that I would write the second one in about six months? I started Change of Plans about a year ago when some wonderful women entered my brain and started to tell their stories. I had one real problem: Claire, a corporate attorney and force of nature, started to take over the book. As writers, when this happens we have two choices. First, we can go with it and let the character lead the way. However, I really felt that this story was best as an ensemble piece. Claire and I duked it out for a few months and came to an agreement. I would have a lot of fun letting her character loose on the page and, in return, she would let me include the stories of the other characters. Once we negotiated our settlement, I finished the draft easily–too easily. Normally accustomed to sweating over every word, I am flummoxed about how well the first draft came out. I’m currently revising, and yes, I find areas to work on, but no major plot problems or difficulties. Mainly, I’m revising particular scenes to up their ante, and wondering what I am missing in the text to have it come out so well so soon.

In the meantime, that first novel still won’t let me be. I’ve vacillated between letting it go to move on (Change of Plans came about by doing so), or digging deeper. As I have poked and prodded with this story, it still compels me. I have chased after it for years, struggling to find the right voice, even changing genres in the process. Slowly, with persistence, the real story is starting to emerge. I have removed all supernatural references but added many historical ones. I changed the time setting from 1980 to 1970, which added an interesting dimension to the story as I incorporated the turmoil of that time period. As I keep going, I see how this story has required me to grow as a writer first in order to tell it properly.

Last week I reread the draft. Pleased with the writing and flow of the story, something still nagged at me. I’ve come so much closer to where the story should be, but I still hadn’t gone far enough. Something was missing, and I felt determined to find it. I took a walk to clear my head. As I did so, an insistent idea emerged: change the story to first person.

I couldn’t wait to get home and try out my theory. So far I am about 20% into a new draft, and the change works well. The oddest part is to write “I” and “me” but still be somebody else, and her voice has the authority I’ve looked for all this time. I’m ready to let her lead the way now, because she knows better than I what to say–and it’s coming out almost as easily as the voices in Change of Plans.

This process of discovery excites me, and that, more than anything, is my reason for writing. I know people who can plan their novels ahead of time and set up tidy outlines, but I seem to need multiple, messy drafts with lots of walks in between to sort out what I want to say. I love the surprises my characters bring to me, and I’m excited about the months to come as I move from revisions to seeking an agent. Change of Plans is ready for that stage, and soon, I hope, a new and improved Blood and Loam.

Reconnecting to the Blog

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Author Sherman Alexie wrote that the more words you put in your blog, the less words you’re putting into your novel. I paraphrase, I’m sure, but that was the gist of it. He’s right, but I think I’ve taken his advice a tad too far, having disappeared from this blog for several months. I spent that time writing a novel, tentatively titled Change of Plans, which only took six months to draft versus 20 years for Blood and Loam, which I continue to revise. Now it’s time for a little balance. Yes, Sherman, I believe you, but I’m in the revision phase, and blogging allows me to continue to write without making heavy commitments to a new project. I need to write every day, or I get cranky. So there.

I first encountered Alexie’s work many years ago in an independent bookshop in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, a collection of connected short stories that would later appear in movie form in Smoke Signals, literally fell on my head. That got my attention. Later, after reading other works by him, I heard him speak in Houston and stuttered and stammered as I stood in front of him for a book signing. Given our long literary relationship, then, when I read his comment about blogging I decided to heed his advice.

Besides, I needed time to figure out what this blog is about. I wrote about writing and travel, but the garden had started to take over, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Before 2010 I couldn’t tell you a thing about gardening, and suddenly my passion for the subject threatened to hijack this blog and turn it into something very different from what I had intended.

I also needed to step away from the whole blogging as marketing thing. Yes, I sell books, and I won’t turn anyone down who wants to buy one, but more than anything I want to connect with others, writers or not, who may have an interest in what I have to say. I write because I breathe, whether or not anything sells, and I hope not to stop writing until I stop breathing.

The net result of my pondering is that I have moved my gardening thoughts to a new blog, Art of the Garden (artofthegarden.wordpress.com). Also, if I feel the need to write about yoga, which I do from time to time, I’m putting those musings on the YogaHub.com website. If you are into yoga, check them out for some cool online yoga programs.

As I move forward into 2011, I am seeking agent representation for at least one of the novels, maybe two. I’ll share those adventures, along with some upcoming fun stuff: a literary tour of Massachusetts in April, and a writing retreat in Vermont in May. I’ll introduce the characters in Change of Plans and share stories of how this book developed and what I see for its future. I’ll talk about what’s going on at She Writes, where I’ve increased my involvement. I’ll share details of the annual Writers’ League of Texas Agents and Editors conference. I’m currently working on the text for a yoga relaxation recording that I’ll offer for free to anyone who is stressed out. In other words, there’s no shortage of possibilities as to what I’ll write about here, and the year is just getting started!

It’s great to be back. Thanks, Sherman, for getting me to write a novel. I’ll take it from here.

Empty Spaces

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This morning I harvested the remainder of my leeks, right next to where I pulled out the broccoli which had lost its battle with cabbage worms. It has left a gaping emptiness in about a quarter of the main vegetable bed.

Last week, as I knew of the pending available space, I looked at my planting guide to see what goodies I could add–an instant replacement of what I had lost. While there were numerous options, nothing excited me. Instead, I noticed a variety of sweet corn that I could plant in September. September? That seems so far away. I had gotten used to every inch of dirt being covered in greenery, and the blank, dark space feels naked.

In the process of building this garden, I have had to surrender to a definition of time not familiar to me. I wanted to write a “new” definition of time, but it is a timeless definition that existed eons before I did, a rhythm that will last long after I shed my body. Even after several months it still feels strange, and I want to jump in, to control, to make things happen…but Nature has other ideas.

Timing in my cooking has also changed. Recently we bought a solar oven. I thought, why not? We get plenty of sun in Houston, and I don’t use the kitchen’s oven in the summertime because the house gets too hot. This seemed the perfect solution. Of course, then I started cooking in it, and reality set in. Some days are cloudier than others. I also have to move the oven frequently to work around the shade provided by nearby trees. Some days it rains.

Over time, I’ve discovered that the best time to set food out to cook is about 11:00 a.m. After about 4:00 p.m., catching the afternoon sun gets trickier, either due to clouds or blockages to the sun’s view. Sometimes we have our main meal at lunchtime. Other times, we manage to keep food safely warm until dinner, though we do the main cooking earlier in the day. Once I had to finish a meal in the oven, but I just needed about ten minutes’ cooking time. If it’s a week with a high percentage chance of storms, I choose recipes that I can make on the stovetop if the sun doesn’t cooperate.

In other words, I play the hand I’m dealt. I’ve had to adjust, and in the beginning I wondered, “What am I thinking?” I kept at it, though, mainly because I’m curious about things. I want to explore my need to control the rhythms of life vs. following nature’s. I want to understand why a patch of bare garden feels so sad. I want to know what happens in the rest of my life when I live not by my rhythms, but Thine’s. Does it change my writing (other than that I’m always writing about the garden!)? Does it alter my relationship? Does time feel more or less elastic, or does that change with my attitude?

I’ve decided to wait until September and plant the corn. I’ll spend some time with the space, maybe composting, mulching, and weeding it, enriching the soil for its next important job. I’ll continue to listen to what the empty space tells me, and I will breathe into that discomfort to hear its stories…and perhaps, to write them down. In the meantime, I’m cooking a curry outside, and I need to make sure it’s getting enough sun.

Creative Non-Writing

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It  takes a lot of energy to not write. Or, in my case, to not work on my main project, the new novel. Each day I wake up and say, yes, this is the day–and, more often than not, I end the day in disappointment for not having met this commitment to myself.

I tell myself that yes, I am writing. On recent travels, of which there have been several, I keep a detailed notebook of my experiences, many of which will be expanded, exaggerated, pulled like taffy until they no longer resemble what really happened. Case in point: recently I took my first kayaking trip. Later, I sent a group of my characters on a kayaking trip, and I tipped one of the boats. It’s not what happened, though it represents my fear of what could have happened.

So, I tell myself, nothing is wasted. At least I’m writing. Sometimes my blogs are a way to knock the rust off and put something, anything, out there.

Still, my travels have taught me something. On our recent trip to Vancouver and Vancouver Island, we visited a number of sensational gardens, the crowning glory of which were the Butchart Gardens near Victoria. We fell in love with Vancouver Island and are already talking about when we can go back. My husband, Henry, talked about an extended visit. “Here’s the problem,” I said. “We’re going to see all these great gardens, but I have one of my own at home. I don’t want to just enjoy the work of others, I want to do the work myself.”

Same thing with writing. I am reading some wonderful books right now. On our trip, I was introduced to the art and writings of Emily Carr, one of Canada’s most beloved eccentric figures. Her written words roll around in my mouth like chocolate, filled with imagery as distinct as her paintings. I wish I could do that, I tell myself. Then, why don’t you? Why don’t you? It’s great to read her words–certainly, writers should be tireless readers–but what am I waiting for? It’s time to get my own words on the page.

Henry and I talked about it when we came home. I told him of the troubles I was having with the novel, how the beginning, which students in a writing class had oohed and aahed over, caused me to paint myself into a corner. I was faced with a dilemma of a character wanting to hijack the whole story. I had two choices: allow her to do so and to see what happened, or continue my original vision, which involved a group of women. I decided on the latter, promising Claire that she still gets to be the star of the show. I sat down and rewrote the beginning, creating a totally different starting point that lets everyone introduce herself. The next morning, I woke up with new ideas of what to change, add, and to write next. That’s when I know I’m back to work!

Truth is, I’m harder to live with when I’m not writing. Heaviness covers me like a winter cloak, and I become resentful. The more I don’t write, the more I fear writing, so then I walk around with that layer of fear as well. Exhausted, I let the needs of others become more important, and I don’t insist on my writing time. If nothing else, I am incredibly creative in my procrastination. When I am writing, I feel energized. Back in the days of my life in the corporate world, I wrote on my lunch hour and felt totally refreshed when starting my afternoon. I may tell you in times of writer’s block that I’m too tired to write, but that’s not true. Writing, especially when I am tired, is the best thing I can do for myself.

Still, I’m back on track. I’ve solved the first problem of the novel, and now I will work toward the others. I’m about to go out of town again on a volunteer trip, and my plan is to find a way to write each day, even if it’s just a page or two, but to keep the novel going.

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.

Of Base Emotions, Savagery, and Survival

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As I turn more to writing fiction, I find myself, more and more, observing human nature and emotions. For decades now, I have created my own laboratory, observing what I want to feel and what I don’t. I try to determine what is truly authentic emotion, and what I set up to create a distraction. It’s not an easy journey, and at times I still struggle with accepting the most base part of myself–and others. We live in a modern society, but our actions often stem from the need to survive. We see it in the BP oil spill, which has set up complex methods to ensure its survival. We the people watch in horror as the spill continues to unfold.

There are heroes in this scenario. Billy Nungesser, president of Placquemines Parish, spends day after day working, pleading, and creating unique solutions–including wet-dry vacuums. Kevin Costner, of Hollywood elite, has spent nearly 20 years and millions of dollars of his own money to invest in a spill clean-up solution.

Emotions run high. Proponents of drilling fear that the moratorium will cost jobs. Opponents of drilling beg that the moratorium be long enough to identify and solve problems. Political posturing adds to the mix, as candidates rush to have their points of view aired. Of course, this entire year has been one where fear and anger have threatened to drown us, and more and more I have had to dig deeply inside of myself to find an elusive serenity.

I often turn to my garden when feeling battered. Even if I just walk around and look at everything, I feel cheered and energized. I marvel at Mother Nature and her resilience. Today, though, I had to face a different reality. My broccoli plants continue to be plagued by cabbage worms, and even the presence of wasps, their predators, hasn’t helped. If I don’t do something, the plants will die. My Monarch caterpillars knew not to kill the milkweed; the cabbage worms will gorge until the plant dies.

The best organic gardening solution, other than bringing the beneficial pests (my garden is new, so they’re just starting to arrive), is to pick the worms off the plant and kill them. I consider myself a pacifist, and I hate the thought of destroying any kind of life–but I also am not willing to give up on plants that have worked so hard to survive. So, out I went with my bucket of soapy water, a sponge, and gloves. As I washed the leaves and turned them over, one by one, I encountered dozens of them. My squeamishness ended far more quickly than I would care to admit. I felt angry and violated. I felt as though a member of my family had been personally attacked. I killed them. I yelled at them. I called them nasty names. And the Observer in me watched curiously at this part of myself that I don’t like to admit exists.

The worms hide in dark places on the plants, underneath the leaves, sometimes at the seam of where a stem meets a larger stalk. Like the dark places within my own soul, I have to find them by turning each part of me over and looking in those dark places. I didn’t want to admit that those worms exist, or at least not so many of them, and I avoided today’s killing spree for weeks because I just didn’t want them to be there. I hoped the wasps would take over and do my job–but it was, as always, up to me.

Truth is, the more I examine those dark places, the more I understand my own nature, and the nature of humanity as a whole. We find ways to survive, and some of them are not pretty. No matter what amount of inner work we do, we will still always have those dark places. The best I can hope for is to see them with love, and to bring them to my characters as a fearless writer. Maybe, in the process, I can find more easily the other part inside, the Billy Nungesser or Kevin Costner, and bring them to my characters as well. We need to accept and embrace our dark sides, but hopefully, we can then find our light.