Raising a Man

I am raising a man. Despite that he is three, a sweet-cheeked little tyke with cowlicks who likes to cuddle his mama and sleeps with a horde of stuffed animals, I try to remember this every day.

Though this man-in-progress is just as prone to ask to wear his fairy wings as he is to turn his dinner sausages into things that shoot, I feel a wretched kind of tenderness watching him move from baby to boy—from a being who has very little consciousness of his gender to one who, at age three, already has gleaned that the culture around him says “pink is for girls,” “boys are naughty” and other such gems.

Regularly, I hear terrible things said of men. Whether in the casual way that women sometimes talk about men who have wronged them: “He’s an immature idiot. Men just don’t understand feelings. Men are pigs.” Or on the larger scale: Men are rapists, seek to dominate, men are greedy, gluttonous powerbrokers. Or worse, because of its prevalence: the offensive TV stereotypes of men as ignorant, lazy, reluctant breadwinners who fantasize about hot chicks while they keep their nagging wives at bay so they can watch sports; the ones who can’t make their children lunches or change a diaper. Every time, a part of me cringes, my mama arms want to reach out and shield my son from becoming a person who may someday be lumped into a category that says: your gender makes you bad/stupid.

On the playground, in school, in groups, I see it all the time: people think girls are easier, better, somehow superior. And as a woman, a feminist, raised in a culture where the hard evidence over the centuries is that yes, women have been subjugated/mistreated, I continually find myself in a bind. The only answer is to come back to the one that feminism and really, any sort of activism, is striving for: equality.

I can’t leave it to society to teach him how to be the kind of man I hope he will be, one who strives for and values equality. It’s up to us, his parents, to teach him to tune it out, look through the hype, somehow combat the pack mentality that will hit in his teens. It’s our job to remind him: You are tender, you are human, you are bigger than the stereotypes that will try to pull you down and under, that will try to shave off your decency and humanity because of that x chromosome.

And there will be people who think that my effort to do this means I will aim to make my son weak, feminine, less than. But I don’t care–that attitude is stupidity to me.

I’m raising a man. I hope a strong, sensitive, fair-minded, equality-loving man.

Sidetracked.

This is supposed to be the second blog about writing and creativity today, but I am sidetracked by things I’ve been reading about grief, about how we force our children to Learn and Achieve when what they need is to be Seen and Loved. I’m derailed by my three year-old son’s sweaty nape at naptime, how he pulls me in close for a big kiss and several hugs—actions that already feel fleeting…(how long does a boy want his mama to cuddle him?); the way he comes wandering down the hallway looking for his “baby kitty” so he can nap safely. I’m remembering my own brother, similarly a sweet little tow-head at the same age, waking teenaged me up by banging loudly on my bedroom door with our younger sister, barely out of infanthood herself, that final year I lived at home. How short the window of time when we were a family, living in the same space, sharing meals, and how, as an only child most of my life, all I ever wanted were siblings to ease my own disorientation. The ones I got came after my childhood was almost completely cemented; they were still sucking binkies when I went off to college, and in the same way, I spent much of their childhoods waiting for them to be “of age” so we could “relate” the way I imagined siblings do.

And of course, none of it has played out as I imagined. In one way, I feel lucky, in another, I feel immense sadness.

In general I’m feeling a little bit slayed by how at the same time as you love your children, and family, the fear of their loss is invoked (and for people close to me, that loss has even been realized in ways I can’t imagine). Every year of my son’s life I am learning (often in very hard ways) that what really matters is being present for life as it unfolds. That not every conflict will be resolved; that not every grief will be calmed by time; that not every wound will be amended. That if the bulk of my days is spent in activities like drawing crayola colored “spirans” (spirals) for my son and playing robots (or the ever-aging equivalents of these), eating guacamole around a table full of my friends as we commiserate about things that are hard, laugh about what is ironic, or sit in my darkened living room with my husband watching streaming documentaries on Netflix—this is a full life.

I used to think writing was a tool I’d been given to go out into the world and “make something of myself.” After all, it came in handy in places of learning to know how to write, indeed to LOVE to write. I’ve suffered the most anguish in disappointments of the ego, where my lauded talent “failed” to garner me whatever it was I believed it was meant to do.

Lately I’ve come to realize writing is a necessary force for understanding grief’s codes, for feeling purposeful when we otherwise struggle to. Many of us seek out story-making and –telling if for no other reason than to carve out sense and structure inside what could easily sweep us up and away in a storm of its own making.  Perhaps the best reason to write of all.

Build Brain Power through Writing

You may not have heard, but I’m hosting a contest to win a free spot in one of my 1-week online writing intensives (December). All you have to do is submit a paragraph to me telling me why you write—hint: answers that have to do with how meaningful it is, and what it offers your heart/spirit vs. ego, are more likely to win me over. You simply post your paragraph in the “contact” space provided, or you may do so as a comment. Just make sure I know how to contact you. My ten favorites will be published on the blog. My number 1 favorite wins a class.

To help stoke your creative fires, I’ll post a blog for each of the ten reasons I originally listed” in the coming weeks.

Here’s number one:

1. Writing has been proven to have positive effects on the brain

I’m not going to pull up a bunch of studies and statistics today, but I’ve seen them all over the place—and I’ve experienced it for myself. Here’s what I notice most of all: creative writing, that is, a prolonged focus of energy spent writing, be it fresh material, or revising something, helps fight the fragmentation caused by the many streams of information and entertainment vying for our attention. I can’t concentrate, for instance, if my tweetdeck is open. Its happy trilling is just too distracting, creating a pavlovian feeling of need in me to stop what I’m doing and check it. When I allow myself to just write, without answering, checking, responding or reading anything else, my brain softens into a lovely hum, an almost trance-like state from which I awaken feeling refreshed in the same way as a nap or meditation.

Better focus leads to feeling less stress, increases a sense of happiness, health and productivity. All of these contribute to better self-esteem. And sometimes, just giving yourself that little bit of “you time” for creativity leads to a feeling of vitality and accomplishment. I don’t know about you, but I am totally into word count. Sometimes just the messy act of writing plus the number of words is enough to make me feel like a writer.

Here are some tips for allowing creativity to flow so you, too, can experience happier brain waves and less stress:

• Duh: Turn off all competing streams of information, even if the screen is just “hiding” behind what you’re working on.

• Switch it up. If you primarily write by computer, try writing longhand in a notebook away from your computer. Or if you’re attached to the pen and ink, see what happens if you take your laptop to a new location.

• Invite nature into your writing practice. The sounds of birds and wind or ocean and through branches are shockingly invigorating. Sometimes the prefabricated and contained environments of our homes and offices can actually interfere with our ability to focus and get creative.

• Experiment and play. Sit down to write, but not a new scene, or the next part of your novel. Give a minor character in your story a monologue. See how many clichés you can rewrite in more original ways. Write a series of first person narrative poems that begin, “I am…”

Make Me Tense…please

One of many things I find so marvelous about writing fiction is that what works in real life might never fly on the fictional page, and often vice versa. Fiction is a simulacrum (oh how I love pulling that word out) of reality, or even more so in the case of fantasy and science-fiction, a simulated reality. As such, most of us would not hold up under the level of tension necessary to make a novel compelling and impossible to put down. The greater the tension in fiction, the more rapt readers are; while the greater the tension in your real life, the more glasses of wine or hot lavender baths it takes to soothe away the headache (or whatever your thing is for de-stressing).

But often writers struggle to create the exact right level of tension in their fiction. Is it enough to give your character a few hassles and obstacles, make sure the language is serviceable, and hope that a few good action scenes make for a tense plot?

Nope.

Tension is a marriage of elements, of gripping conflict and powerful emotions, of high stakes and razor-sharp language. It’s making sure that in every scene, on every page, and in every line, there is something to keep the reader reading. For lack of a better word, you might also call it “electricity.” When tension is present, the writing crackles, the story unfolds as if by its own magic.

Want to take your tension up to a whole new level? Page-Turning Tension starts September 5th. Click HERE for the class catalogue and registration.

Contest: Why Writing Matters

Last week I posted a blog entry with 10 Reasons Why Writing Matters (Even When You’re Still Unpublished). Now, exciting news: I’m hosting a contest that opens tomorrow (August 15) and ends on September 30th. Send me your most original paragraph on why one of the following reasons is true for you–examples appreciated–and you will be put into a drawing to win a free spot in any one of my forthcoming 1-week intensives in December.

Submission guidelines:
Use the contact form here at the website to submit your paragraph. If your paragraph won’t fit, please email jordansmuse(at)gmail(dot)com. Please include your name and an email address so I can contact you!

Jordan’s Reasons to Write:
Creativity has been proven to have positive effects on health, self-esteem and vitality
Writing is good for your brain, creates a state similar to meditation
Writing hones your powers of observation, giving you a fuller experience of life
Writing hones your powers of concentration and attention, which is more fractured than ever thanks to technology and TV
Writing connects you with others through blogging, writing groups, live readings, and self-publishing outlets like Scribd and Smashwords.
Through writing we preserve stories and memories that may otherwise be lost
Writing entertains you and others, and having fun is an important part of good health
Writing strengthens your imagination, and imagination is key to feeling hope and joy
Writing helps heal and process wounds and grief, clearing them out
Life is too short not to do what you enjoy

Static

There’s static fritzing in my body today. It started when the world receded into the hush of night—my own rapid heartbeat, my husband’s even breathing, the white noise of my son’s bedroom the only sounds. It feels like my insides are made of steel wool, my organs scratching against one another, inflamed. There’s a heat behind my eyes, melting my vision. I don’t know if I trust what I see.

This is the feeling of emotions with no exit strategy. When I cannot say how I feel to the people I want to express myself to, words become thistles, snagging the softest corners of me into uncertainty.

I like to turn my hardships into lessons, to look for gold I can hold onto and retain later on, or maybe just to bolster myself against being blindsided. This week, I learned that there is no empirical truth in matters of the heart. Since feelings color, even change, reality, and biases sway us toward beliefs that validate our experience, one person’s truth about an event can absolutely contradict another’s.

When too many chambers of our own hearts go unexplored or unexpressed, or for too long, it usually results explosively.

I was privy to just such an explosion this week. Inside it, everyone has their own truth, and trying to explain mine will only exacerbate things. It is mine and mine alone. When what I say is translated, filtered and then transformed into another thing, even my words fail me. And things are on shifting ground.

So then the question becomes: how to hold it? My body struggles with that, the feelings maraud through the alleys of my intestines, kick up dust in my esophagus, make me sputter and creak. How do I not wear the effects on my skin? In the air around me as I walk?

I strain to channel the feelings into words. Grasp them like a cloud of dust mites, too small to be seen, and press them into a mold that makes meaning.

At moments, I fail at it.

Instead, my body speaks to me in strange code. Joints lock in my neck, barring movement, holding secrets. My face flushes with a bright red itch. My hip throbs.

When I worked as a massage therapist people often asked me if I was disgusted by anything I saw: acne, mortified toenails, secret corners of the flesh? And while there were occasional shivers of revulsion, more so I was overcome with sympathy, tenderness even, for the pains housed in the flesh, and amazed at the patterns, grief caught wandering those protective back muscles behind the lungs, nuggets of anger crouched inside the jaw.

And so I struggle with the aches of words unformed, housed in silent corridors of my bones. But the struggle is good, worthy–in seeking exit for these sensations, they cannot stay lodged for long. I may not be able to help or fix anything that has transpired, except inside myself, smoothing, and straightening and pulling straight the corners of my own frayed edges through words.

*Right as this was all happening, my dear friend Alegra Clarke, sent me this wonderful poem of Rilke’s:

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads

of her life, and weaves them gratefully

into a single cloth–

it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall

and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.

In the softness of evening

it’s you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,

the unspeaking center of her monologues.

With each disclosure you encompass more

and she stretches beyond what limits her,

to hold you.

–Rilke

Soft Landing

I think of the old adage: “sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” As a writer, I know how untrue this is. Words are at best, beauty, and at worst, weapons. We often wield them clumsily. When fueled by emotion they are often the most painful sort of cudgels and knives, driving into the soft spots inside us, opening up our wounds.

And yet, no matter how many times my words have failed me, or been turned against me, or others’ words have come splintering out of the silence in sharp and unexpected shards, I still turn back to them time and time again.

Those of us driven to understand use words as our tools of discovery. Some people have the visual or kinesthetic gifts to channel their thoughts and feelings into paint or movement. But we writers write.

Yesterday, another’s words took me by surprise, flayed me open, and left me a raw, vulnerable creature, cowering and looking for a shell. And somewhere, at the bottom of my grief, I felt this tiny gleam of warmth, of hope…that I could write about my sorrow, if not in full detail, then at least in the form of a story, or a journal page. And that gave me surprising comfort. For through the hard years of my early life, when nothing made sense, when there wasn’t a lot of comfort, writing was always there for me. My own words, reflected back on the page, kept me afloat.

Your writing may be your art and your craft but I hope that you will remember your writing is also a place to land softly, a harbor, a nest. It will never fail you if you always turn back to it.

*A note on the image…This beautiful painting captured exactly the feeling I was striving for–of our youngest self, that part always alive in us below the adult conscious mind, being safe and supported, and enchanted by writing.

10 Reasons why Writing Matters: Creating a Second Path

I think it’s safe to say that I am on a mission. As is typical of me, I didn’t know I was on one until I was deep into it. It has been inspired by working with writers for the past decade, and watching the publishing industry suffer its growing pains, not always in a very pretty or predictable way. The fallout is that writers seem to get more discouraged more often than they used to when I first started editing and coaching. It’s gotten me to thinking a lot about the purpose and power of writing, fiction or non-fiction alike. If the only reason we set out to do it is for the belief in a big contract with a mainstream publishing house, we might easily lose hope and faith as that journey unfolds because it is rarely a straight line, and it is rarely fast. So join me on what I’m calling “the second path” of writing, where we explore the many soulful, healthful reasons for writing that can help make your writing practice a daily act of joy :

  1. Creativity has been proven to have positive effects on health, self-esteem and vitality
  2. Writing is good for your brain, creates a state similar to meditation
  3. Writing hones your powers of observation, giving you a fuller experience of life
  4. Writing hones your powers of concentration and attention, which is more fractured than ever thanks to technology and TV
  5. Writing connects you with others through blogging, writing groups, live readings, and self-publishing outlets like Scribd and Smashwords.
  6. Through writing we preserve stories and memories that may otherwise be lost
  7. Writing entertains you and others, and having fun is an important part of good health
  8. Writing strengthens your imagination, and imagination is key to feeling hope and joy
  9. Writing helps heal and process wounds and grief, clearing them out
  10. Life is too short not to do what you enjoy

About Jordan


Author of FORGED IN GRACE, Jordan E. Rosenfeld learned early on that people prefer a storyteller to a know-it-all. She channeled any Hermione-esque tendencies into a career as a writing coach, editor and freelance journalist and saves the Tall Tales for her novels. She lives in Northern California with her superhero-obsessed son, Psychologist husband and their tuxedo cat, Elvert.

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