Category Archives: Musings
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The Gift in the Darkness

It all started with the spark of this article that resurrected—literally—a character from my past. He was one of those mythic wanderers who blew in and out of my life as a child, one of many colorful people who influenced me then and even now in the landscape of my writing.

I often say jokingly that I was raised by hippies, but I’ve realized lately that I was actually raised by artists—both the frustrated and the productive kind—as well as intellectuals who prized the arts, reading, and philosophical discussion.

A lot of this talent and intensity got hijacked by the drug culture of the 70s, and derailed these painters and musicians and writers for many years. Some of my most beloved “extended family” never recovered and never went on to create.

But I grew up in this intensely artistic, wildly creative (and I mean wild as in uncensored, rebellious) group of adults. I was an only child in a cast of young adults (At nearly 39 I now realize these were barely more than kids in their 20s) who were giving their parents’ post-war ideals and values the bird. Their boundaries were diffuse, and I believe that they saw themselves as pursuing higher consciousness and elevated art, activism and world change. And some of them kept at it and succeeded, though not many.

Though my upbringing was full of uncertainty and even outright terror at times, I’m coming to see the gift tucked inside the darkness. For the last four days material I’ve long chewed on has come pouring out of me. Nearly 100 pages, a flow so profuse it has taken over my waking and dreaming life, etched in the imagery of the lush, wealthy, wacky community of Marin County, California, where I grew up. After years of slogging at writing with occasional euphoria, exercising it with the same struggle I endure to get my actual muscles in shape, I know how rare and tenuous such an outpouring is. I can’t remember that last time I wrote so much in a single day since I was a child.

I’ve spent years trying to find entry into the material of my past that isn’t judgmental of these key players; only since becoming a mother myself 5 years ago, have I come to understand how hard life can be under the best of circumstances, with all my sober faculties about me. I believe they knew not what they did at the time. More than that, I’ve started to prize the infusion of creativity I inherited from them, without the addiction to boot.

For it is that child, steeped in literature and free expression, hedonism, drugs, exuberance, terror, awe and confusion who is speaking in my pages, telling a story at last, that doesn’t mean to point fingers of blame, but rather to say: I was there, it was wild, and it shaped me. And what’s more, now that I have lived away from my origins for over a decade, as I write it into being in the pages of this raw baby novel, I realize that for all my annoyance and frustration, I will always love where I come from for making me who I am.

The Day I Killed the Internet

woman under water

It was not a good week for just about anyone with eyes, ears and an internet connection. Oh, funny you should mention that, here let me explain: Monday night I received some truly awful, terrible, no good criticism–if vague and half-incorrect summaries could be call that–of my writing. Though I’ve had so much more good than bad, its poison dart made contact with my heart and suddenly all optimism and confidence turned dark and sour.  Tuesday morning, in a fug of negativity, I logged on to find out the results of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award to see who had made it to the semi-finals. Alas. I could not get online (nor did I make it to the semi-finals). Not on the computer and not even on my “smart”phone.  I even harbored the delusion that my terrible mood itself, with its weather-disrupting intensity, had somehow killed the internet.

Within hours, logic restored thanks to my friend with her police scanner, we learned there had been some fairly large-scale vandalism of the fiber-optic cables that provide internet and cellphone service not only to my town but ranging as far north as San Francisco. In light of other terrible US news, this hit a scary place in me.

I felt trapped with the poison of doubt, suddenly disconnected from all those I plug in to every day. In fear that I might never get it back, and who or what would I be then?

And like any addict, I went a little bit insane. I found that I could not do anything productive. Nothing. I tried to shop. I roamed my backyard like a rabid dog. I lay on my living room floor running over the list of things I was “supposed” to be doing. I moved things around on my desk. I stared at sticky spots on my linoleum. I felt as though I was underwater in a void of sound and activity; even the air felt thick and slow moving.

So I picked up my journal. Wrote a few sentences.

Watered my garden.

Read several chapters of this great book.

Played silly games with my son.

And realized, only about the very end of the day, that my world had actually not stopped turning.

That, in truth, after weeks of complaining of how busy and overwhelmed I was, a forced stillness felt, though I was loathe to admit it, damn good.

It is so rarely that I let myself do nothing, or do little.

And after just a taste of it, the internet was restored, and with it the tidal waves of information and electronic impulses that, while they connect me to a number of people, also, at times, pull me out of myself.

And so I’m left at the end of that brief, odd, collapsed vortex with an urge for less. So much less. A “less-ness” that allows for more presence, awareness, time.

I’m giving it a try. Letting go. Asking for more help. Taking more deep breaths.

Join me?

On My Brother’s Birthday

young boy statue

Maybe Me

by Elliott Rosenfeld

I am a huge statue
People tiptoe past me in awe
I am the shape of the
writhing twisting thoughts of the people

Once I knew feelings
Now I only express the feelings of others

I am made of exquisite stone
constructed of the burning agony
of the human soul

Today is my brother’s 24th birthday. He wrote that poem above when he was just 10 years old, his bright little brain reading Greek and Norse Mythology and turning out some profound stuff. I love it for so many reasons–not the least of which is that it illustrates what I have always felt: that we share a similar heightened sensitivity to the world, the kind of thin membrane that makes writers out of tender souls. I was 14 years old the day he was born, sitting idly in a math class daydreaming stories I’d rather be writing. When the secretary showed up with the little pink slip announcing there was someone there to pick me up, I knew what had happened. I will not forget the first moment I held him, the way his limbs opened and dangled outside of the blanket–it gave me a sense that he felt safe with me. I knew that my life would be even more different now. I had a new family, yes, but I had a sibling after 14 years of being the only one.

He probably finds it annoying that all these years later I still see that little tow-headed boy with the intense curiosity and the quicksilver mind. Looking past the beard and the college degree and the girlfriend and the full-time job, I see him no older than my own 4 year old son is now, climbing up on my bed in the mornings of my angsty teenage years. The sight of him, and my soon-to-follow sister (two years younger than him) has always inspired an unexplainable joy, as though I am not alone in the world. For many years I didn’t have that comfort.

And whether or not he stays with the writer’s path, there is undoubtedly a writer’s soul in him.

And so I say happy birthday, writer to writer, to my one and only brother.

Consciously Evolve…in just Five Minutes a Day

butterfly_Transformation

A couple of years ago my husband and I took our then 2-year-old son to the Academy of Sciences in San Francisco. One exhibit that captivated me so powerfully I considered driving back up there on my own with my journal on another day was a climate-controlled simulated rain forest in a dome. And, flying around without any barriers between you, are a host of multi-colored butterflies, some nearly as big as your hand. If you are very, very still, a butterfly might land on you.

What is it about the butterfly that is so primally captivating? It’s just a bug, after all, and not even one that has fancy stingers or slimy poison or the ability to mate with itself.

I think it’s the butterfly’s marvelous and magical process of starting out as a gimpy little caterpillar and then transforming into something with beautiful wings, able to fly, which speaks to the human soul. I think it’s in human nature to want to consciously evolve in a way our animal and insect partners cannot.

In order to evolve, we have to discover, gain insight. And oftentimes, this means we have to hurt. The caterpillar must earn the butterfly it becomes–it can’t be comfortable or easy to spin that cocoon, and to undergo such a massive change inside it–for the soft flesh of caterpillar-ness to slough away, and the long, fine legs and wings of butterfly-dom to appear. It must hurt. It must be work. 

It’s work to look into oneself and open further to the world, to other people. Most of us don’t change willy-nilly; usually we have to be pushed, thrust toward it. And while it’s often maddening to someone in a painful process to hear others offer epithets like “this will only make you stronger”…I’ve come to believe that there is, in fact, that possibility inside all painful experience. It’s a choice to transform, however. Not an easy choice.

Transformation is work. In fiction, a character has to undergo a death of some kind in order to transform by narrative’s end. This may or may not be a literal death–the death of illusion, the death of trust or belief also suffice–but in the geometry of a hero’s journey, the hero doesn’t transform without a major discovery and a major loss.

Writing is undoubtedly a process of discovery, and in discovering things, we inevitably transform a little bit.

It’s what makes writing worthwhile for me when it’s hard, when it’s fraught with rejection, or when the words are recalcitrant mules refusing to align in a satisfying way.

In writing, you meet yourself, whether you write fiction or non-fiction–directly. When you write, you become both observer and observed, and that facilitates an engagement with the self that has the potential to lead to change.

Even if you are not a writer, I invite you today to spend just 5 minutes writing something, anything, that you’ve been thinking about. See what you find.  Try it for a few days in a row.

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Breathe. Write. Shine

I found this graphic and though I don’t know where it comes from originally, I absolutely love it. It speaks to me so clearly.

Whether you are a writer or not, you can still take this advice:

Breathe. Go on, do it now. Deeply. Slowly. Close your eyes even. Feels good, doesn’t it?

Write. Journal; do morning pages; make a list of ways you plan to be nicer to yourself; write a letter to someone you miss; put a love note in your honey’s lunch, or your child’s; write a secret note and tuck it in the pages of a book someone is reading; write a positive mantra to a stranger and leave it on a bench.

Shine. Ah, this one I like the most. I think of it as: Let yourself be yourself–don’t judge, don’t make yourself smaller, don’t hide. Say what you mean, ask for what you deserve. Tell someone something you’ve been wanting to say. Create. Make art. Get silly. Laugh when you might try to control. Say yes to something new.

This is your work for the day.

I have faith you can do this.

keep-calm-and-dare-greatly

Dare Greatly: Make Your Own Path

One of my dear friends sent me the lovely quote below by the great Theodore Roosevelt. It struck a chord I’d already been thinking about–namely that as writers we are often waiting to be discovered, stumbled upon, magically brought into the light with the kind of overnight success that only a very few people ever see. And when that doesn’t happen, it’s too easy to give in to despair. How many times have you, or someone you know, had to be “talked off the ledge” of certain failure? Countless times. We see success as a thing that is supposed to happen all at once, in one big dramatic explosion, rather than a series of steady, but consistent, efforts.

On the other hand, there are all kinds of people throwing themselves into the “arena” as Roosevelt says, whether or not they have talent. They don’t give a hoot who says what.

Which will you be?

The one who waits and despairs. 

Or the one who jumps into the arena and does the work?

You can’t let criticism stop you; there will always be critics. But your writing career is yours alone. Nobody cares about it more than you do. Nobody will work for it harder than you will.

“It is not the critic who counts;
not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled
or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man
who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly;
who errs and comes short again and again;
who knows great enthusiasms,
the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;
who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement,
and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while
DARING GREATLY
so that his place shall never be
with those timid souls
who know neither victory or defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

Stepping stones provide a safe passage through deep water

Baby Steps of Success: Writers, Claim Everything

In the life of a writer I’ve learned that you must count all successes, no matter how small. There was a time I saved those “personalized” rejection letters because it meant an editor had taken the time to tell me what could be better, or what they had liked.

I also used to keep a notebook when Becca Lawton and I were writing Write Free: Attracting the Creative Life, of anything that even remotely smacked of success: a stranger commented on a blog post; an editor agreed to look at an article on spec; my writing teacher didn’t hate my story. You know, anything that made me feel slightly proud or happy about my efforts.

That strategy has kept me going for years in the dark times, through the inevitable and rough patches of disappointment and despair. It’s a gentle, loving way to take care of yourself. If the only success you ever count are the big ones, you may only ever have a few things in a lifetime to feel good about.

Baby Steps of Success Checklist:

1. Post positive feedback where you can see it daily

2. Keep a “baby steps of success” notebook and write down anything that makes you feel good about your efforts

3. Ask writing partners and friends to tell you what they like about your writing, what your strengths are

4. Spin rejection. Ask–what’s the lesson here? What can I do better, differently?

5. Proclaim! Share with others when you have a success. Let yourself be cheered and championed by those who love and admire you.

I’ll share one of mine with you that’s actually a little bigger than my usual baby success. My novel, Forged in Grace, made it through 1,000 submissions in the Amazon Break Through Novel Award to be one of 100 quarter-finalists. Share one with me! 

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10 Reasons Why Writing is Good For You

Last year one of my most viewed posts was this simple list reminding writers who find themselves discouraged, stuck or otherwise, that there are very good reasons to keep writing beyond the big Pie in the Sky of publishing. I thought I’d pull it back out as a reminder to you:

  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

Comment here with your own reasons why, and my favorite will win a free digital copy of Forged in Grace.

One Thing at a Time

I often read two books at a time: one on my kindle, one in hard copy—their different tones competing for space in my head. I almost always work on more than one freelance project in a given week, and really, most of the time, I’m gnawing on multiple pieces of my own fiction. To be really honest, I often have my phone, my kindle and my laptop all spread out on the couch before me in the wee hours before my son wakes.  And  how many times do I find myself toting a child who is really too old to be carried anymore, a shopping bag, my purse, and a sweaty brow?

Imagine what our lives would be like if we did only one thing at a time?

For 2 weeks my three year old is home from his usual routine of 4 days of pre-school. I thought that I would be harried, overwhelmed, annoyed. And there is, I cannot lie, a definite sense of not having enough “me time.” But honestly? When all there is to do is focus on being his mom, and there’s not enough time to worry about work or writing, then I simply don’t worry about them. Strangely,  just being his mom actually is a lot easier when I let go of my attempt to also work and write.

And in those wee hours before he wakes, I do write or work, and relish in the peace of being able to focus.

What would it be like to focus on one thing, one aspect, one goal for your writing this year? Maybe even just an intention for it: like learning to write crisp, tense dialogue; or committing to writing every day. Or something more nebulous: to write only work that makes YOU happy. And what about every time you sat down to work on it, you did not try to hold the whole thing in mind, but focused on only one aspect: one scene, one conversation, one powerful description of a setting, one free flowing moment of words streaming on the page?

Though I suppose it is unrealistic for us to do only one thing at a time in most aspects of our lives, I encourage you, exhort you even, to try it when and where you can. In your material world, and in the world of your words.

Let’s make 2012 be the year we do things slowly, carefully, patiently. Play with our children wholeheartedly. Feel our feet on the earth. Read every word in a book. Write as though there is absolutely nothing else pulling on you.

Happy almost New Year

Look for my new classes in 2012: Plot Intensive, and Novel Intensive

To Thine Own Self…

I had the great fortune to be a presenter this past weekend at the Central Coast Writer’s Conference in Morro Bay. It’s a funny thing to be a presenter in the years since my book Make a Scene was published. I’ve been an attendee plenty of times, and like many of you I am still on the hard scrabble journey to publish my fiction, even though I’ve published two non-fiction books, short stories, and articles. There’s this invisible line that exists in the minds of the non-published…they are on one side of it, and you the published people, on the other, more hallowed side of it, and thus are somehow “better.” I’ve never liked these kinds of lines, and when I wasn’t published, was always eager to worm my way over that line into the hearts and minds of those writers. I knew, intuitively, logically, that they were just people like me.

Published writers, are, in fact, just people. They are not magicians, though they may write like it. They are not above you, though they may act like it.

And this conference was a wonderful example of the published writers blurring that line as much as possible to make the aspiring writers feel included. And the best advice I heard all weekend seemed to fall into a category that I will sum up as “To thine own self be true.”

Yes, please work on your craft and master the basics of writing. Read the masters, and those in the genres you write, and hobnob and shmooze and get feedback. Do the “chop wood, carry water” aspects of the craft because it’s the only way to get there. But above that:

Write because you love it.

Write WHAT you love.

Write to tell yourself a story–and then make it so good that others will want to hear it too.

Publish your own work if you feel that you can better reach an audience, or more immediately.

Publish your work so that you can have a feeling of achievement and meaning in your life.

Get an agent, and seek publication through mainstream channels.

In other words: DO what is right for YOU.

Don’t listen to the voices out there that tell you to be otherwise.

Take advice to heart. Listen to criticism with an open ear.

But Write what makes you happy to be writing it, day in and day out.

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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