Tess Rosen Writes

     The world is a bit of a dumpster fire right now (see last two posts). Nonetheless, amidst all of the burning garbage, my book still needs to be written. Unless one of you wants to write it and give me credit (jk... unless...). I will, of course, continue to share other pieces I write as they come to my heart and mind, but right now I'm focusing on outlining my novel. It's productive and  a welcomed distraction!  As I shared when I started this blog, I want to keep a diary of my writing process, so here's what I've been up to aside from writing emotional poetic prose pieces about antisemitism.      This summer, I decided I would warm up my writing muscles before digging into the novel journey by trying out some techniques on a short story. With this warm-up story, my goal was to practice writing in the same genre as my novel, incorporating multiple perspectives, developing characters, and finding my voice. It was also incredibly valuable in te...

Last week at religious school…  Two seventh grade boys asked if we could take a moment or two  to talk about something that happened at their school that afternoon. Of course. They shared that someone carved a swastika into a bathroom stall – so large that they have to replace the entire wall. I asked them how they felt.  They both muttered, “Really scared.” All I could say was, “That’s fair. I’m so sorry, that’s so awful, and I’m so glad you shared.” And they nodded.  And I nodded. And the rest of the class nodded. Sharing an impromptu moment of silence in a way. We acutely understood each other’s heartache that day; every one of us clearly hearing all the words we didn’t say.  We just needed to feel with each other for a little bit.  To share the pain. To honor it. Then, moments later, they were all back to being seventh graders.  Talking over each other, sitting in inventive positions in their chairs, tossing around fidget toys.  Someone is sud...

Since October 7th, I've been having trouble putting my feelings into words. To be clear, this has never been my problem. In fact, my struggle is usually quite the opposite; I can't shut up about how I'm feeling. Now, in the wake of true horror, the "right" words just won't come.  There is a great deal I'd like to express in regards to this issue, but acknowledging the power of social media is most prevalent for me at the moment. As an emotionally intelligent adult, I know it shouldn't matter. As a millenial, I know how much it does. I've sat down to write this post several times, and each time I back out of the draft and start again. How can I encapsulate what I'm feeling without putting a target on my back? Even if only one person reads this post, one vengeful person is all it takes to put my community at risk. When I recognize that the full scope of my words may be too much for whatever reason, I typically pull back and turn inward. I turn to...

Wrapping up the school year is always emotionally exhausting for everyone involved, but the added pressure of leaving the coworkers and students that I love so much made completing my last year of teaching particularly trying. Many hugs were had, tears were shed, and heartfelt words were exchanged. I spent two straight weeks crying on and off (in and out of the classroom) and taking in every moment I could with the career I had worked so hard to build before setting it aside to chase a dream. I was grateful when summer officially started and I could relax and recover for a few weeks before jumping into my writing. I'm confident that leaving teaching was the best choice for me in this phase of life, but those close to me also know how much I'll miss the parts of the job that kept me going for six years. Hence, the aforementioned emotional departure. All summer long, those same people have been asking me, "How do you think you'll feel when everyone starts going back to s...

Although I've spent countless hours teaching and studying the writing process for the past 6+ years, as I begin my first novel (my most extensive writing project yet) I'm gaining a newfound appreciation for the experience. I've also discovered that I'm connecting with many of my former students from afar as I find myself echoing doubts I've heard them express in my classroom: "I can't do this." "I'm not good enough." "Why does this story even matter?" "What if nobody likes it?" "Maybe I'm actually a terrible writer and no one has told me yet." "I'm never going to finish this." In my experience, the very students who are riddled with such doubts tend to produce some of the most incredible writing. I've read essays written by 14 year olds that moved me to tears, inspired me to be a better person, and made me laugh aloud in the solitude of my classroom while I read over them during the grad...

Picture this:  You hold in your hands the physical embodiment of childlike wonder. A thin, iridescent ribbon is practically fused to your sticky palm. A squishy, stretchy, shiny, crimson toy is magically floating above you as you proudly parade it throughout your neighborhood grocery store. Much to their parents' dismay, every child you pass begs and pleads for one of their own. An inanimate pet of sorts that faithfully follows closely behind. A childhood status symbol that proves to everyone that you have behaved well enough to deserve such an elusive reward reserved only for the most special moments and the most special kids. (In reality, your mom bought it upon entering the store to avoid one of your classic meltdowns at checkout, but your onlookers don't need to know that). Vibrant cereal boxes with anthropomorphic animal mascots whiz by in your periphery, but you can't be bothered to stop and beg for one. You have a balloon to show off.  After parading your prize up an...