In October of 2019, I attended a writing workshop, led by Pamela Des Barres. I had only heard of Pamela through my friend Alina. Alina had met her a few times, and she also admired Pamela greatly. Pamela Des Barres has written multiple books, and she has plenty of stories from her time as a “groupie.” She’s met many people who were influential in the rock and roll world. Alina, being all about anything Rock ‘N Roll, was hooked. When she discovered Pamela’s workshop, she attended every year. When she invited me last year, I was ecstatic. Just before the workshop, I’d really begun taking my writing more seriously. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to write, or if what I had to say was even worthwhile. Still, the invitation felt like divine intervention. It felt like a sign.
It was warm for an October evening. Alina and I drove to Fairmount, home of the James Dean Festival. In fact, the workshop was being held in the James Dean Gallery, owned by Dave and Lenny. The couple used to live in New York, but had made the trip to Fairmount so frequently, that they decided to set up shop there. They’d spent a large portion of their lives collecting James Dean memorabilia. Alina guided me through the house, showing me her favorite installments. We laughed and took selfies as we waited for more people to arrive. Alina introduced me to the people she knew already, and we both met a few new faces as well. There were snacks and wine for all to enjoy, and the atmosphere was one of a family. It was weird, sitting in a room full of total strangers, from all different backgrounds, it felt as if we already knew each other. I felt like I belonged with these people, though there were a couple that intimidated me. You see, sitting in a room of published authors is a big deal to someone who has only dreamed of writing a book. It felt as if by being there, witnessing their creative process, I was watching magic happen.
After we all settled down into our seats around the big rectangular tables, Pamela explained the rules. She would read us an open-ended prompt, and then we would write for 12 minutes, stopping when the timer ran out. She said to just let go and let flow, allow whatever happened to happen. I’d had one glass of wine, and I was ready to let loose. I was so excited, I was shaking. Pamela read the first prompt. “I knew there was something fishy going on when…” Pamela’s excited voice said.
I put my pen to paper without thinking, immediately the words flowed from within me. It took no effort at all, the memory swiftly flew from the tip of my pen, almost as if it wanted to be told. It had a mind of its own. Pamela warned us we had only a couple minutes left, I wrote faster than ever, eager to get to the end. I set my pen down just in time, my story complete. I truly could not believe what had come out of me.
I knew something fishy was going on when the conversation died out. The only sounds left were that of the ocean breeze rustling palm leaves and crickets chirping just beneath the window. Instinctively, my heart sped slightly as I strained to listen closer. Suspicious, I slowly got up from the futon, and looked out the window. The angle was all wrong. I could only see the fence and not the people who were drunkenly chatting on the patio just moments before. I called out, “Are you two okay out there?” No response. I didn’t know at all what to expect as I made my way to the door, but I think a part of me felt the gravity pull heavier. Something was amiss, and I was on a mission to find out exactly what it was.
Time slowed. It felt as if my limbs moved through jelly. I opened the door, slowly as to not let the dog out, and peered outside. I walked on the patio, just to find my boyfriend, Zach’s lips touching another pair that certainly didn’t belong to me.
“What are you doing?” Was all I could muster. They still didn’t detach from each other, as I stared, shell-shocked. I stormed back inside, and moved to sit on the couch, accidentally knocking over and breaking a glass. The noise prompted Krystal to come out of her room to see what’s the matter. She found me, crying. “What happened?” She asked cautiously. She barely knew me, and I’m sure she didn’t want to spend her free time comforting a crying stranger her eccentric mother let into their home.
“I don’t know. I’m so sorry. Your brother… your mom… They’re outside,” I blubbered. She didn’t understand, and frankly, neither did I. Who makes out with their mom?
As I read my piece, the group reacted audibly in all the right places. At the final reveal, there was a gasp. They sat, in disbelief. Pamela asked me if it had really happened.
“It was Zach’s second time ever meeting his birth mother,” I explained to them. They had both been drinking heavily that day. I don’t know what led to his mom climbing onto his lap, pushing her lips against him. Nor do I know what was going through his mind as he allowed it to happen. Shortly after I stormed inside, Zach came in as well. I followed him to the guest bedroom that had become ours while we were visiting. “Can we talk about this?” I asked, but he ignored me, promptly passing out drunkenly on the futon.
It was this event that ultimately led to my return to Indiana. There were plenty of things I put up with in the course of my relationship with Zach, but this one unnerved me the most. I wanted to put it behind me and keep going, but as I drove north, with nothing but miles of interstate and my own mind, I could not stop replaying the scenario in my mind. I knew I couldn’t keep going on this way. My time with Zach had come to an end, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
After explaining the entire situation, it didn’t become less bizarre. It is still hard for me to believe it happened, and I witnessed it with my own eyes. The group of writers were enthralled as I spun the story around them. After reading my creation aloud, they clapped. I felt euphoric. They were responding to my words. My recounting of an event in my life. It was the first time it occurred to me that anyone could take an interest in my life. I mean, everyone has crazy stories to tell, what makes me special? How egotistical and arrogant of me to think that a memoir would be of any interest to anyone? Me, a girl from rural America. I’ve often slipped through the cracks, and honestly? I expect to continue falling through the cracks. The workshop enlightened me in more than one way. Firstly, people do care what I say, especially when I say it in a way that demands to be heard. But secondly, and most importantly, it’s not about anyone being on the receiving end.
No one will ever see my perspective entirely. I can use words to the best of my ability, but I cannot convey the very essence of myself. I can tell you about my difficult childhood, my parents that had no business being parents. I can tell you the exact circumstances leading up to my multiple suicide attempts. I can talk about all the things I’ve ever done, good and bad, and still, you would not truly see me. Nor would I truly see anyone who did the same to me. Instead, we can all project ourselves onto others. We can empathize and understand, to an extent, where other people are coming from. Therefore, even if I wrote a hundred memoirs, and some random soul devoured them all, it wouldn’t be for them. My writing, even the letters sent to my pen pal, is entirely selfish. It’s to learn about myself, this world, and how I fit. Finally, last October, I realized my selfish nature. And finally, I can write my memoir, or in this case, my blog.
The idea that I can’t write a memoir because no one will care about what has happened in my life is an idea that has only held me back in life. It has caused me to build walls and refuse to speak my truth. I see inauthenticity everywhere, even in myself. It seems all too often that we’re afraid of the truth. We deny ourselves because we can’t accept the reality of who we are. But how is that any way to live? I just said, at length, that no one can ever understand me completely, but who am I to prevent anyone from trying, if that’s what they want? I won’t put up walls to disallow anyone from digging. Not anymore.
I spent my childhood hiding. Whatever is real about me was not allowed. Now, as a brand new adult, I’ve got a lot to unravel. I’m not interested in hiding anymore. As time goes on, I only see that everyone is human. I see all the ways we hide from ourselves and each other. Life is too short to tell yourself you’re wrong, or bad. Thanks to Pamela’s writing workshop, my life was changed. I now have the capacity to accept myself, selfishness and all. At the end of the day, we usually all have good intentions. I have stories to tell, words to write, truth to speak. And I intend to speak it.
