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Overview
For the last fourteen years, Pamela Des Barres has been teaching an eight-week women's "femoir" writing workshop. She found that the music-loving ladies who showed up at her door had pent-up stories to tell. Many of them had read her two memoirs, which were wildly personal and deeply confessional, and felt comfortable opening up and experiencing that same freedom of expression.
In this book, Des Barres guides women through the process of writing their memoirs. She has developed exercises to help her "dolls" recall, remember, relive, and reveal their memories, transgressions, temptations, their sleepless nights and brilliant afternoons, loves and losses, fears and regrets, secrets, sins, and sorrows. The assignments in Femoir have proven incredibly cathartic for her students. Just as intimate as one of her in-person workshops, this book includes some of Des Barres's own stories, as well as those of the women she's taught.
Every person has an incredible story to tell—they just need to figure out how to tell it. By understanding themselves better through these writing exercises, women learn to be more fearless, free-spirited, and willing to try something new.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781524704742 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/18/2017 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
I
Dare to Write
Besides my bursting-at-the-seams diaries and school compositions, my first foray into creative writing began in earnest when, along with my Beatle birds, I began conjuring up weekly chapters about our romances with John, Paul, George and Ringo. Oh, how I wish I had those impassioned blue-lined missives I scribbled for Kathy, Linda and Stevie as I lay in my twin bed (always under many watchful photos of the long-lashed, bedroom-eyed Paul McC, of course), inventing tales about how the Quiet Beatle proposed to Kathy in a song, while gently playing his guitar, or how John tearfully left his wife, Cynthia, because my bubbly Reseda neighbor, Linda Oaks, had melted his gruff, ironic heart.
Yes, I could enthrall my Beatle buddies with the written word, but having seen Patty Duke accept the Academy Award for her stunning portrayal of Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker, I had decided at age twelve to become an actress. This declaration led to a long and mostly fruitless pursuit of Glamorous Hollywood Fame. As I slogged through commercial interviews and embarrassing theatrical auditions, helped along by a series of B-minus or C-plus acting agents, I never stopped babbling into my trusty diary.
At Cleveland High I was an English devotee and pled allegiance to a tough-minded creative-writing teacher, Mr. Constantine Thomas, who most everyone else despised due to his scathing attention to detail. I enjoyed it so much, I planned on taking some college writing courses after graduation, but-oops!-the Sunset Strip got in the way. From my sophomore year on, Cleveland High became an afterthought as the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, Captain Beefheart and long-haired Hollywood weirdos became my main focus. On graduation day, Mr. Thomas looked me up and down in my white ruffled dolly bird dress, lace stockings and red patent flats, and sadly shook his head. This one had gotten away from him. Still, when I asked him to sign my yearbook, he screamed at me in a ferocious hand, "Dare to write!!!!"
Mr. Thomas didn't know that I had already begun writing tortuous teenage poetry, teeming with indignation and self-discovery, railing against authority and rampant with clichŽs. I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to express myself. Some of the poems were wild with love for an unattainable rock star, some described the ethereal beauty of Laurel Canyon, "God's Golden Backyard," and some pitted the new Us against the old Them.
All the Evidence
June 1966
Evening has started abruptly
The circus has come to town
"These teenagers are invading the city!
They're turning it upside down!"
The owners of the restaurants
Are ranting and raving about
Trying to clear the hippies away
And let their customers out
The police drive into the parking lots
And climb out of their cars
They stomp and storm and carry on
And start a few minor wars
The older people driving by
Turn to gawk and stare
"My God, Harold, what is that?
You can't really tell with that hair!"
Then there are others who try to pretend
That they belong with you and I
But they scratch their crew-cuts, fix the crease in their pants
They'll never make it but they try
They call us insane, and try to figure us out
For loving, being loved and having fun
For letting our hair grow, dressing the way we please
Yet they come, hypocrites each one
To say "non-conformist" isn't quite true
We come to love each other and try . . .
To become better people, inside instead of out
To learn the truth instead of living a lie
I carried my book of verses everywhere I went and when struck by that lofty desire to pronounce, I pulled out my pen and oh, what a relief it was! I was daring to write whatever heaviosity came oozing out of my heart.
At Wil Wright's Ice Cream Parlor on Sunset Blvd.
October 1967
Alone-searching
Quite unaware of what it is I'm seeking
Asking the same question
To each passing answer
But not one turns to greet me
Perhaps I am not really here
Perhaps I am the answer to every unanswered question
In conclusion I've discovered
Answers come not at all
Or in great abundance
Either I thirst
Or I drown
Why is there a "w" in Answer anyway?
In the late '80s, poetry readings were de rigueur in L.A., and after many of my hipster cohorts expressed their distressed couplets, I'd open to a page of solemn sincerity I'd written long before about David Crosby's magical elf-infested cabin, or the mysterious majesty of Mick Jagger's slippery unavailability, and soon the groovers would stop wincing and laugh heartily at my dippy bygone prose.
Dear Mr. Jagger
December 1969
You took me under
Your wild wings
Of untamed freedom
And let me experience life's joys
Through your eyes
Peering into your secret world
of abandon
and I found myself
Entirely free
Open to all of you
At least the part
That you gave me
And what part was that? Hmmm? These poems still crack people up whenever I pull out my shredded ledger and take them back to a place and time when revolution thrummed in the air, incense burned, music changed lives and flowers wilted in our long, wavy locks.
II
Butt in the Chair
Despite my early forays into dopey moonstruck poetics, during one of the many creative writing workshops I attended in the '80s I realized I might actually be a writer. I sat in a schoolroom in the San Fernando Valley, along with a dozen other determined souls, at Everywoman's Village, following instructions from the hippieish gray-haired teacher to "write about a memorable incident in your past." I wrote intently about my teenage obsession with the Rolling Stones, and Mick Jagger in particular, giggling at my own antics as my goofy memories poured out onto the page. I found I was looking back at this particular "memorable incident" with a humorous understanding that surprised me.
The following week, the teacher took me aside and said she'd enjoyed my writing and had shown my work to her agent husband, who suggested I continue this "exploration." That same week I was interviewed by Stephen Davis for his breakthrough book, Hammer of the Gods, about Led Zeppelin, and after our hours-long exchange, he said, "You should write your own book." Hmmmmm.
It was a pretty unusual idea for that time. Nowadays on Amazon you can scroll through tales about a drunk, a stripper, a teacher, a prisoner, a fashionista, a brawler, a bouncer, a preacher, a panhandler, an alcoholic, a mom, a minstrel and a bipolar hypochondriac! But back then-a couple decades ago-only celebrities told their tales and got into print. I was actually one of the first "unknowns" to come out with a memoir.
I knew I had lived wildly and well, and imagined that one day I'd pore through my dusty diaries and jam-packed journals and tell my tale, but it seemed the universe was announcing that now might be a good time to begin. My five-year-old boy, Nick, had just started first grade and was right down the street from our leafy Laurel Canyon pad, ensconced at the Wonderland Avenue school, so several hours a day had suddenly freed up. I had no excuse (and oh boy, are those easy to come up with!) so I dragged out my little red typewriter-and spent several moments looking at it intently.
I discovered pretty quickly that being your own taskmaster is tough, and I conjured up many tasks that just had to get handled immediately. Suddenly the plants were screaming for water, the refrigerator had to be scoured, my roots needed dying the vivid red I favor. But eventually I faced that first hurdle: sitting down. Butt in the chair. Yes, just making the decision to sit in front of your notebook, computer or, in my case in '84, the typewriter, is step number one. By performing that seemingly simple, yet bravura act, you are setting your intention to write, and it's the most important decision you'll be making in this profoundly passionate process. Over and over again. Hopefully daily. So get used to it.
I didn't set out to write a best seller. In fact, no one ever knows when deciding to write a book if a single person will ever crack it open, or Kindle-scroll through the pageless pages. The main reason for writing your tale is to reveal yourself to yourself; all the rest is savory gravy. It soon becomes a rousing trip down your very own ragtag memory lane, and an ongoing one-on-one therapy session with your very own soul. (Did I really do that? Did I actually say that?) As I wrote, certain memories stood out sharply in 3-D Technicolor, easily making the cut because I realized they created who I became. I relived the good, the bad, the comical and the glorious.
I'd like to say that the first publisher my agent sent the manuscript to leapt out of his seat to give me a deal. Nope. It was sent out to over a dozen publishing houses that kindly but firmly rejected my story. And in the case of memoir, they were actually rejecting me, which doesn't feel so hot, dolls. But I persisted. And kept writing the darn thing. After Hammer of the Gods by Stephen Davis hit the New York Times best-seller list, William Morrow, one of the rejecters, did a flip-flop, and the very cool James Landis signed me to a deal. I saved my rejection letters and when Band hit number 6, I sent a copy of the book and the best-seller list to Random House, along with its rejection letter, which read, "This will never be a book. Maybe an article in Rolling Stone." Ha-ha-ha!
I also sent my old pal Gene Simmons of Kiss a copy as a way to thank him, because he'd suggested I change the subtitle from Memoir of a Groupie to Confessions of a Groupie. Gene has dilated dollar signs for pupils and always knows the power of the perfect word.
When I started writing there were basically no "How to Write a Memoir" books crowding the shelves. I sure wish I'd met the Now version of my teacherly self back then. And had access to all the assignments I've given my students through the years! It would have made the long process of reliving, remembering, uncovering, revealing and rediscovering so much easier. Instead, I unpacked my trusty, dusty diaries, long sequestered away in a vintage trunk, and pored through them, pulling out moments, experiences and memories, calling up places, people, feelings and fears, dipping in and out of my own history like plunging into the great Pacific Ocean. Once you begin to write your life, it's astounding what comes back to you. I could actually smell the wreaths of roses entwined in my hair at love-ins, feel the ouchy pangs of teen love for each crazy musician I gave my heart to. I could see the light beaming down on Jimmy Page as he tore up the stage, glancing at me atop his amp, my heart palpitating. I relived my very first gig with the GTOs at the Whisky a Go Go, feather boas flying, Mr. Zappa at the helm with his baton.
I wrote both of my memoirs chronologically, except for that first horny Jagger assignment at Every Woman's Village, but that isn't always necessary. Go through this book and choose whatever prompt strikes your fancy and write! In class my students use their twelve minutes to complete each assignment, with my two-minute warning so they can start wrapping it up, and we are always amazed at the amount of writing that gets done in that seemingly short period of time. The clock actually seems to stop ticking. I just love listening to the tap-tap-tap of the keyboards and the scribbly scratching of pens and pencils as souls, hearts and minds hum with creative energy.
I don't have many rules in my workshops. I dole out a lot of encouragement but very little criticism. There are plenty of books and classes you can find that teach grammar and punctuation, what not to do, what not to say, poking and picking apart each sentence until the flair is gone. Do it this way or that way. Miss P says, Just do it, damn it!
Chapter Two
I
Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!
I have only six rules, and if you stick to them, I promise your writing will surprise and startle you. I want to start a blaze in the hearts of my dolls-my Femoir Fatales!
MISS PAMELA'S SIX UNRULY RULES
1. Don't think! (The most important!)
2. Don't second-guess what you've just written or reread every sentence.
3. Don't cross out or erase.
4. Don't censor or judge yourself.
5. Don't lift your pen off the paper or your fingers from the keyboard.
6. Don't hold back!
Actually I do have a seventh rule, and that is to never qualify your writing after the exercise is completed. Don't ever read it and say, "This sucks." "I'm not a writer." "I didn't do it right." Blah blah blah. Not even to yourself. Especially not to yourself.
Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary defines inspiration thusly: "a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation." Indeed. Inspiration is always there, a breath away, ready to be received.
I have asked many of my brilliant musician friends how they write a song, and without fail they say it "comes through them," or some version of that sentiment. (In other words, No Thinking!) Sometimes they have no idea where it comes from, or they feel it was somehow "channeled" when they got out of the way.
There's an element to songwriting that I can't explain, that comes from somewhere else. I can't explain that dividing line between nothing and something that happens within a song, where you have absolutely nothing, and then suddenly you have something. It's like the origin of the universe.
Nick Cave
The late Indian mystic Osho says basically the same thing in Zen-speak:
[Creativity] is allowing something to happen through you . . . It is not a doing, it is an allowing. It is becoming a hollow bamboo, just a hollow bamboo.
Osho, Creativity: Unleashing the Forces Within
Cave and Osho are describing the act of being egoless. (Actually a nonact!) If you remove the ego from the equation, your true self can shine through unfettered and, corny as it might sound, your soul is free to do the writing. Without that jabbering blabbermouth dictating what you should or shouldn't write ("You can't mention that! So-and-so will be horrified!" "Are you sure you want to use that word?"), the truth shimmers out onto the page, undaunted and defiantly revealed.