{"product_id":"let-it-bleed-isbn-9780399174209","title":"Let It Bleed","description":"\u003cb\u003eAuthor of the international bestseller \u003ci\u003eI'm with the Band: Confessions of a Groupie\u003c\/i\u003e, Pamela Des Barres shares with women the art of memoir writing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eFor 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.\u003cbr\u003e     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. \u003cbr\u003e     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.\"Pamela Des Barres's writing crackles with joy and energy—it's such a pleasure to be immersed in the vivid world of this legendary writer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Emma Cline, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Girls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePamela Des Barres \u003c\/b\u003eis the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eI'm with the Band\u003c\/i\u003e and three other books. She's also a journalist, writing teacher, and media personality, but is most famous for being a rock \u0026amp; roll \"groupie\" before the word even existed. Des Barres started the first-ever girl band (the GTOs) and dated Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones, Jim Morrison of The Doors, Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin, Keith Moon of The Who, Chris Hillman of The Byrds, and Noel Redding of Jimi Hendrix Experience, to name a few.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dare to Write\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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!!!!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All the Evidence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e June 1966\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Evening has started abruptly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The circus has come to town\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"These teenagers are invading the city!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They're turning it upside down!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The owners of the restaurants\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Are ranting and raving about\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Trying to clear the hippies away\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And let their customers out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The police drive into the parking lots\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And climb out of their cars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They stomp and storm and carry on\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And start a few minor wars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The older people driving by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Turn to gawk and stare\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My God, Harold, what is that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You can't really tell with that hair!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then there are others who try to pretend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That they belong with you and I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But they scratch their crew-cuts, fix the crease in their pants\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They'll never make it but they try\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They call us insane, and try to figure us out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For loving, being loved and having fun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For letting our hair grow, dressing the way we please\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yet they come, hypocrites each one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To say \"non-conformist\" isn't quite true\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We come to love each other and try . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To become better people, inside instead of out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To learn the truth instead of living a lie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At Wil Wright's Ice Cream Parlor        on Sunset Blvd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e October 1967\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alone-searching\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quite unaware of what it is I'm seeking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Asking the same question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To each passing answer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But not one turns to greet me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps I am not really here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps I am the answer to every unanswered question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In conclusion I've discovered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Answers come not at all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or in great abundance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Either I thirst\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or I drown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Why is there a \"w\" in Answer anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dear Mr. Jagger\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e December 1969\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You took me under\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Your wild wings\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of untamed freedom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And let me experience life's joys\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through your eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Peering into your secret world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of abandon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I found myself\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Entirely free\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Open to all of you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At least the part\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That you gave me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e II\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Butt in the Chair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter Two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MISS PAMELA'S SIX UNRULY RULES\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 1.    Don't think! (The most important!)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2.    Don't second-guess what you've just written or reread every      sentence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 3.    Don't cross out or erase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 4.    Don't censor or judge yourself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 5.    Don't lift your pen off the paper or your fingers from the      keyboard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 6.    Don't hold back!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nick Cave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The late Indian mystic Osho says basically the same thing in      Zen-speak:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e [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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Osho, Creativity: Unleashing the Forces Within\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.","brand":"Tarcher","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300418212069,"sku":"NP9780399174209","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399174209.jpg?v=1767731329","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/let-it-bleed-isbn-9780399174209","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}