Lucille Ball and Brenda Starr’s Love Child: Interview with Jessica Maxwell

Ahoy, me Gobsmacked Crew!

Jess Maxwell

            Yer in fer a treat. On May 27^th, Jessica Maxwell, author of the wildly successful Roll Around Heaven: An All-True Accidental Spiritual Adventure (phew!), sat down with me at Bella Vita Spa in Salem, Oregon, to answer a few questions. Instead of the usual interview—ar-ha-ha!—me pirate’s playful nature needed a playground. Seein’ twas still me birthday week, and Jess was treatin’ me to a pedicure, why not ha’ our brilliant nail technicians (who know Jessica and RAH) ask the questions? (Aye, captains love ta leave the work to the crew!)

            So wi’out further ado, here be the interview!

            Elena Leo, Jessica’s Bella Vita nail technician.

            Elana Leo:  How old were you when you decided to be a writer?

            Jessica:  A good question, because until I was sixteen I wanted to be a doctor. I always wanted to heal people. But when they were handing out math brain cells, I got back into the poetry line, and I didn’t get any math brain cells.

            So at sixteen, I knew I couldn’t do medicine, and I said to myself, I’m good at English, was even in honors English. Plus, I’m a redhead. I can be either Brenda Starr or Lucille Ball.

            Brenda was more appealing because she had all these exotic assignments all over the world. Plus, she had Basil St. John, this tall boyfriend who always showed up wherever she was, and he wore an eye patch, which I found intriguing. She had these fabulous clothes, and I thought what a great job! I ended up doing all this without the Basil part.

            Now, Lucille Ball was not a part I counted on. I had assignments for serious stories. The first one was on the LA sewer system, and I wanted to do an environmental story. But when I arrived, it’s Girl Scout day and only Girl Scouts could tour the sewer system. So I pretended to be in one of the troops. While I was on one of their tours, I noticed the workers at the sewer had big fancy rings. I said to one of them, “Man, they must pay you well,” and he said, “Oh, no. It’s finders keepers.”

            Then I interviewed the supervisor of the LA sewer system. I sat down with him and interviewed him very seriously. After, I asked, “Okay, what is your name?”

            He said, “Arthur F. Sewer.”

            I laughed, and he didn’t. “Is that your real name?”

            He nodded. 

            “How do you spell that?”

            “Suhr.”

            See? I tried to do a serious story and ended up with outrageous comedy. I was Lucy from then on.

             

            Michelle Moore, me Bella Vita nail technician asks her question.

            Michelle: What flower do you most identify with?

            Jessica: I adore flowers. And old Indian master Swami Satchidananda once said, “Flowers are God smiling at you.” And I thought that was so neat because you look at a flower, and it’s so beautiful and happy, even in the middle of yuck!

            What flower do I identify with? For some reason I love violets. When I lived in France my junior year of college every February-March is violet season, and they have little bouquets of violets. I actually have a little bouquet of faux violets I pin on my dresses all the time. I think they’re just so … so French! I love lilac time, too. I love cherry blossoms. What I love about flowers is they represent blooming again, every year, and if you think about it, it’s amazing we can count on spring bringing us again so much hope. I mean, what if flowers never bloomed again? In terms of a spiritual symbol, the lotus flower is the symbol of what the Eastern people call enlightenment. I don’t know if you know this, but the lotus floats on top of water, and its roots go down like jelly fish into the mud. So it gets its nourishment from the mud of life and then blooms forth on the surface. I think that’s perfect. Our feet are in the mud. Life’s messy, yet we can still bloom. So I love that. I have a lotus on my keychain.

            The other thing that comes to mind about flowers is my dad. He was born in Honolulu and lived in New Zealand, and any South Pacific flower—the pikake, gardenia, tiare—their beautiful fragrance, it’s like you’re smelling heaven right here on earth.

            I was on assignment and remember getting off the plane in Tahiti. They have tiare flowers planted everywhere. It’s very smart. And it’s not sickly sweet. They say the masters produce a fragrance, and that’s wild. All in all, I associate flowers with the highest, deepest level of awareness that we can attain on this planet here and now.

 

            I, as Gobsmacked Captain, could not be left out of the interview. I’ve known me shipmate Jessica for years, know the quest she was accidentally dropped into, and ha’ seen the results. She might write for all the big mags—National Geographic, Esquire, Audubon, Forbes, Gourmet, Outside, Town & Country  to name a few—but her True North is not of this earth, at least not that we know of. Being a witness to these adventures, I had one burning question.

            Captain Val:  Of all the questions in all the interviews you’ve done, what question have you not been asked that you would have liked to answer?

            Jessica:  (a long pause; a faraway look in the eye; husky low voice)

            What no one has asked me and what I have not volunteered is what I’m going to do in the next book. I’m going to write about what I really know—what I really know—because I don’t go around talking about it because it is so out there, or in there, and it’s not about me; it’s what we know, we’re always dancing around, even with the concept of enlightenment or samsara. The reason that I know what I know is that I live and I experience it, but I don’t talk about it. It’s so profound. And I don’t mean I have any big secret. I mean these trappings we give to the real stuff is the best we can do.

            It’s like when you’re writing. You have your idea and who the characters are, but what is their story? We call it inspiration, this unbelievable knowingness that comes through, and you write and write, and somehow a paragraph happens, the best you’ve written in years, and it glows. What is it, Val, really? We’ve tried to put words to it, but if you say “I’m channeling,” well …

            The words that come close are tainted by religious history, which makes intelligent people throw the baby out with the baptismal water. And what I’ve really come to understand didn’t come like a lightening strike.

Lama Karma

            What’s interesting is watching how people respond to my workshops. I’m giving them information, and we have a wonderful time, but certain people get that it’s literally coming through me, and it’s like transference. Like I say to them, “I’m the spiritual FedEx girl and don’t crown the messenger.” It’s a very interesting situation to be in because I instinctively know what people can take and not take, what you can offer and what you can’t because you don’t even talk about it. What you’re offering is something deeper but you don’t even talk about that because it comes with it.

            The closest I have found to a description of what that is I found in this book Glen, Randy’s* husband, gave me on Tibetan mysticism. How they understand the sound of chanting is bringing you and your mind to this place of peace—and that’s hackneyed too—but it’s literally medicine for your soul. Even that’s not it. But it’s starting to describe the undercurrents that are at work. A baby monk will be taught a chant, and the energy of the sounds, the rhythms and the cadence, will take the monk to this place.

            The first time I “got” it was when Lama Karma on New Years was chanting and I listened and was taken to a place where I understood the design within the chanting.

            Back to me, the Captain. I can tell no more o’ this interview because Pirate Maxwell asked me to keep the rest confidential so it is saved for her next book.

            But I ha’ to throw in me pieces o’ eight. Me thinks what she’s sayin’ is like when sailors thought the world flat and they’d fall off the end of the earth if they went too far. That’s where we be in the spiritual realm. We’re just waitin’ to find out the earth is round, and we’re spinnin’, and we can’t fall off because the design is so freakin’ awesome. And, nay, I be non religious, just a spiritual pirate spoutin’ similes.

            Ah, but I must ask one last question of Jess. Can’t resist.

            Captain Val:  What is your dream?

            Jessica: To have a farmhouse in the beautiful Paro Valley of Bhutan.

            So for ye on a spiritual sail, bon voyage!

            And “Stay tunaed,” as Miss Maxwell is fond o’ sayin’. The Gobsmacked is headed for adventure! With a private peek at me month at Vermont Studio Center and a frightenin’ tale of me run-in wi’ a tsunami. Shiver me timbers!

            Until then, I remain your

            Captain Val

*Randy is Jessica’s best friend.

COMING UP!

Adventures at a Writer’s Residency: Captain Val Goes to Vermont Studio Center

Runnin’ for Me Life:  Tsunami!

More News & Confirmed Gossip from the Writing World

And … an unusual interview with cartoonist Jan Eliot of “Stone Soup

Gobsmacked: Yes, that's Marilyn Monroe

            Hearties! Birthday week has come to a close, festivities ha'e ended, and my Gold Galleon has turned back into a wooden ship.
            I haven’t fergotten you, however. You’ve been on me mind. As the Merry Month of May comes to a close, I be prayin’ for better weather and wantin' to inspire your creativity with a tour of me captain's cabin.

            Me Captain’s Cabin is not fer the faint of heart. Aye, I work surrounded by what I call “my ongoing collage.” Me Mum, bless her British white glove and need for neatness, decorated my bedroom with lavender floral curtains and frilly girl stuff, not that I don’t girly up myself, but hers was a wee bit constrained: my only place to post tidbits of self-expression were on a newspaper-size bulletin-board, too small for the likes of my imagination.

            What? you say. Still flogging that piece of fluff? Well, aye! You don’t feed an imagination by restricting it, although there's an argument for that one, too. And I've heard some questionable comments o'er the years about me room.

            A former friend once returned from San Fran and, after tourin' one of her favorite, famous-artist’s studio, she said, “I can’t believe you do exactly what he does! His studio walls are covered with Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, too.” I guess my creative impulse had no cred on its own.

            Mum used to say to me (with great hope in her voice): “Winston Churchill believed you become more conservative with age.”

            Not bloody likely. A pirate is always a pirate. Consider this a tour of my rebellion, freak flag flying (and also a peek into the room where I work).

            If ye be wonderin' why the Marilyn Monroe homage? At age eleven, when I heard o’ her death, I cried, not understandin' why. An icon had died? She was beautiful? Died young? I felt her vulnerability? Oh, sure she was famous, beautiful, sexy, all the external things we worship. But I felt a deep internal emotion. I've always championed underdogs, and later, I recognized her an underdog, no matter her so-called success. Inside she was an intelligent, creative woman who was used and abused by the powerful, and never really seen. Oh, she'd been photographed plenty, but truly seen?

            Over the years, an idea brewed: if I held her up, gave her worthiness in my own mind, I could somehow raise her up. Oh, sure, the psychoanalysts out there are havin’ a field day with that one! I can almost quote those lads and lassies. But, as my husband says, who’s complaining about a wife who covers walls with beauty?

            ‘Nuff. Onto the photos!

 A pair of awards given to me by artist Bets Cole a long time ago for the exotic earrings I used to wear

Photos of girlfriends, writer's group, and my handwritten manuscript of my first novel

Ganesh, elephant god of fertility, creativity, and removal of obstacles, (the gold one is actually a chocolate) & one of the many small drawings my best pal Jan Eliot has given me over the years

 

One of my favorite juxtapositions: David Bowie (R, in white) and the dancer Mark Morris (upper left)

 Just a few of my Marilyn Monroe collectibles

 The north wall and where I face when working

 Part of my altar with the Snake Goddess of Crete, Marilyn, fairy, and a Tibetan blessing bowl. The box is my "goddess box" where I put written prayers for those in need

            Creative outpourings & blessing to ye all!

            Captain Val

Ahoy, shipmates! A drawing for free books. Only a few days left!

            Leave a comment before June 1 to have your name in the drawin’ for two books--a signed copy of my France, a Love Story, and a signed copy of a book by another author. If you subscribe by email, send your name and comment to valinparis (at) earthlink (period) net. If ye wish me to post yer comment to me Captain’s Log, tell me, and it’s done!

Followers Email Comments:

I also heard the rebroadcast of Shteyngart's interview and was, like you, initially dismayed and then delighted. He's hitting the nail on the head & as the mother of two BOYS who love to read (gasp), I want to remind all of us that if we don't buy it/watch it/do it, then it won't happen (as much): if we want readers, then we need to be readers, and that means reading to our kids and providing them with books that intrigue them (for my kids, that includes sports novels: gawd bless Mike Lupica & John Feinstein, two very fine sportswriters-turned-YA-authors). I'm with you, too, on wanting/needing long chunks of uninterrupted time in which to write and read ... so I'll stop responding to your post, now and get back to my own work!  -- LESLEY HOWARD

Happy birthday! -- LOU

I've lived in the Pacific Northwest for 34 years and am an avid reader. There's nothing like being on a river rafting trip and spending the afternoon curled up on a warm rock (try it sometime) and reading away the afternoon.  Or being ensconced in a warm sleeping bag and reading by headlamp as the moon and stars make their way across the sky.  Or pulling out a book from a daypack and reading while your feet are cooling off in a gurgling stream.  Or in a bubble bath or on the couch or waiting for the bus or . . .

I think the Pacific Northwest provides the perfect environment where books can be read wherever you are.  And you can quote me on that. – JUDITH WATT

Hey Gobsmaked Pirate Lady,

Am enjoying your blog, and meant to send a reply in reference to the camisole you referenced a couple versions back….

As a found object to think about; to write about….

“How did it get there?” … etc. kinds of questions you suggested … remember??

Well, I had a bit of a different take on the notion of the camisole, and just for fun,

I figured I send it along to you.  This is a little something I jotted down a while back- not too long ago. The camisole is mentioned, but only in passing reference to the …. Well, you can read it for yourself;

It’s attached.

 ~ DAVE the Wave OATMAN

 “Oh farther, farther, farther sail.”

w.w.

COMING UP!

“Oh, Google, My Name is …”

… and IN TWO WEEKS the interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

Why I Hate Writing - Part II

            Back again, me hearties, to finish this tale from last week. I’m enterin’ a stormy sea, so grab a gunwall and hold tight.

            In my last log, I confessed to tellin’ a lie. True. Aye, I don’t hate writin’, but it’s like boarding the Publishing King’s boat—bloody exhaustin’ yet exhilaratin’. That’s not what I’m blabbin’ about his time, however. I was tellin’ ya why I didn’t take up the flag of art. More importantly, I’ll tell you how I took up the flag of writing.

            All right. I left ya with motive, if you be rememberin’. Now, motive can be as simple as “Thar! A Ruling Kingdom ship, full of absconded wealth. Let’s lighten their load, right, mates?” See? Simple. I see a ship, I want that ship, I take that ship.

            But motive can be like the feelin’ you get when you’re surrounded by fog, but you know somethin’s out there.

            Same with the art. I couldn’t figure out what awaited, but something weren’t right.

            If ye also remember, I told you scallywags ‘bout my early years in Oregon, chasin’ an artist’s life. What need be told is the tale of my beginnings, why art had me in its clutches, while something valuable lay at the bottom of sea, waitin’ for me to drag it up from deep.

            The cold Atlantic state of New Hampshire was my birthplace. If you take a gander at a map, you’ll find it tucked between Maine and Vermont with a port of Portsmouth and a measly coast, the shortest of all the states, of eighteen miles. I loved the land, the bodies of water called the Lakes Region. An idyllic childhood of swimmin’ in Lake Winnisquam, pine forests surrounding the houses, offering a playground where imagination ran wild and fantasy found footing—that is ‘til ‘bout twelve years of age, when the real world locked you from that playground and rules, when broken, brought swift punishment.

            Arr, we all know ‘bout being pressed into service by parents, neighbors, teachers. Art was my escape hatch. It came easy. I grabbed every line art threw my way. Painting scenery for the school plays, art editor of the high school yearbook, illustrations for the school newsletter, signs for rallies. Even at my New England Tel & Tel job, they took me off the switchboard to paint murals on the wall or create fancy presentations for the district manager. My high school paintings were showcased in the library, then a bloomin’ real art show at the school. Community members attended. I sold two pieces to faculty at the local prep school. A few pieces were even stolen. Har, har! High praise, indeed! I was perceived as having a gift.

            And there lies the rub.

            Aye, lads and lasses, my talent, my gift, brought recognition, reward, praise. What more motive did I need to keep my compass pointed in art’s direction? Even landlubbers love praise. But while I was bein’ rewarded for one creative venture, I was being punished for another.

            Like many young ladies do, I kept a diary where I confessed my secrets and yearnin’s, my crushes and fears. I also formed a small secret club of friends who wrote and swapped short stories, fantasies, mostly, of where we wanted to sail and with whom. Our sexual exploits made it to paper when most of us had never been kissed.

            Then the boot came down. First, my dad let it be known at the supper table that he’d secretly been reading my diary. Shamed by this, I metaphorically threw the diary to the fishes. And then, alas, in class one day, one club member passed a story to another girl and the teacher confiscated it, looked it over, turned red-faced, and marched it into the principal’s office. He called in the author and her parents. The club was disbanded. We never spoke of it again.

            So art was praised and writing was punished. Around this time, I, the good daughter, found her pirate heart, cursed the mighty, and eventually, my rebellion led to Oregon.

            You know the Oregon story. While I took art classes, while I make a living illustrating products for Bi-Mart, the writing ever so slowly surfaced. A sea chest of understanding had to be dragged up from the deep and I found the motive that kept me hooked to art. Productivity, status, and recognition were the currency of my youth, and perception ruled the rule makers. It didn’t matter if you were happy. It didn’t matter what skullduggery played out behind adult closed doors, those same rule makers, as long as no one opened their doors. To expose the hypocrisy would most probably leave you in shackles. The scheming liars who pretended to be God’s own, or privy to special consideration, would do anything to protect their wealthy ship. Poor Grace Metalious of Peyton Place fame lived in a nearby town and frequented the store where my mother worked. When she laid bare the rotten innards of our fair community, she was shown the metaphorical gangplank.

            The heart of a creative soul is often cut out to save the reputation of the status quo. Why are we pirates? Because our other option is to become slaves.

            So I spoke of hatin’ writing. Thar’s some truth. I could have continued sailing in sparkling artsy waters, but for me, fine lads and lasses, art wasn’t a passion. Writing is. Why? Is it the challenge? Or is it as one of me dear merry friends, me own Roll Around Heavenly Seas pirate chum, Jessica, said, “Do you think it's our potboilin' Celtic blood?  The Celts are such word folks they basically won't shut up! Storytellers, all.”

            Aye, Jess. I’d say that has much to do with it. But as we wordy, tall-tale tellers discover along the way, it’s a bountiful way to fill our need to express ourselves. In words we can engage all the senses. People move and act on the page. It’s oceans and landmasses of imagination that feel fully alive. We just have a passion for painting with words instead.

            Well, mates, I bet ye thought I’d forgot about motive, now, didn’ ya? Nay, I’ll tell ye what sets my sail for followin’ the writing life.

            Remember what I loved drawin’ most? Aye, people. For me, and my apologies to the artists out there who feel different, life drawings never came fully alive. With words I can render people with all their senses, from body odor to speech patterns, from obsessions to hidden desires, from a brush of the hair to a powerful punch in the jaw, how they act, who they fornicate with, what they prefer in good grub. What fills my heart like a wind-blown mainsail is uncovering their motives, especially when I know they’re still in the fog. Where will they go next? What will they do? How will they bloody survive? There’s satisfaction in charting their course, in giving them an adventure, and hopefully lettin’ them find their purpose or what makes them happy. Bloody, bloody exciting’! So there it is. Maybe it’s the challenge, somethin’ I never felt with my art.

            Well, my fine friends, I hope your sea chest is open and full of treasure, and if not, you’re having your own adventure to discover it.

            Right now, before I dry my ink and close my book, I’m lookin’ out my cabin window, and the ocean blends with a wintry horizon. A whipping wind has run cowardly from fierce sunshine while ponderous clouds aim to sink that sun. Luck on ye, ol' sun.

            Wishing you a hearty good night, and bless this ol’ ship that carries us forward.

            Captain Val

Coming Up!

“Sink or Swim: the Dangers of the Writing Life”

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

 "Platform, Flatform"

... and an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

Why I Hate Writing

            I’m a scallywag for saying I hate writin’. Aye, ‘tis a bold faced lie. I’ll ‘fess up to being frustrated at times, at others, near death apoplectic, when a story takes a bad turn or characters won’t come out of hidin’. It can turn a writer wicked mean when lost at sea with no stars to guide you.

            The truth? What I hate has nothin’ to do with the writing itself. And I’ll bet a hogshead that there are a few of you who’ll know where I’m headed soon enough.

            But first, how in Hades did I board this writing ship in the first place? Here’s my tale.

One of my favorites

            Early on, it was an artist’s life for me. My love was working with live models in the studio around other artists who felt the same. Comin’ away with a stack of sketches gave me a swagger and somethin’ to show my mates and acquaintances. In my quarters, I’d work my charcoal and pencils to nubs, sometimes working the watercolors, too. I sold some pieces with little effort. Few can render an expression of a sad wench’s face or capture a body in movement, even if I do say so myself. For a final in a UO Advanced Drawing class I hung a series of large drawings of a friend I’d photographed, leaping off a couch, naked. The professor pulled a simple still life ink drawing from my pile of sketches and said, “Why didn’t you choose this one?” I wanted to say, Because it took a bloomin’ minute, max.

Bloomin' Ink Sketch

            Instead, I said, “Because it’s people and the human form that fascinate me.”

            He shook his head and said, “You’re better than you think you are.”

            So he thought I was insecure? No, my good man, your backhanded compliment missed the boat. What I wanted was someone to answer my unspoken question, “Why wasn’t I lovin’ the life?” I wanted someone to ask, “What are you doing here? Do you really want to be an artist? What are you passionate about?”

            Years later, I wondered why I had no drive to be an artist full-time, make a career of it. How in hell had I ended up there?

            Oddly and obviously, I learned through writing that we sail in certain directions for a variety of reasons, and those reasons become clear when something is closely examined. What is that “something?”

            Three clues, me hearties:

Glenn Close as Patty Hewes

            What should writers pay attention to in discovering their characters?

            What are therapists looking for when they’re digging around in their clients’ problems?

            What makes the Glenn Close character Patty Hewes on the brilliant show “Damages” so ruthless? (Yes, pirates watch TV. They’re lyin’ if they’re denyin’.)

            Answer?  Motive. Motive. Motive.

           

            Motive is the reason for doing something. And usually, the motive is hidden or not obvious. So why had I become a visual artist? What was my motive?

            Expeditions like this take years. Not ‘til long after schoolin’ or bringing in the doubloons in non-sailin’ jobs did I find the answer. When I finally dragged up a motive from the murky sea floor, there was my truth, aye, staring me in the face like a—

            Ey! What do we have here? A good mate has brought me my lunch, and I fear I’ll have to leave you hangin’. A hungry captain … well, is a dangerous captain.

            So, stay on board. I’ll be getting’ back with ya next week to finish this tale. (Hey, I’m a pirate! What did ya expect?) And I’ll be at the coast for a week of breathing salt air and doing that hated writing, har, har.

            ‘Till then, thanks heartily to the sixty-eight mates who have joined this expedition. You make me proud!

            And ye gentle men and lasses of fortune, stay away from bad motive people, you know, the kind who bring you or others misfortune. Thar are plenty of them on the high seas.

            To our sweet trade,

            Captain Val

Coming Up!

“The Tale, Continued”

“Sink or Swim: the Dangers of the Writing Life”

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

 "Platform, Flatform"

... and an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven