My Road to Joni Mitchell
Trauma, Triumph, and Timelessness
Last October, I finished my memoir, "Deconstructing the Boogeyman." It took four grueling years to detail my grief-stricken childhood, along with the emotional and spiritual recovery that followed. I poured my heart onto those pages, hoping readers will find echoes of their own struggles and, perhaps, inspiration to conquer their own demons like I had.
Book editing was a different beast altogether. My editors, wielding their red pens like Sith Lords, urged me to "kill my darlings" and trim the fat from my sprawling first draft. As I watched my clever asides and tangents hit the cutting room floor, I composed new ways of packing personality into the now svelte narrative. My solution? Naming chapters after meaningful songs from my life.
The first half of the book, chronicling my sister Judi’s murder and my mother’s terminal cancer, drew heavily from my rock and metal roots. Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Nirvana – their angry, defiant energy matched the tone of those dark years. But as I approached the book's conclusion, detailing hard-won revelations and a newfound appreciation for life, heavy metal songs sounded tone-deaf. What other artists could convey this growth, this cautious optimism, through song?
Enter Joni Mitchell, stage left.
It was a video from 2022 that first caught my attention – Joni, fresh from a lengthy health hiatus, surprised the Newport Folk Festival. Her rendition of "Both Sides Now" didn't just melt the internet; it liquefied my heart. Beyond the lyrics, it was the evolution of the songwriter herself, a circle rounding from past to present anew. Core memories began buzzing within me like a cheap guitar amp.
I was a ten-year-old again, giggling in the car as Mom sang to the radio about "kissing a sunset pig.” I had forgotten how much she loved Joni, how those car rides and songs brought us so much joy. How had I missed including this in my book? The timing of this memory felt significant, though I couldn't connect why.
With a fresh editor-approved draft of my manuscript, I began the tortuous task of querying literary agents. Impatiently waiting for responses, the universe seemed determined to keep Joni in my orbit. A two-night "Joni Jam" was announced at the Hollywood Bowl, instantly selling out. Scalpers circled like vultures, asking astronomical prices. I felt defeated by capitalism but held onto a sliver of hope that I’d somehow see this once-in-a-lifetime event.
A few weeks later, Joni popped up again, this time via St. Vincent's Instagram. Anne Clark's post about a podcast called "The Road to Joni" sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of Mitchell's discography. With each episode, I dug deeper into Joni's catalog, marveling at her craftsmanship, lyrical depth, and those strange melodies and phrasings that inspired so many musicians.
It was during a late-night “Road to Joni” listening session that it hit me: "Both Sides Now" was the perfect closing chapter title for my book. It encapsulated everything I hoped my memoir would convey – wisdom, tenderness, sophistication, and grace. The song embodied the truth I'd fought hard to accept: independence comes when we work to let go of fantasy, embrace reality, and yet still keep dreaming.
Now, when I hear that song, I imagine Judi and Mom whispering from beyond: "This is what life is about." Don't mourn our absence; appreciate your presence and the effect we had on it.
Well, damn. After that epiphany, there was no way I could miss the show.
The week leading up to the Joni Jam was a rollercoaster of hope and disappointment. Ticket prices fluctuated wildly, friends bailed, and I resigned myself to going alone. Unbeknownst to me, that’s what the universe wanted.
On the day of the show, a moment of serendipity struck as I shunned scalpers, opting to choose the venue box office instead. "Orchestra, sixth row, center," the vendor said. The price was a fraction of what scalpers were asking! Some opportunities are too good to pass up. "I'll take it," I blurted, before my practical side could refuse.
Settling into my seat, surrounded by the energy of fellow Joni fans, I struck up a conversation with my neighbors, Carmel and Tracy. We swapped stories of fandom and career pivots. That’s when Carmel said, “I’ve spent decades in radio but quit to start my own project.” I empathized, having shifted from music video and film producer to author. I asked about her new career path. “Well,” she said, “I’ve started a podcast.” And then she dropped a bombshell: “It’s called The Road to Joni.”
My jaw hit the floor. I fawned. The podcast that reinforced my need to be here, and I randomly bought a seat next to its creator. C’mon! The gushing that followed was embarrassing, but in that moment, I felt the universe wink. This wasn't just a concert; it was a convergence of fate, art, and personal history.
As the lights dimmed, the stage rotated and revealed Joni surrounded by musical friends she and Brandi Carlile assembled. I felt a profound sense of rightness. This night was more than a bucket-list show; it was a living, breathing affirmation of the themes from my memoir. The power of resilience, the beauty of vulnerability, and the unexpected ways we find connection - it all resonated through every note.
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In the days to come, I’ll continue fine-tuning my manuscript and waiting to hear from literary agents, though now I carry a renewed sense of purpose. My story, from trauma to triumph, has an enriched soundtrack, and the closer – is a banger. While I can't predict when or if my book will find its way onto shelves, I know this: there's magic in stepping out of your comfort zone and letting the universe take control.
For those intrigued by this tale of synchronicity and song, I highly recommend giving "The Road to Joni" a listen. Who knows? You might just find your own moments of revelation hiding in the grooves of a long-forgotten record.
You can find everything Joni here: https://jonimitchell.com