When you write and publish a memoir about your most stupid and embarrassing secret, a weird thing happens. Or at least it did to me. I didn’t do much to sell it except post it on my Facebook timeline. Once it was published, and once I saw the actual book, it was done. But that wasn’t the point of the book. The point was to start more conversations about domestic violence. So, I have relocated my big girl pants, and am taking it one daring marketing day at a time, my goal is to sell 350 copies this week. www.brooksimons.com
What prompted this daringness? Jim Carrey’s upcoming Showtime series facebook.com/jim-carrey about seventies comedy based on the book I’m Dying Up Here tells me the time is right. I remember when Alicia was at Archer with Carrey’s daughter, and they were both in the dance troupe. Jim was there for one of the shows, front row, and Alicia had a solo to “Cuban Pete.” It wasn’t planned that way, but there he was, and there she was, dancing her heart out in front of him. I take that as a sign.Buy Here
Here’s the story. Marilyn Monroe said, “If you can make a woman laugh, you can make her do anything.” Back in 1979, I had a comedian boyfriend and he made me laugh. But he was as violent as he was brilliant, and the “anything” he encouraged me to do was not exactly legal. I had moved from Connecticut to L.A. to be a writer and was spending every night at The Comedy Store besotted by the scene and the talent of guys like David Letterman, Jay Leno, Robin Williams and hordes of other young hopefuls who, like my batterer, were fueled by cocaine and hope.
It started with a simple slap, and as the abuse continued over the subsequent months and years, I wrote down every word, smell, and feeling I could remember in a big, green binder. By the time my life exploded, I had a transcript of the whole train wreck. Then I put the green binder away, and kept what happened to me a secret for 30 years. I never planned to share my youth with the world, or anyone except my husband, because I was a wife and a mom, and it wasn’t the mommy back-story I thought would fly in Pacific Palisades.
Then, one day, when my daughter was done with college, I found the old green binder in a storage unit, and the old comedian in a Las Vegas condo. He agreed to let me use his real name, Biff Manard. There was nothing standing in the way of publishing the book, except that my daughter and my husband hadn’t actually read the book yet and the thought of “everyone” knowing my past gave me the jitters.
They read a draft in Toulouse that summer. “You have to publish it, Mom,” my daughter said, “It’s not that big a deal.” She was 22 at the time. My husband said, “You might want to use your maiden name.”
If my story helps even one person leave an abuser, then revealing my biggest worst decision will have been worth it. Me now? I’m working on the screenplay. And the next book. Totally fiction.