What we know (most of us) comes from tabloids, trash T.V., celebrity gossip and hearsay. We have learned about her over decades because of her pop culture presence.

   Pamela Anderson, porn star, B-list actor, Baywatch babe, centerfold, beauty queen, wet dream for how many teens (or grown men, for that matter).

   We have read the stories, heard from her on radio and television talk-shows. She has even offered a hardcover version of her life, but now she is speaking for herself, authentically (or intimately) you might say, in an online journal for all to read.

   Anderson has written before, a published “memoire of prose, poetry, and truth”, as well as a cookbook. She has written before, and is writing again — in her own way — on the Substack App.

   I don’t subscribe, but over the past months have read preview offerings from some other social media link. What resonates with me — as a committed journal writer — is how much her weekly entries read like anybody else going through life, struggling (or enjoying) current events, memories that happen, and life philosophies: at times poetic, other times a laundry list of simply stuff.

   “I love poetry and words… ‘inspired’ is the one word that might describe me,” my fellow Canadian writes. That quote itself could be attributed to any of the legion of brave souls I have communicated or collaborated with over the years. The act of regularly — daily, weekly, or infrequently — capturing thoughts in a journal is inspiring and mainly to yourself. It takes effort and, at times, guts.

   Her admission: “The hardest words to write or say… are usually the best ones… that’s what a writer is — the one who can spit it out… while others are the shy ones.”

   She feels she has something to say; most writers do. Everybody has a story to tell. Everybody, in my humble opinion, should keep a journal; I have been for well over two decades.

   In recent previews of The Open Journal with Pamela Anderson, the writer references poetry, Dostoevsky, quotes Noam Chomsky, Victoria Wolfe, Anais Nin, or journals about shape-shifting change, bad days, or handwriting spontaneous thoughts.

   From what I read, and really; from what I write in my own personal journal (I almost wrote the word journey: and it is) the offerings seem genuine, at times stream-of-conscious, or even all over the place topic-wise.

   An open journal: open mind.

   I write this today after I’ve gone through a summer of attempting, or giving in to, a different process. The journal I completed yesterday, after three months, looks different than any journal I have worked through in the past. For the most part, rather than writing every damn day, I decided instead to paint.

   Painting is nothing new to me; it’s something I have done from a kid onwards, particularly over the past few summers (in some ways a passion reignited as a ‘pandemic project’).

   This summer, in preparation for a move (relocation) all my oil paints and supplies (along with unfinished works) have been packed away. To curb my creative cravings, I bought a small travel watercolour kit, brushes and paper at the tail-end of May. I began, then and again, to indulge myself in non-judgemental art. No expectations, only intentions. Soon enough, I was playing around with pastels, chalk, crayons, India ink, and whatever else I was inspired to use. I popped into art supply stores a little too often (that’s beside the point). I worked the mediums and methods into a practice or, at times, nearly a madness. I was reminded yesterday as I, again, flipped through my pages (now a scrapbook of sorts).

   In working on this particular journal, I also put off some of the writing I’ve been working on (some of it for a decades). I’ve got a few manuscripts in various stages of undress and need to do something with them. But I haven’t done anything with or to them in several months.

   This summer I needed an art immersion. I needed to use the parts of my brain that were not being exercised enough – at least not frequently enough.

   My focus, indeed, has been on artistic adventures. As welcome as it was, or has been, I also need to get back to what I do best (I think). I want to continue seeing what I am made of, challenging myself as much as enjoying and expressing what I can do.

   I also want to continue seeing what I am made of.

   I’ve just begun a new journal but also have a fresh new sketchbook ready to be pressed into action. I want to continue drawing and painting and figuring myself out in a more visual way. Creativity has many directions and, as it turns out, many detours and diversions.

   A journal is a journey.

© j.g. lewis