#4Questions

Writer Wendy Adamson

Wendy is the September 2019 Visiting Writer at Pasadena City College

She'll be on campus to give a talk and reading on Wednesday, September 18, at 10:45a-Noon in Circadian Room.This event is open to the entire Pasadena Community thanks to generous support from the Pasadena Festival of Women Authors. The Circadian Room  is adjacent to the PCC campus Quad and campus Bookstore. Wendy's memoir will be available for purchase at the event. Please join us! For more information, contact keogden@pasadena.edu.

About Wendy

With over twenty years of experience, Wendy Adamson is a seasoned professional in the field of mental health and substance abuse. As a sober woman Wendy has a deep understanding of the recovery process. Using her vast knowledge of addiction as a guiding beacon. Wendy received her Certification in Alcohol & Drug abuse from UCLA in the mid-nineties. Ever since Wendy has been helping individuals who are suffering from carrying the same load. 
 
Wendy is also a published author with  articles in the Huff Post, Singular Magazine and the Fix, Wendy's debut memoir, Mother Load was released in May. It tells of her own struggles with addiction, hitting rock bottom, along with her ultimate recovery journey. Wendy has told her stories on stage, as well as radio and leads several creative writing groups in Los Angeles.

#4Questions for Wendy Adamson

How did you first become interested in writing?

Ever since I first heard bad decisions can often lead to good stories, I knew I had plenty of material to write about. But when it actually occurred to me that my story could help other people, I got serious about developing the craft.  

Who are some of your favorite writers?

I have so many, but lately I’ve enjoyed Heavy, by Laymon Keise, Educated, by Tara Westover and currently I’m really liking Bettyville, by George Hodgman. 

Tell us a little bit about your writing process / writing practice.

My writing starts very early in the morning and I always meditate beforehand. I usually write for a couple hours before I head off for work. If I have more time during the day, I will come back to my writing later. I always try to get down the first bad draft before going over it to get it to where I want it to be. In other words, I end up doing a lot of rewriting. 

What advice do you have for beginner writers interested in writing and publishing?

The best advice I ever got was to never give up.

Read an Excerpt:

When I looked out the peephole of my front door, Kim, a twenty-four-year-old tweaker, was standing there in a cropped t-shirt and skintight jeans, her blond hair covering one eye, peek-a-boo style. She had scored earlier that day and was back for more. It was obvious that she was doing a shit load of meth. But who was I to judge?

It was the early nineties and my husband Max and I were living the so-called American Dream. We had two boys and managed apartment complexes with a swimming pool in a quiet suburb outside of Los Angeles. We would go to Disneyland, attend little league games, participate in the school bake sales and enjoy an occasional Sunday Bar-B-Q. What set us apart from other parents? We were smoking copious amounts of methamphetamine.

Opening the door a crack, I looked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed. “Come on in,” I said, quickly shutting the door behind her.

A fringed leather purse bounced off her hip as she sashayed to the couch.

“I like your purse,” I said. “Very sixties.”

Kim sat down and fondled it like it was a puppy, “Oh this thing? I got it for ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks?” I was struck with envy.

“Yes ma'am.”

Why does this bimbo refer to me as a ma’am? Is she trying to imply I’m old? How about I smack you upside the head with your puppy purse, you blond dimwit? I flashed her a phony smile.

Just then, Max walked in, shirtless, rubbing his jet-black curly hair with a towel. “Yo, what’s happening Kim?”

“Hi Max,” she giggled. “I came by to see if it’s too late to score a gram?”

The dealer, wanting to cut down on foot traffic, had assigned Max as the middle man and for his efforts he’d get a cut of whatever he bought. “Giiirrrrlll, you know speed freaks don’t sleep,” he wagged his finger. “It’s never too late to score from a meth connection.”

Kim laughed, while I blankly stared off in space. I had heard the recycled-speed-freak jokes before, just like I had heard all of Max’s jokes. I figured that’s just what happens when you’re married to someone for twenty years. Everything ends up being recycled news.
Within minutes Max and Kim headed out the front door to the connections across town. When I was sure the coast was clear, I rushed to the master bedroom and pulled out a stash I had tucked away earlier that day. Due to my increasing paranoia, I had convinced myself Max was doing speed behind my back. So, why not beat him at his own game?
​
I poured a generous line of the white, glassy powder onto the crease of six-inch-squared- off tinfoil. With a straw gripped in my teeth, I held a flame a few inches underneath. The powder began to smolder and a metallic smoke spiraled upward. I sucked it in like a human vacuum cleaner, determined not to let any of it get away. I held the smoke in my lungs until they felt they might explode.
As I set the foil down my heart was pounding like a drum. I gripped the edge of the mattress, riding the rush of adrenaline like a racecar driver hugging the wall of a sharp turn. The ceiling fan spun overhead. A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood. The neurons fired in my brain like it was the Fourth of July. 
Visit Wendy Online and purchase the book at https://wendyadamson.com/
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