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  • Falling Backwards
  • Written by Jann Arden
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  • Written by Jann Arden
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A Memoir

Written by Jann ArdenAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Jann Arden

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List Price: $13.99

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On Sale: November 01, 2011
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-307-39986-1
Published by : Knopf Canada Knopf Canadian Publishing
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Jann Arden is funny. And sincere. She has legions of devoted fans. And a radio show. She is a darling of the music scene - always candid, always unplugged. You thought you knew Jann Arden, but there is more - to her readers' delight, in Falling Backwards Jann reveals her childhood, her bond with family, her struggle in the formative years and what keeps her so grounded in the whirlwind entertainment industry. Jann has always been true to herself, except for a minor lapse when she was young. Oh wait, wasn't that all of us?

From the tender and honest to the laugh-out-loud funny, Jann's stories from home and from the road during her pre-celebrity years will take you to unexpected places, including high school parties in farmer's fields, sleepovers under the stars, hard-to-believe summer jobs and the time she was stuck upside down in a brick barbecue. She reminds us of the inestimable value to a child of having teachers who believe in you and wide open spaces to play. But with the good times come the bad (and not just the bad perm). Jann opens up about the darker side of her so-called prairie perfect nuclear family and the first signs that her eldest brother was a uniquely troubled young man. In the days when Jann was experiencing a lot of firsts - first school play, first home perm, first kiss - how lucky for all of us that she stole away to her basement and taught herself her first song on her mother's guitar.

In addition to being an incredible musician and multi-award-winning lyricist, Jann is a natural writer and simply an inspiration. Jann will capture your heart - and keep you in stitches - with her powerful stories about coming of age as an artist and as a human being. Jann brings her wit and that infectious sparkle to everything she does. This book is no exception.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt

I look across my yard every morning at my parents’ little house. They live fifty feet from me now. I can see their lights go on in the morning and shut off at night. I can see them moving about in the yard when they’re watering plants or cutting wood or when my mother is digging up her flower beds. I watch them and I smile. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what in the world I will do when they are not there anymore. I drink cold water and tell myself to stop being so selfish. I close my eyes tightly and open them again, hoping that my thoughts will be cleared away. They never are completely.
 
I have fourteen acres of land west of Calgary, not far from where I grew up. Not far from where this story begins. My mother and father met on a blind date in the late fifties, before there were colour TVs and cellphones and CDs and computers and even Spanx, for that matter. My mom’s old friend Freda, who’s now deceased, was determined to set my mother up with her boyfriend’s pal, convincing her that this blind date would be different. Freda told my mom that this guy was funny and smart and had a job, for Pete’s sake! What else could a girl possibly want? Freda didn’t seem to care that my mother kind of already had a boyfriend (though my mother says she never really liked him all that much anyway), and asked what would one little date on a Saturday night hurt anybody? My mother reluctantly agreed to go out with my dad. The rest, as they say . . .
 
It’s hard to believe that my parents are still together and going strong some fifty-three years later. They have survived things that would have crushed most couples. They persevered where others would have cracked in half. I don’t think I could have done what my mother and father did, and that was to go ever forward with their shoulders back and their jaws set straight and their faith unwavering. Both my parents lasted. They beat the odds. They survived each other, for starters, and that was—and is—no small feat. I don’t know if something was in the water, but not a single one of my friends’ parents divorced either. I thought about that one day and just shook my head. It says a lot about the company I kept and continue to keep all these years later.
 
My parents are my treasures. They are my secret weapon, my shield, my strength and my faith. Whenever I went off the rails, and that was fairly often as I was figuring out how to be a person, I turned to them for comfort and solace and direction and forgiveness. They were always there for me, always.
 
I sometimes see my dad standing in the yard. He’s perfectly still and quiet, with his arms resting on his rake, and he’s looking off over the fields. I wonder what he’s thinking about. I wonder if he’s thinking what I am thinking.
 
I asked him once what it was like getting older, and he told me that he couldn’t feel it and he couldn’t see it in the mirror either. He said he just saw himself the same way he always was. I think about that conversation a lot.
 
So many things have changed around me, but I still see the same face when I look in the mirror. I know what my dad meant. Living is a process. You plod along and hope you’re on the right road and if you’re not, well, that’s okay too. I know that from experience now.
 
When I was in my early twenties, I moved out to Vancouver for a few years and managed to get myself into a lot of trouble. Not legal trouble, but emotional and spiritual trouble. I felt so lost and so down and out. I made one mistake after another. I was on some kind of self-destruct mode. Eventually I picked myself up and hosed myself down and ended up, as my mother often says, making something of myself, despite myself. She also says to me, “Thank God you could sing, or who knows where you’d have ended up.” I don’t like to think about that.
 
Years later I returned to Vancouver for a series of sold-out concerts. It was a giant contrast to the days when I was busking on the streets for a buck or two to buy cigarettes and wine. I couldn’t believe I was there, standing on a beautiful, brightly lit stage, singing my songs for people who had paid to see me. I felt vindicated somehow. I’d survived the stupidity of my youth.
 
After one of the shows I had the limo driver take me across the Lions Gate Bridge to the North Shore, where I’d gotten myself into so much trouble. I had him drive by my old apartment building on Third Street, where I had lived twenty-five years earlier. It was boarded up, to no one’s surprise—least of all mine. It stood there like a tombstone. The pouring rain added nicely to the movie I was creating in my head. I saw my young self, staggering in drunk through the beat-up front door. I closed my eyes and clearly pictured the old mattress on the floor, the ironing board I used as a kitchen table, my beloved cassette deck. I sat in the car for ten or fifteen minutes with the window down, looking out at the street. The cold rain was spitting at my face.
 
I won, I thought to myself. I won. I felt a weight lift off my heart. I said a prayer in my head about gratitude and forgiveness, and then I had the driver take me back across the big bridge to my hotel. I lay in my bed that night and thought about how I’d gotten to where I was that day. I fell asleep smiling.
 


From the Hardcover edition.
Jann Arden|Author Desktop

About Jann Arden

Jann Arden - Falling Backwards
Since releasing her debut album in 1993, Jann Arden has had seventeen top-ten singles from eight albums including “I Would Die for You,” “Could I Be Your Girl” and “Insensitive.” Winner of eight Junos and recipient of the National Achievement Award from SOCAN, Arden was also inducted into the Canadian Association of Broadcasters Hall of Fame and won the International Achievement Award at the 2007 Western Canadian Music Awards. She is the author of If I Knew, Don’t You Think I’d Tell You? and I’ll Tell You One Damn Thing, and That’s All I Know! and the host of the #1-rated radio program Being Jann. She lives in Calgary, Alberta.

Author Q&A

When we weren’t colouring or playing John and Jane West, Gary and I rode our tricycles around and around and around the block. (At this point we hadn’t clued in to the fact that riding bikes was exercise, and that we would one day hate every second of cardiovascular activity.) I knew where every crack was in every single inch of sidewalk. I knew where every kid lived and what their names were and what kind of swing set they had in their backyard. I knew what cars would be parked in the front driveways and when they came and went. My neighbourhood was mapped out in my heart and I never wanted anything about it to change.
 
I had put a pet turtle into my pocket on one of those bike trips around the block with Gary, and sadly I discovered it quite dead after a few hours of pedalling. Why I thought a turtle would survive inside my pants for hours is beyond me, but live and learn, I suppose. I cried rivers and oceans of tears over that dead turtle. I am sure Gary cried too. I hadn’t seen many dead things by that point in my life. We conducted a funeral for the turtle, said a few words to Jesus about “his only something- or-other son” and then proceeded to flush him/her down the toilet. John and Jane West also attended the funeral and were very straight-faced through the ceremony. Life, it seemed, was going to be getting harder.
 
After the funeral, Gary and I took our twenty-five-cent allowances and walked down to the only convenience store in town and bought a bag of salt and vinegar chips and a cream soda, respectively. That would leave us with enough money to buy five pieces of Dubble Bubble gum. If I forwent the Dubble Bubble, I could buy a box of Eddylite Easy Strike matches. It was a hard decision to make. Gum or matches? Thank God they didn’t have flammable chewing gum.
 
First the gum . . . I would chew all five pieces at the same time, almost causing my jaw to lock and my saliva to overtake my head. The pain was unbearable but necessary. You can’t chew just one piece of Dubble Bubble-that’s nuts. You have to have at least three pieces in your mouth to make it worth your while. You have to blow out a bubble at least as big as your head to make it any fun at all. You then have to pop the bubble so the gum sticks to your hair and perhaps end up cutting off some of your bangs. I never had to cut my bangs, unless you count the time I fell asleep with the wad of gum in my mouth and woke up with my whole head stuck to my pillow.


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

NATIONAL BESTSELLER

“As talented, funny and engaging as Jann Arden can be, perhaps the most impressive thing about the eight-time Juno Award winner is her modesty.”
The Globe and Mail
 
“The type of free-spirited, brutally truthful woman who can stand toe to toe with any man or woman. Funny and not afraid to sprinkle an interview with helpings of words your mother would never allow in the house, Arden is two parts poet and one part your crazy aunt.”
The Toronto Sun
 
“[Jann Arden is] abundantly and humorously generous with herself in public. . . . No doubt Arden holds some secrets, some passions, some pain close to the vest, but, like the best gossip in the neighbourhood, she diverts our attention with titillating yarns.”
Toronto Star“
 
“If it were possible to distil the mirth in a person’s eyes onto the page, this memoir would be the result.... If readers aren’t already fans, they are going to be after taking in her nostalgic, at times even lyrical, and frequently belly-laugh-inducing accounts of growing up.”
Winnipeg Free Press
 
“A pretty great, easy, light read, and succeeds because it’s written entirely in Arden’s voice.”
The Gazette
 
“Incredibly rich...a universally relatable coming-of-age portrait pieced together from 30 years’ worth of sorrow, laughter and joy.”
Ottawa Citizen

“A compelling read, told in Arden’s conversational style.”
The Hamilton Spectator

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