The Joni journey ends here. But I hope if you came this far, your journey has just begun. This book taught me that the creative drive exists within us all. We’re all here to make something, whether it’s a family, a great casserole, or a portfolio of masterpieces. Creating is our human purpose, and the more we do it, the more meaningful our lives become. There is no right or wrong way to approach creation; one simply has to move forward with courage and inner strength. The rest, it seems, falls into place—because once we have the vision, we can see the bigger picture. Nietzsche likens the creative endeavour to assembling a puzzle or solving a riddle: “And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also a poet and a reader of riddles and the redeemer of chance!”1 The bits and pieces surround us like so many clues and mosaic tiles, and the creative act gives them beauty and order, redeeming the chaos of the human condition.
Many times over the course of piecing this book together, I felt the thrill of creation pulsing within, and it was truly liberating because it opened me to life’s mystery. There was no pressure, just a wide-eyed sense of awe at how much beauty surrounds us every second. I think these are innate abilities, and although they’ve been squelched by our current techno-drone, they are not gone. Great creators live among us at all times—but seldom are they recognized for the gifts they offer. I thank the universe for handing me a book about one of the greatest, because it put me in touch with my own creative will.
The world could use more Joni Mitchells, but we all know she’s a one-off. What we can do is follow her lead, the one charted by Nietzsche’s Zarathustra as a way of overcoming the self. He says, “Man needs to be overcome,” and I got a giggle while writing this book when I realized Mitchell was in every way a perfect example of the “Overman” or “Superman”: not only is she a true creator, but she is a woman—and, therefore, not man. She is, literally and figuratively, man overcome.
But those were private puzzle games. Everyone will pull what they want from the pieces and arrive at their own private mosaic of meaning. The most important thing is honouring the creative spirit and our potential to make the world a better, more beautiful place through the artistic endeavour—no matter what form it takes.
My dad went to his fiftieth college reunion at Columbia University while I was researching this book, and he said ninety-seven per cent of the graduates in his 1961 MBA class wanted to start their own business. In 2011, it was the opposite: ninety-seven per cent want to be CEOs in someone else’s company. No one wants to take entrepreneurial risk anymore: they want the cushy chair and the corner office without creating.
But hope springs eternal: my mother recently rediscovered her passion for music. She bought herself The Beatles: Remastered. She cranked it loud one Christmas. We all sang along. And we danced.
I want to thank every writer who’s ever written anything about Joni Mitchell. Without you, this book would not have been possible. In the same breath, I would also like to note the invaluable contributions of Les Irvin, the jonimitchell.com webmaster, who made sure this book was as accurate as possible and generously offered kind words of support.
Michelle Benjamin, who for some mysterious reason thought I’d be a good candidate to write a Joni book. Thank you for the opportunity.
Rob Sanders at Greystone, for believing in the underlying idea when it was still a muddle. Thank you for your faith, and the incredible journey.
Marsha Lederman and Melora Koepke, two brilliant writers and true friends who encouraged me every step of the way. Without you, I would have buckled.
Peter Norman, for all the great edits and, mostly, for understanding.
Shirarose Wilensky, for making it tight as a drum.
Lee Crawford, my personal therapist, for listening to me whine about my own creative hurdles and celebrating my strange revelations over the past two years. Lee, who also happens to be an art therapist, was a support emotionally, mentally, and most of all creatively during a rather draining period in my personal life over the course of which this book was created. She also loaned me some great books and let me become acquainted with the theories of Ellen Levine, Melanie Klein, and D.W. Winnicott.
Wally Breese, for originating the jonimitchell.com website, easily the most comprehensive fan site ever created. Your spirit lives on through Les.
Bob Lesperance, my lawyer, for guiding me through the wilds of intellectual property.
Margaret Atwood, because I spoke with you twice over the course of the book, and each time, you gave me a little piece of the larger creative puzzle.
Susan Joy Carroll, because you asked me to thank you... and because you are a great friend and a fantastic reader.
Dave Chesney, who understands the eagle.
Rick Bedell, who understands the snake.
Cynthia Fish, for being the skipper and letting me crew. You changed my life.
My mother and my father, for supporting me without question when I asked you to, and letting me have the captain’s room to create in.
My sister, Tracy, for sharing her record player.
Allie and Sam, Pat Leidl, Janet Forsyth, Paul Dodsworth, Joe and Shannon Rotundo, and Lee Majors, for various brands of support that made this book easier (and furrier) to write.
The universe, for arranging all the bizarre synchronicities that made this book what it is. There are too many to mention, but it seems when you write about Joni Mitchell, the spheres cooperate in the most unexpected ways.
The spirit of Joan (all of them), whom I sensed next to me on every leg of the odyssey. Thank you for the inspiration and the magic.
And Stephanie Innes, who has only two rules: “Pull your own weight, and have joy.” You make my little light shine brighter than it’s ever shone before.