About Pamela Jane

My main accomplishment, growing up, was the novelty of my own consciousness and my awareness of it.  I am here and I know that I am here was tremendously significant but no one, including me, saw how I was going to amaze the world by the stunning fact of my existence.

This was a terrifying thought because the only way I would know for sure that I existed (I thought I did, but just in case) was if others – thousands of others –acknowledged it. I envied kids on cozy family sitcoms like Leave it to Beaver. No one could dispute the fact of their existence; it was right there on the television screen!

Beaver:  Gee, Wally, it’s sure is nice for you to help me out.

Wally:  I’m only helping you ‘cause if Dad gets mad at you, he always winds up getting mad at me.

Beaver didn't have to do any heavy lifting to get viewers to buy in; all he had to do was be himself.

Gee, Wally, it’s sure is nice for you to help me out.

I mean, come on.

I decided to star in my own sitcom beamed into millions of homes across the country. In my mind, our non-descript midwestern bungalow became a set on a Hollywood backlot, where my family and I starred in our own happy-go-lucky sitcom. I edited the film in my head so if my parents went off script I could cut to an ad.

“Mom, Jen's dog is having puppies.  Maybe we can get one!"

“Well, let's see what your father has to say."

Perfect. Kids everywhere were glued to the TV! 

Suddenly my father came charging up the basement stairs.

“[Expletive]! There’s a [expletive] leak in the basement!”

Cut!

“Ralston Purina!  Makers of the eager-eaters dog food!”

It was hard to get a half hour of good footage when I had to keep breaking for ads.

I was churning out weekly episodes at a dazzling speed, when something happened to cause my interior TV to explode in a shower of sparks.

"We're moving," my mother announced, without warning. 

"Why?" I asked, stunned.  Moving wasn't written into my plot synopsis. 

"Berkley is ugly," my mother.  "We're moving to a nicer town with better schools."

I was stunned. Moving was not in my plotline! Now my parents were yanking me out of my TV show, precipitating an existential crisis for my character and leaving my massive worldwide viewership hanging.

I eventually recovered, and became a children's book author...

I love creating funny chapter books for children, and picture books employing rhythm and rhyme.  But it wasn't until I wrote a memoir that I climbed back into my internal broadcasting project (in book form). Publishing a memoir was a last-ditch attempt to prove my own existence – one that raised more questions than it answered.  Who was the person dictating, and who was dictating to it?  

If Nietzsche couldn't figure it out, I certainly can’t.

In the meantime, I just have fun, writing.  I hope you have fun browsing my site!