Reclaiming My Inner Rock Star by Melissa A. Bartell

A few weeks ago, I was given the opportunity to screen a DVD called Girls Rock!, about “Rock Camp,” a day-camp for girls run by indie rockers Beth Ditto of The Gossip and Carrie Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney. This is NOT a review of that movie (that’s in our “reviews” section).

While I’ve never particularly wanted to be a rock star – my own tastes are more folk/pop, jazz, and Broadway show tunes – I’ve always admired the independent spirit of women rockers. These women who have no fear of being seen with sweat running down their arms and faces while they do what they love, who are empowered to scream into a microphone if their art and their emotions urge them to, who are so self-possessed that seemingly nothing can harm them. They are superheroes, in a sense, made stronger by the fact that they’re not supernatural at all, but real women, in all shapes, sizes and colors. I think, in that sense, they represent the inner rock star in all of us.

My own inner rock star has been silent of late. I could blame the dry weather, the temporary addition of a foster dog to my house, the subsequent removal of the foster dog (no worries – he was adopted and has a family of his own) which coincided with the death of my own, much beloved, 14-year-old Chihuahua, or any number of other single events which add up to a huge ball of stress, but the reality is that the wild, free, part of me is dormant because sometimes she scares me.

…but the reality is that the wild, free, part of me is dormant because sometimes she scares me.

This is embarrassing to admit. I mean, my own mother is one of the strongest, fiercest women I know (and the most generous). I have been surrounded by other strong, smart, fierce women my entire life, and the vast majority of the men in my life have been loving, supportive, equally smart, fierce, and enlightened. (Two of them also have mad sock-whitening skills, but that, too, is another story.) There is no reason I should ever –EVER – feel the need to hide behind a mask of polite interest and casual chatter.

But I do.

I may not be censored by external sources, but I censor my writing (my fiction, my blog, all of it) because I’m afraid of the emotions I might dig up when I go deep, afraid of how dark I might really be. Afraid of…me.

And really, that’s ridiculous. So, it stops, and it stops now. (And really, with March 8th being International Woman’s Day, could there be a better time?) This column isn’t my manifesto, and it’s not a declaration of independence, either. It’s me, virtually strapping on a Fender, plugging it into an amp, and sending loud, raucous, awe-inspiring chords out into the universe, and, like a cosmic game of Telephone, being open to whatever comes back.

Maybe I’m not an indie rocker (though my hair makes me look like one), but I’m reclaiming my inner rock star, and I can’t wait to see what happens.

Melissa A. Bartell likes strong coffee, red wine, and dark chocolate. She earns her living writing web-copy for an Internet marketing firm & dabbles in fiction on the side. She lives near Dallas, TX with her husband, two dogs, and more computers than anyone really needs. She is the Managing Editor here at All Things Girl. Find out more about her on our About Page, or check out her blog at MissMeliss.com