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JM
CORNWELL:
WALKING
WITH THE TIGRESS
“I've come
to really appreciate Joo-Eun's story
Joo-Eun is
Korean for Pearl. She was such a
tiny and
beautiful woman, a porcelain doll, but
she had
strength and resilience and she brought
out such
compassion in someone we all considered arrogant and dangerous. In Joo-Eun's case, that lady ended up walking side by side with the tigress.”
JM Cornwell
Author of Among Women
It took J.M. Cornwell over 30 years to write and
edit Among
Women, a novel about women in prison and the circumstances and choices
that led them there. The book has elements
of the biography and fiction, but is mostly autobiographical.
“Among Women at the heart, this is my story, a part of my life that has remained
strong and fresh in my mind. Yes, it is about the rights of the imprisoned, but
the main theme is perception. How we react when we see people and what happens
when we interact with them. To be able
to see others as people with their own stories, we have to get past that first
impression and the social conventions we grew up with. Very few people are all
bad or even evil and fewer people are perfect and good. We are all at heart
people, and women, who want the best for our families and to be seen, not as
faceless members of some social clan but as individuals with hopes and dreams.
We are the sum of our experiences and want to be known, fully known as only one
person can know another be opening up and sharing ourselves.”
The writing process was long, arduous, and
sporadic. She wrote the first lines of
the book while in jail.
“When I began writing in
jail, I just kept writing. It was a
promise I made to myself to let people know that the women who end up in jail
were not as they believed them to be and that injustice was rampant in the system.”
Majority of the book was written from her home,
at night, with pen and paper. She’d
write whenever the inspiration came and then place the handwritten manuscript
away until the muse came again – sometimes a month later, two years later, even
ten years later, before she’d take it out again and add more writing
entries.
Cornwell’s
main purpose in writing Among Women was to record moment by
moment things in her own personal life and the personal lives of people she
knew. Since most of those memories were
very clear there was no need to prepare an outline or a synopsis. At first, she
wrote at night, but soon she was writing day and night.
“I was in the zone. When I’m in the zone of writing, I lose track of time. I was immersed in the time and place, just as I had been when it all happened. I listened to the stories again and imagined them happening to each of the women. The more I put myself in their stories, the more things became clearer and took on a life of their own.”
“I was in the zone. When I’m in the zone of writing, I lose track of time. I was immersed in the time and place, just as I had been when it all happened. I listened to the stories again and imagined them happening to each of the women. The more I put myself in their stories, the more things became clearer and took on a life of their own.”
The most difficult task of writing Among
Women was the beginning and the ending, which Cornwell rewrote so many
times she lost count.
“I originally ended the
book where Pearl goes to the cafe on Bienville in the French Quarter and is at
last back among her friends not knowing that there were two men trying to find
her. That left too many questions, so I decided, after more rewriting, that there
had to be a sequel, and changed the ending one last time.”
Unlike
most writers who find the beginning to be the hardest part of a novel, to
Cornwell, it is the ending that is the most problematic.
“Yes, beginnings are
when you hook the reader but it is at the end when the book either comes
together or falls apart (and) will end with the reader disliking the book and
feeling cheated.”
Among Women centers on Pearl, a
young woman living in the strange city of New Orleans, who finds herself robbed
and abandoned, trying to survive only to end up arrested for someone else’s
crime and thrown into jail for six weeks.
During those six weeks she lives with fifty other women, whom she feels
superior to and not worthy of her friendship.
Pearl writes her own experiences and the experiences of her fellow
inmate, which causes a change to occur.
“When Pearl begins to listen to each person's story is when she puts aside her prejudices and that is a major turning point. Putting pen to paper is an extension of that moment because (Pearl) makes a definite choice to do something, for herself and for the women she comes to know. She becomes less the victim and more the author of her own life.”
Among Women is a lesson to all of
humanity – before you judge someone, get to know that individual, and then base
your judgment and opinion on your own personal experience with that
person. We are all Pearls, and reading
this book, we, along with Pearl, can finally see.
“It is not until we
actually SEE someone, look into their eyes, that we begin to know each other
and cast off our prejudices and preconceptions.”
Perhaps
the strangest thing about this novel is that one character Cornwell identified
the most with, Pearl, was the character that surprised her the most.
“I don't think I knew
everything that was buried inside Pearl until I wrote the other women's stories
and began to see the whole thing from the outside as a writer.”
Cornwell
sent the manuscript Among Women to the publishers of her first book Past
Imperfect, which they rejected.
“They didn't like the violence of Betty's rape or the tone of
the book. Their rejection came with a note that nothing happens in the book and
readers wouldn't like that.”
After three publishers and one agent
rejected Among Women, Cornwell decided to self publish the book. She
contacted an artist and began the process.
“This
was at the time when indie publishing was getting a real foothold in the
industry and Kindle Direct became available.
I took a deep breath and jumped off the cliff.”
Cornwell resides in Colorado Springs,
Colorado, her home resting at the feet of Pikes Peak. It is in her home where she works as a
medical transcriptionist during the day and writes every chance she gets.
“I usually write at night after I finish work
and sometimes early in the morning when I can't sleep. The evenings and early mornings, when I
usually sleep, are split between writing letters and books, keeping up a
considerable correspondence, cross stitch, and designing cross-stitch. To keep
the writing muscles limber, I write every day, often on more than one project.”
Cornwell
believes a dedicated writer must have determination and grit, never give up on
his or her dreams, and be willing to make sacrifices if they want to get
published.
“Many people say they would like to write, but when I tell them that giving up 1 or 2 TV programs to write is necessary to finding the time, they balk. The important thing is to write and keep writing every day and find the time and the space even if you have to install a lock on the inside of the door to keep distractions to a minimum.”
Cornwell,
like most writers, insists that one must read in order to be an effective
writer.
“I couldn't live without
reading and wouldn't be much of a writer if I didn't read, and I read
voraciously in a myriad of subjects. Homer and Edgar Rice Burroughs were my
first influences, but I think fairy tales have been my greatest influence.
There is something magical about telling a story that makes people want to sit
and listen -- or read and I believe in magic. Books are magical doorways to the
deepest desires and the imagination. Each new book is another doorway and
another step into a new adventure. In that way, every good book has influenced
me and spurred me to be a better writer.”
Contact
JM Cornwell via snail mail at 1907 W Pikes Peak Avenue, Colorado Springs, CO
80904.
Email at jcornwell@peoplepc.com, visit facebook at www.facebook.com/jackie.m.cornwell, or visit her blog at www.fixnwrtr.blogspot.com
*Excerpt of Among Women by JM Cornwell. Copyright by JM Cornwell.
Thirteen: JOO-EUN
Kwan Joo-Eun grasped the hem of her tailored
linen jacket to still the trembling in her hands. Her brother, Kwan Tomeo, held
out a ballpoint. “Sign.”
His sister stood ramrod straight, teeth
clenched, straining against the monsoon of hot emotion speeding through her veins.
“Sign.”
Joo-Eun took the pen and laid it carefully on
the counter between them. She turned and walked over to a box of video tapes,
picked up the pricing gun and attached labels to the videos before placing them
carefully on the rack. Kwan Tomeo picked up his briefcase, pocketed the
platinum Cross pen he always carried as a symbol of his wealth and power, and
walked out the door. The bell jangled wildly. Joo-Eun continued pricing and
placing videos until the box was empty, and took a box cutter from her trouser
pocket. She slashed the tape, deftly broke down the box and laid it on top of a
stack near the end of the rack, her precise movements a cover for the wild
throbbing of her anger. She would not give up her share of the business or
marry the man her brother chose. They were no longer in Korea and she was not a
child.
Working quickly, she emptied the remaining two
boxes, broke them down and laid them on the stack before locking the door and
counting out the register. She checked her watch. It was past 2 a.m. Joo-Eun
put on her coat and dragged the pile of cardboard out the alley door, locked it
and leaned the pile against the dumpster. Shivering in her sable coat, Joo-Eun
quickly unlocked her car and got in. The drive home in the teeth of an icy wind
threatened to force her off the road. She fought the wheel, grateful for the
few stoplights still working at that hour. Her hands trembled when she pulled
into the driveway forty minutes later, fighting icy roads and howling head
winds all the way. The commute usually took fifteen minutes. She was glad to be
home as she thumbed the garage door opener and drove inside.
Once the door was down and she was inside, she
let go the iron grasp on the steering wheel, unlocked the door to the laundry
room and crumpled bonelessly to the floor. Wrapping her trembling arms around
her knees, she rocked to and fro. She swung between anger at her brother’s
demands and fear of what he would do if she continued to defy him.
This was not Korea. She had rights. Tomeo had
not built up the store. She had done it alone, turning the least of the
family’s holdings into a profitable business. She had earned the right to
choose her own path and was not about to relinquish control of her life to
Tomeo or whomever he chose to foist on her. It did not matter that the man
Tomeo selected was wealthy and the alliance would satisfy her brother’s lust
for control and power. She would not give in, especially not to marry a man
thirty-five years her senior. Even had the man been ten years older she would
not have agreed, not if it meant giving up control of her life or what she had
earned the hard way. The family would gain much prestige. “Life is not just
prestige,” she said to the walls. There had to be some pleasure, some happiness
and, yes, some choice to be worth the sacrifice. “I do not do sacrifice.” She
got off the floor and kicked off her high heels, slipping her feet into house
shoes.
Some traditions were worth keeping. Arranged
marriages and the life of a silent, biddable wife were traditions not worth
perpetuating, not when those traditions demeaned her. And not if she must give
up her freedom. A man so much older would not countenance an independent wife.
He was too much a slave of tradition. When he died—and he would die long before
her—she would be left with very little. All his money would go to his family
because she was unable to bear children. A woman without sons had no status in
Korea and there would be no sons. Had Tomeo even told him she was barren?
He must have. Such a delicate matter left out of
the negotiations, if it came to light later, would end in her being sent back
to her family in shame and without her dowry. “I will not submit. Not this
time.
“Cut me out if you dare, Tomeo. You cannot take
away my pride or my life.” As long as he did not cut her out of the business
she had built, Tomeo could follow all the traditions he liked. She would make
her own traditions.
Joo-Eun knew she had been meant to fail. The
bookstore had been meant to drag her down by throwing her into the deep end.
She had been rebellious and Tomeo and her mother were determined to make things
as difficult as possible. “You are too American,” her mother said. “You must be
more feminine. An older husband will quiet the demons and remind you of your
place. Do not get too comfortable in your business. You only mind it for the
family.”
She had not failed, but prospered, bringing more
money into the family than her three elder brothers. Her success had nearly
cost Tomeo his standing, especially since one of the businesses he backed was
now bankrupt. He still earned more than Joo-Eun, but only by a mere forty
thousand a quarter. That was, as the Americans said—“as I would say”—small
potatoes.
She straightened her blouse and trousers. She
needed a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she would talk to her
lawyer and see what options remained. Tomeo would have to bow to the American
legal system. On paper, she owned the store. That was another one of Tomeo’s
mistakes. In order to protect the family’s holdings and spread the risk, her
name alone was on the deed, giving her complete power and control. He could not
afford to take her to court and risk exposing the extent of the family’s
holdings or some of their marginally legitimate businesses. It was just the
leverage she needed to break away and become fully independent at last.
A hot bath, a glass of wine and her favorite
Chopin piano concerto eased away some of the strain and cold lingering from the
confrontation with Tomeo and the drive home. As she toweled off and applied the
silky blue lotus and lavender lotion to her skin, jangled nerves and the
pounding pulse at her temples eased. She slipped into silk pajamas and released
the carved bone pins from her hair to brush it out before getting into bed.
Warm and comfortable beneath her embroidered
satin comforter, Joo-Eun listened to the wind howl and shake the windows.
Succumbing to the heavy weight of her eyelids, she opened wide the doors of her
mind and embraced sleep, drifting on a warm, placid sea. On the nightstand, an
antique baroque French clock gently ticked away the minutes.
Cold hands gripped her arms and dragged Joo-Eun
from bed. Rough laughter raked her ears.
“Get dressed.” In the harsh glare of the
overhead light, Joo-Eun blinked, her eyes watering, as she struggled into an
embroidered satin brocade robe. She bent down to grab her slippers and was
yanked upright by her arm. Before she could get to her feet, she was dragged
through the door and into the hall. “What are you doing? Let me go.” Both hands
were pinned roughly behind her back until she cried out in pain. “You are
hurting me.”
“Get moving.” A blue-clad officer grabbed her by
the hair and dragged her toward the steps. She fought to break free and was
stunned to silent immobility when she saw her brother standing at the foot of
the stairs smiling up at her.
“Tomeo. You cannot do this.”
“It’s done, little sister.”
She numbly followed the officer down the stairs.
Twice she tripped and twice she was dragged her feet.
“Why?” Joo-Eun’s strangled cry turned to a wail.
As he stood there looking at her, one eyebrow arched, a self satisfied smile
playing about his lips, she became angry. “Tomeo, why?”
"Do not presume to question me," he
said and slapped her, rocking her head back. Rage glittered in her dark eyes
and Tomeo slapped her again. Her head bounced off the wall as she staggered and
fell. She tasted blood. With one hand at the corner of her mouth where blood
trickled down her chin, she braced against the wall as she stood up. "Take
her," he said.
"I will not go."
"You have no choice, little sister."
The officers grabbed her arms and Tomeo tilted her head up with one finger.
"After a little vacation, you will see things differently." He nodded
to the officers.
Tomeo’s triumphant smile slipped sideways into a
smirk as the officers handcuffed her and pushed her out the door and into the
frigid night. She fell to her knees on the sidewalk only to be dragged to the
squad car by her arms, a rag doll between two pit bulls. They tossed her inside
as though she weighed nothing and was of no value. The door slammed, banging
against the soles of her bare feet. Pain shot up both legs. She struggled to
squirm to the other side of the seat and sit up, hampered by the burning pain
in her shoulders. Cramps seized both arms. The handcuffs were so tight her
hands were numb. Unable to right herself, she lay on the seat while hot tears
seared scalding tracks down her cheeks.
A short while later she was hauled out of the
car and frog-marched up the cement steps and into a bedlam of sights, sounds
and foul smells. She tensed, muscles and sinews taut, ready to run. Her skin
crawled, repulsed. She cringed away from the filthy tile floors and was shoved
forward. She stumbled through icy puddles of melting snow and dirt, slipping in
slimy puddles of warm yellow liquid too foul to contemplate. One of the
officers spun her around and unlocked the handcuffs. He pushed her into a long
room flanked by hard wooden benches. The heavy metal door banged shut and echoed
in the sudden silence.
None of the four women doggedly devouring white
bread sandwiches filled with pallid brown patties that might be meat—or
something worse—looked up as she sidled to a corner and sat down. She covered
both knees with the filthy, wet robe and wrapped her arms around them. Head
lowered, her long black hair drifted down to cover her face while she silently
wept.
The image of Tomeo’s triumphant smile while he
toyed with his platinum Cross pen still burned in memory. She had been
betrayed.
PHOTO
DESCRIPTION AND COPYRIGHT INFO
Photo
1
JM
Cornwell. Copyright by JM Cornwell.
Photo
2 and Photo 18
Front
and back jacket covers of Among Women
Photo
3.
Early
photo of JM Cornwell. Copyright by JM
Cornwell.
Photo
4
Another
jacket cover of Among Women.
Photo
5
Jacket
cover of Among Women.
Photo
6
French
Quarter in New Orleans in September of 2001.
Attributed to Chris Litherlard.
Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported licesne.
Photo
7
Front
and back jacket cover of Among Men
Photo
8
Abandoned
traditional day cell block. Location
unknown. Attributed to Bob
Jagerdorf. Creative Commons Attribution
2.0 Generic License.
Photo
9
Blue
eye of female. Creative Commons
Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported
Photo
10
Jacket
cover of Past Imperfect
Photo11
Another
jacket cover of Past Imperfect
Photo
12
Pikes
Peak. Creative Commons Attribution Share
Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Photo
13
Jacket
cover of First Kiss
Photo
14
Jacket
cover of Legacy
Photo
15
Jacket
cover of Whitechapel Hearts
Photo
16
Jacket
cover of Theft of the Seventh Chakra
Photo
17
Jacket
cover of Heart Strings
