The incredible
true story of escaping childhood abuse, self-discovery through globe-trotting
adventures and the resiliency to build success and stability in live and love…
By Samantha Hart
Title: BLIND PONY: AS TRUE A STORY AS I CAN TELL
Author: Samantha Hart
Publisher: Wild Bill Publishing
Pages: 359
Genre: Biography/Autobiography/Memoir
BOOK BLURB:
In her debut memoir, entrepreneur and Hollywood executive Samantha Hart reveals the abuses and traumas that she overcame to build a creative, successful, and love-filled life. BLIND PONY As True A Story As I Can Tell (Wild Bill Publishing) was released on March 15, 2021, and is a 2021 Los Angeles Book Festival award winner.
BLIND PONY As True A Story As I Can Tell illuminates Sam’s remarkable ability to be honest and vulnerable about horrific experiences while infusing her unique brand of humor and being relentlessly hopeful. Her story starts with a heart-wrenching childhood of abuse that she endured by her grandfather, which led to her life as a runaway teen and landed her in 1970s Los Angeles. She navigates various abusive relationships, toxic Hollywood characters, a search for her father, “Wild Bill,” and ultimately finds her North Star.
“Almost no one in my life, including long-time friends and colleagues, knew about the trauma I experienced as a young girl. I always managed to overcome adversity throughout my life, maintain a positive outlook, and do well for myself. But deep inside, I felt damaged. In telling my story now and hearing from readers, I realize there are a lot of “blind ponies” out there. If my story resonates for even one person and helps to provide some hope for healing, it was worth writing,” says Sam.
Sam is currently working on adapting BLIND PONY As True A Story As I Can Tell for TV/film while writing her next book, a novel entitled Starcrossed, and a collection of drawings and stories called When I Was A Muse.
PRAISE
“Unforgettable and raw, Hart’s deeply honest musings will ring true to those who want to understand what it’s like to walk through fire.” Book Life
“…a memoir about overcoming—about facing up to and learning from one’s past without being imprisoned by it.” IndieReader
“A powerful coming of age story about finding strength through rebellion, recovery, and forgiveness.”
Jill Watts, bestselling author/Professor of Graduate Studies at CSU
“Hart is a gifted storyteller….she became a backgammon hustler in Los Angeles, something readers likely won’t find in many memoirs.” Kirkus Reviews
“Excellent writing…I recommend this book to simply everyone.” Dog-Eared Publishing
ORDER YOUR COPY
Amazon → https://amzn.to/3gOCQKz
I opened the door to the barn with a bit of trepidation. The smells that once pervaded my senses—new-mown hay, leather, and living animals—had turned to a dank, musty odor. I held Vignette’s hand as we stepped carefully past the empty stalls, ready for something sinister to jump out at any moment. We ventured toward a stable in the back, and above us was the plaque I carved with a wood burner, the name “Misty.” Misty was born when I was eight years old and was the offspring of my beloved pony, Princess.
“Follow me.” I darted up the narrow
wooden stairs. Vignette stayed close on my heels as we headed to my grandfather’s
abandoned workshop to rummage around for something to pry off the sign. The
remnants of a moonshine distillery sat cloaked in dust in an open cabinet, and
as I breathed in the musky air, I could feel my grandfather’s presence and hear
the nasty whistling sound he made when he was coming for me.
“Mommy, are you crying?”
“No, honey, got some dust in my eyes. Let’s get out of here.”
I grabbed the crowbar, intent on
rescuing Misty’s sign. It was a relic from my childhood, and I was unwilling to
leave it to the wrecking ball.
“So, Misty was your pony, Mommy?”
“No, but she was my pony Princess’
baby, just like you are my baby. That’s why I got to name her and made this
sign for her. Look, I have a scar on my finger where I burned myself making
that sign.”
“That must have hurt. I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too.” Equal measures of joy and sorrow overwhelmed me, conjured by a place I thought I would never see again. We traipsed outside so I could stow the plaque inside the car, and Vignette spotted an old tractor.
“Look at this cool tractor, Mommy! Can I climb on it?”
“Yes, but be careful,” I said. My mind
drifted. I could almost hear the chatter between my sisters and me as we
saddled up at the corral to take our horses out for trail rides.
Princess was blind in one eye, so she
kept a slower pace than the other horses as we galloped up past the oil rig
with its rhythmic chugging and stench of old black oil. The sound of thundering
hoofs would ring in my ears, and by the time we reached the top of Gobbler’s
Knob, the view would be invisible through the thick cloud of dust, and I’d be
as blind as Princess.
The past was so vivid, I almost forgot I wanted to capture this moment
with Vignette. As I went back to the car to retrieve my camera, the familiar
sound of the gravel crunching beneath my feet unspooled memories of a story my
mother had repeated to me throughout my childhood.
Late one night, Bill Butter pulled into the gravel driveway well past midnight. Dean Martin’s just-released record “Volare” blared over the car radio. Bill continued his drunken crooning after turning off the ignition, though, in his stupor, he left the headlights on. My mother, Clara, peered out the upstairs window to see her husband silhouetted by the car’s lights, stumbling up the stone path, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. Annoyed and embarrassed by his returning from these late-night trysts with other women, which had become too frequent, she climbed back into bed, pretending to be asleep, and got tangled up in her oversized flannel nightgown.
A gust of frosty Pennsylvania wind
followed Bill up the stairs to the bedroom. He pulled his pants down just far
enough to expose his stiffened penis, then threw himself on top of his wife
while endeavoring, with frustration, to unravel the nightgown.
Clara realized her best option for
keeping their small children from waking was to make way for the inevitable
drunken thrust between her naked thighs. When he found his way to an orgasm, he
hollered out the name of his current mistress, Pammy Sue, and unceremoniously
deposited the seed that would grow into a girl destined to be nothing but
trouble. The first sign of said trouble began the very next morning with a dead
car battery.
Nine months later, my
mother gave birth to her fourth child on the first day of fall. Dad thought I
would be a boy, and he named me Sam. Maybe he hoped I would be a boy so he
could stop hearing about Pammy Sue. As luck would have it, he pulled four aces.
I was his fourth daughter.
My mother’s frozen heart determined to
immortalize her husband’s infidelity and spelled it out on the birth
certificate. But for as long as I knew my dad, he never called me by any other
name but Sam. I always thought the name suited me. My mother prodded me so
often with the reason my name was Pammy that my official name repulsed me.
Vignette tugged on my sleeve and
snapped me back to reality. “Mommy, mommy, can we go now? I’m hungry,” she
moaned. “Me too,” I said, and we went back into the car. I threw my camera on
the back seat along with the “Misty” sign, figuring I had enough memories of
the place. Nothing could change what happened here.
As my daughter and I drove down Clever
Road, I glanced back at the old farmhouse in the rearview mirror one last time.
It would soon disappear forever, along with the lilac and forsythia bushes and
delicate lilies of the valley that poked through the spring thaw each year. The
springhouse and the old maple tree where I hugged my grandmother for the last
time would be gone.
But they would live on in my memories, along with many things I wished
I could forget.
Samantha Hart’s career has spanned music, film, and advertising, earning her a reputation as an award-winning Creative Director. Early in her career, Hart worked with top artists at Geffen, including Cher, Aerosmith, Nirvana, and Guns N’ Roses. In the film industry, her marketing campaigns brought prominence and Academy Awards to Fargo, Dead Man Walking, and Boys Don’t Cry while earning cult status for independent features Four Weddings and A Funeral, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and Dazed and Confused. With her partner, Samantha built a multi-million dollar company in the advertising industry, Foundation, with over forty employees and offices in Chicago and Los Angeles. Under her leadership, Foundation earned distinction as an early disrupter of the traditional production and post-production models, combining the two under one roof. Samantha currently lives in Los Angeles with her husband, director James Lipetzky, and their teenage sons. Her daughter and granddaughters reside in Massachusetts.
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