Escaping Prison
Is your writing in jail? 🚫
The last time I visited someone in prison I was a little fourth grader looking at my father through a thick piece of glass, a curious child who didn’t know I should feel afraid/embarrassed/sad/confused. The last time I was escorted from a prison, I was in my late thirties, a curious adult who was kind of nervous about the armed guard but too busy trying to figure out how to spin the story so I would sound “wicked cool.”
That’s right, friends, I was kicked out of Ye Old Joliet Prison. Or more accurately, I was “removed from the property.”
As almost all wicked cool experiences go, this one loses its wicked charm when all the context is filled in, so I’ll let you sit with it for a moment while I set the scene.
The now closed Joliet Prison sits southwest of Chicago, Illinois, pressing against a spooky sky like a haunted asylum. In a strange way, it reminded me of a Downton Abbey estate (if you could ignore the razor wire and guard towers and the lack of manicured flowerbeds and suited valets). Actress Melissa McCarthy, who grew up nearby, recounts her morning drives to school and how her mother would always warn: Don’t look at them! Don’t make eye contact! You’ll get them all riled up! As if the prisoners could get inside their station wagon and do unspeakable things. Signs in the area warn not to pick up hitchhikers.
Over the years it has housed the terrible likes of John Wayne Gacy, is most certainly inhabited by ghosts, and was the set for the 2005 Fox serial drama, Prison Break.
When I visited in 2017 it had been closed down for fifteen years, the drabness of disuse turning it from a simple house of horror to a house of dirt, vines, and yes, still horror. As a lover of television and a fan of Prison Break, I wanted to go where Michael Scofield had gone. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to mark our 19th anniversary. (I am nothing if I am not a romantic.)
I’ve been to the Friends apartment in New York City, the Schitt’s Creek motel outside Orangeville, Ontario, and Cooper’s Seafood in Scranton, Pennsylvania (where are my The Office friends at?), but this was my first venture to a prison set.
Tours had been shut down at that time for reasons we didn’t discover, so we took our own tour. And yes, we did try to open every door we stumbled across. But to no avail. Everything was locked solid (which I’m sure will help Melissa McCarthy’s mother rest a little easier—you’re welcome, Sandra).
We got a good look at the main exterior and some of the adjacent buildings. Wanting to sneak around to the back to see what we could see, we began the long trek down the length of the exercise yard wall—too tall to see over, and topped with vicious-looking wire that looked far too shiny to be leftover from 2002. We were only halfway along the fence before a mean, black Jeep came barrelling towards us, driving right up on the grass. A uniformed man hopped out, heavy brows low as he stared us down, assessing our threat-level.
“Midnight, sir,” I might have said if I thought he had any sense of humour. “Threat level midnight.”
“You can’t be here,” he said.
“We were just looking around,” my husband told him.
“You can’t be here,” he said again. “I need you to leave.”
We explained where we parked our car and he said he would follow us. We turned and headed back to the entrance and that Jeep crawled along behind us, messing up the grass, riding our butts and not letting us explore any further. He stood guard as we climbed into our car, watched as we pulled a U-turn to go northbound back to Chicago, and then he rode our bumper until we were out of town.
A quick Google search has revealed there’s a haunted house running in the prison right now, which makes me think it might be open for tours again. Sad that we didn’t get to see the inside when we were there, but I am one hundred percent confident I would not enter a haunted house there. That is not my jam.
Three reasons I will not attend a haunted house at The Old Joliet Prison
How would I actually know what is a real ghost and what is a person in a costume?
Wouldn’t the real ghosts be extra angry that people are making fun of them and therefore become more aggressive and therefore actually be able to touch me?
I’ve seen all three Hell House movies.
This Halloween I watched The Amityville Horror (1979) and The Conjuring (2013). Both were first time watches for me and I loved them both. (Why didn’t anybody tell me James Brolin was such a dreamboat?!) But just because I can enjoy a scary movie, doesn’t mean I’m putting myself into a physical place of fear. I take my horror with a side of cat cuddles and ice cream, thank you very much!
But I digress.
I came here to talk about prison.
The publishing industry can be like a prison. And that grand gate, though intimidating, might be something you really want to walk through. So you do. Because the gate is open.
But the inner door is closed.
You believe in your story and your ability and you want nothing more than to break in. You try every entrance you can find. Nothing. You know you are the perfect Sara Tancredi to their Michael Scofield, but they won’t listen. (Seriously, watch Prison Break Season One. Go. Do it!) You try alternative methods. You email the warden; the guard; the janitor. You look for a back door only to be run off the grounds by a grumpy guy in a growling Jeep.
And if your skin isn’t thick, you put your tail between your legs and hightail it back to Chicago. (If you haven’t visited Chicago, you need to visit Chicago. Go. Do it!)
The publishing industry is no joke and it has crushed far too many dreams by betting on “sure things” rather than sure talent.
I try very hard to make Chicken House Press like the grounds-keepers cottage rather than the prison. I am Hagrid inviting Harry for a spot of tea. I am not about slamming doors and keeping them closed, I am about looking for a window. I am about thinking outside the box of the prison and carving a path that leads somewhere new. Sometimes it is with me and sometimes it is sending you off in a different direction, but it always comes with connection, empathy, and a hope for your future.
The difference between Chicken House Press and one of the Big Five is that they see the dollar; I see the artist. And if that’s all you ever understand about me and this business, it is enough.
Fancy a proverbial cup of tea and an industry chat? If you’ve been thinking about submitting to CHP but are afraid to go through the gate, don’t be. I don’t have a gate. Just a ‘hey, how are ya?’ and a ‘come on in!’
