SHELLEY FRASER MICKLE'S HUMOR WRITING WORKSHOP

SHELLEY FRASER MICKLE (wearing the hat)
PHOTO by Rob Weitzel

Award-wining writer and former NPR commentator, Shelley Fraser Mickle, is hosting a Humor Writing Workshop at the Library for free, down the street from me, after lunch, once a week. All my stock excuses of why I cannot attend an event have been removed by the administrator.

Thrilled to meet a mentor, nevertheless, I showed up unprepared for the work part of the workshop. She assigned homework—

To get our creative funny-bone juices flowing, Shelley gave six topic suggestions for us to write about and share with the class:

1)     Any experience you’ve had in the past week.

2)     Teach something.

3)     Most embarrassing moment.

4)     Why I’m sure I’m going to hell.

5)     An interview taking an unexpected turn. (Shelley’s favorite.)

6)     Why I’m an unhappy individual.

I completed my homework and handed it in the next session. My essay made Shelley laugh! Hooray! Here’s my masterpiece:

THE AVIAN FLU

At first, I chose “most embarrassing moment,” to write about. However, that would involve blood and other motley excretions. Perhaps inappropriate in mixed company, unless that company comprised only gynecologists and gastroenterologists. Therefore, I chose an experience I’ve had in the past week: this class, which is also a tad embarrassing.

I entered the library meeting room, a gray-haired-women, embodying a lost grade-schooler on the first day of class. I recognized the librarian, Sammy, who was setting up chairs and tables, seminar style. There were four tables and eight chairs.

“Oh, we need tables? I thought there would only be chairs. Doesn’t seem to be adequate seating,” I said.

Sammy said, “Well, it is a writing class, so I’m setting up for note-taking. I’ll bring out more seating as needed.”

“Note taking? I didn’t consider taking notes. I thought it was a speech. I’ll just listen.” I hope this doesn’t mean she’ll assign homework. Can she do that?

Sammy eyed me over the rim of her glasses.

I changed the subject. “Sammy? May I have a chair off to the side? I can’t sit for long periods. I’d like to be able to stand at some point.”

Sammy dutifully complied and placed a chair in the back corner. Was I the disruptive pupil? I half expected Sammy to pop a pointed dunce cap on my head. What kind of a writer comes to a writing class without paper and pen? Sammy must think I’m an idiot.

I side-winded from the room in search of note paper. At least I carried a pen. The librarian offered me scratch paper and pointed to a small notepad.

“May I take the pad?” I asked.

“Just tear off a couple of sheets.”

“Of course.” I tore off three sheets. “May I bring a book from the shelves to the meeting room?”

“Yes.”

I scurried to the bookshelves for an over-sized book to use as a lap-desk in my corner chair in the meeting room, with perfectly good tables. Why do I have to be different? After handling several large, heavy books about comics, I chose a book on maps. Perfect. A neutral-subject book I can skim as I await class.

I return to the room. Sammy has added tables—the first four now occupied by people with pens and notebooks. Serious people, who have done this before. Just like my spin class at the gym, I don’t measure up. Furthermore, I can’t recall the last time I’d attended a seminar—2004? Well at least I have three sheets of note paper. Hope I don’t need more…And I’m back in grade school, nudging my classmate: Hey, Becky, can I borrow a piece of paper?

The trouble with my note-taking is that after the class, I file the notes in a folder and rarely read them again. Ten years later, there they are—the little guilt-tripper slips of paper. Later on, in the class, my note-taking ineptitude fears were confirmed when a woman offered a comment, deftly referring to her notes. How the hell did I ever make it through college?

By the end of class, I’d used all three sheets of paper. And instead of filing my notes, I typed them on my new computer, and penned a first draft of my assignment, just like my sister, the straight-A student, used to do. I didn’t want to be the boy in Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird, who waited until the last minute to do his homework, freaked out, and shedding frustrated tears. No. For once in my lackadaisical student career, I wanted an “A.” MY birds shall sing to the tune of Tina Fey and Paula Poundstone.

However, as I reread what I wrote, I heard Shelley Fraser Mickle’s voice say she’d like us to, “read-it-to-the-class.” But that’s public speaking! A queasiness arose in my gut—and my birds were now chirping the Murder scene tune from Hitchcock’s Psycho—Jhree—Jhree—Jhree—Jhree!

My final diagnosis: This class assignment has infected me with the avian flu.

THE END

Shelley Fraser Mickle has penned a new book, BORROWING LIFE: How Scientists, Surgeons and a War Hero Made the First Successful Organ Transplant a Reality. She has a knack for transforming serious non-fiction subjects into heartwarming stories. For example, when I read about her polio experience in her memoir, THE POLIO HOLE, I found myself rechecking the book’s binding to make sure it wasn’t mislabeled, because it was an enthralling read--better than fiction.

Here's a link to her amazing new book: BORROWING LIFE