HUMOR WRITING WITH SHELLEY FRASER MICKLE

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

 Award-winning writer and former NPR commentator, Shelley Fraser Mickle, was hosting a Humor Writing Workshop at the library for free, down the street from me, after lunch, once a week; and all my excuses for saying no to such an event—wrong place, cost, wrong time of day, growling stomach—had been removed by the administrator.

Even though I was excited to finally meet a mentor, I arrived unprepared for the work-portion of the workshop. Shelley assigned homework.

To get our creative funny-bone juices flowing, Shelley suggested six topics for us to pick from:

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 is taking an unexpected turn. (Shelley’s favorite.)

6)     Why I’m an unhappy individual.

Initially, I toyed with writing about the most embarrassing moment. However, that would involve blood and other messy excretions. Possibly inappropriate in mixed company unless everyone was a gynecologist or gastroenterologist. Thus, I chose an experience from the past week: our first session in Shelley’s humor workshop, which was also a bit embarrassing. Maybe I’ll get extra credit? I completed my homework and handed it in.

My essay gave Shelley a chuckle. Was I on my way to becoming the next Erma Bombeck or Tina Fey? You be the judge—

 

THE AVIAN FLU

 

I waltzed into the library’s meeting room, my shiny gray hair bouncing along with my innards. I was a lost grade-schooler on the first day of class. Luckily, I recognized the librarian, Sammy, who was setting up chairs and tables in a 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.” My face flushed.

Sammy eyed me over the rim of her glasses. “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 Shelley’s going to assign homework. Can she do that?

Sammy gave a pathetic shrug.

My sailing-off-course brain came about. “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 writer would attend a writing class without paper and pen? Sammy must’ve thought me 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 half-letter-sized 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 oversized book to use as a lap-desk in my corner chair in the meeting room, with perfectly good tables. Why did 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 could skim while awaiting class to begin.

When I returned to the room, Sammy had added tables—the first four were now occupied by people with pens and notebooks. Serious people who had done this before. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d attended a seminar, but it had been ages. Well, at least I had three sheets of half-letter-sized paper. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need more—and suddenly, I was back in grade school, nudging my classmate, “Hey, Becky, can I borrow a piece of paper?”

*

Shelley’s charismatic command of the class had us all paying attention and laughing with her as she regaled us with stories.

By the end of class, I’d used all three sheets of paper. Instead of filing my notes in a folder to be never read again, I typed them on my new iMac and penned a first draft of my assignment. Had I graduated from grade school and morphed into my straight-A student sister who was East High’s class valedictorian?

Perhaps not; however, 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 and freaked out. For once in my lackadaisical student career, I wanted top marks. I wanted to impress my mentor.

The following week, Shelley began class with, “I’d like you to read your story to the class—”

But that’s public speaking! I can’t read in front of people! I was freaking out just like the kid in Bird by Bird—my birdbrain chirping the Murder scene from Hitchcock’s Psycho—Jhree Jhree, Jhree, Jhree—

Class dismissed, due to the avian flu.

 

THE END

P.S. This post, and my Avian Flu story, were edited March 2026.