I found it!

The prompt, the envelope, the mystery

A few years ago, I attended an author talk on a Friday evening hosted by my friend Joni Cole, who had us do a writing prompt. It was a blustery autumn evening, and the bookstore was bustling with customers. The prompt was: “Are you trying to be funny?” She gave us five or so minutes to move the pen to see what came out.

I love prompts. They are the sleeper hits of writing. Sometimes, the most amazing things appear out of thin air. Even if you get one amazing sentence, that can be enough to build a story around. In fact, some of my favorite scenes in my memoir came from prompts.

I didn’t have anything to write on, but I found an envelope in my tote bag that contained a very Betsy-like grocery list (butter, mozzarella cheese, parmesan cheese, sour cream, apples, avocado oil, gnocchi).

Joni set the timer, and we got to work. This time, I found myself writing about a secret that had been on my mind; there was nothing funny about it, but I went with it anyway. I didn’t name the secret, but I danced around it in the writing to get across how I was feeling. When Joni asked if anyone wanted to share for appreciation, I did. My voice shook a little as I read. After I finished, someone in the audience said that my story felt incredibly intimate, even though I didn’t offer many details about the secret itself. It was a huge learning experience for me. I could say a lot without saying much.

The elusive envelope

After the session, I slid the envelope in my tote bag, and thought to myself, I am going to do something with that one day. The envelope likely sat on my kitchen table for a while, then probably found its way into a book as a bookmark. In the time the envelope went missing, I got married. I signed with a book publisher. I lost two of my dogs.

That envelope grew larger in the back of my mind, but by the time I was ready to revisit it, I had no idea where it was. Lost forever. All I could do was console myself with the knowledge that at least I had the memory of what I was capable of writing in five minutes.

A few weeks ago, I was going through some file folders, and wouldn’t you know it—I found the envelope! It was in a file folder that contains writing tips and advice. I couldn’t believe that I lost the envelope because I had actually filed it in a place that made sense. I had been looking through that file folder in particular because I had an author talk coming up and was looking for inspiration.

Although I did theater and speech and debate in high school, I still have some anxiety around public speaking. But it was time to get out there and do some promotion; my books weren’t going to sell themselves. I prepared some remarks on notecards and ran through it a couple times, knowing that if it went totally south, I could just talk about astrology or make people laugh for an hour.

The day of the event, a few people messaged to let me know they couldn’t make it (a cold Tuesday evening in Vermont, who could blame them?), so I started to relax. No one was coming! I’d be speaking to an empty room!

I arrived at the Norwich Inn early, and as the room started filling up, I thought, Uh-oh. I’m going to have to really do this now.

Good news: My talk was a hit. Or at least I felt like it was. Which, in the end, is what matters, right? If I worried about what every woman in that room thought about me, I’d never get up there again. I felt like I was able to be the best version of myself: funny, vulnerable, and honest. For many, many years, I had thought that part of me was gone for good, the person who could get up in front of other people and hold court and actually enjoy it, but that person wasn’t gone forever; she was just in hiding, much like that envelope.

There’s no better feeling than finding what—or who—you lost, especially if it’s the person you used to be. And now, I finally get to do something with the sentences on that envelope.

It’s just this time of year—I love it and hate it. The leaves fall, the fog rises. We will all die one day. Let the secrets out, let the ghosts die. I promise you, I really am funny.