Just The Facts, Ma'am.

I wonder how celebrities realize it's time to spill their awful secrets in a memoir, which - let's be honest - is a bit like inviting everyone who reads books to your own funeral.  Wouldn't you feel awful for the people who had baked beanie-weenie casseroles and soaked several hankies before finding out you're still alive?

Maybe someday we'll have friendly little mini-pre-funerals.  They'll be announced on those refrigerator magnet Save-the-Date cards as "Life - So Far" or "Here's How It's Going."  Rehearsal funerals.

Oh, wait.  We already have those!  They're called Frat Parties.  (Stay far away from the casseroles.)

Perhaps the decision to write about one's life has more to do with memory loss.  Not the kind where you record humorous pleasantries for posterity before they slip away.  The kind where you forget how embarrassed you'll be when the world reads about being launched from an escalator that screeched to a halt at a Scottsdale mall and sent you tumbling, wearing nothing but that poofy yellow sundress.

(Here's hoping the other shoppers only vaguely remember a screaming sun diving into the ocean, followed freakishly closely by a full moon.)

I'm willing to bet there are an awful lot of ghost writers in this world, because to capture the kind of memoir a total stranger might buy, you'd have to pay someone to feed you wine and write down everything you say.  Otherwise, your book would contain what you pretend to be embarrassed about - like the time you got kicked out of high school Home Ec class for deciding to make black polyester lederhosen when the assignment was floral cotton apron.

(My heart still *pings* with rebel pride.)

I felt like a cheater signing up for "Pen Your Memoir" as my first workshop; I love to write and the whole Sponge Brain Stretch Pants project is devoted to the discovery of new things.  So I decided this course was a palate cleanser - like those little scoops of sherbet that arrive between courses of a heavy meal.

My sherbet just arrived as an appetizer.

We had a stellar instructor.  Smart, funny, PUBLISHED - it was shaping up to be a super-productive day until we got to the actual writing part (about five minutes into the presentation).  Every other person in attendance whipped out paper ranging in size from "Write-Santa-A-Letter" all the way to "Big-Chief-Legal."

Apparently, I had assumed there would be handouts.  Maybe those full-color photocopied stacks of entire PowerPoint presentations that I despise so much - and I could just scribble on those.  I'd be mistaken for an experienced writer, never at a loss for a place to put my words because the world is my writing oyster!  

I was at a loss for a place to put my words.

I've never been comfortable interrupting people's lives to introduce myself, and although I can imagine that tapping a total stranger's scapula and asking for their stuff is an excellent way to break the ice, that move just reeks of amateur.  My classmates would describe me in their memoirs as that weirdo who ruined the whole creative vibe and single-handedly derailed several best sellers.

I looked through my 'purse' - actually a wrist-clutch-type situation I've been carrying since my real purse that I loved with all my heart was stolen from my car at a dog park, of all places, in order for the Universe to teach me that I was too attached to material things.  New iPhone - vanished.  Prescription sunglasses - history.  Buttery-soft leather wallet - poof!  The Universe was right.

(Note to all:  Before leaving home tomorrow, close your eyes and try naming every single material thing, including those 478 pieces of paper in your wallet, to a policeman who Doesn't Have All Day.  It doubles as a killer party game in a pinch!)

While my classmates waited patiently for instruction, pens poised over veritable FIELDS of paper, I rifled through my clutch and discovered the world's smallest notebook.  I'd read somewhere that writers need these to record all those heart-stopping story ideas that come flying out of left field.  So I had stashed this teensy pink variety, pictured here with my favorite shade of lipstick for size comparison. 

There were exactly eight tiny pages available behind the great story ideas I had already recorded.  (Sample great story idea:  "Ask Melanie for that spinach soup recipe."  So far, it's still in the Formulation Stage.)

For some idiotic reason - maybe an awkward self-defense plan involving the next thief, my wristlet 'purse' also held a big fat Sharpie.  I clenched my jaw and tried not to think about the sleek, gold pen that had disappeared at the dog park.

Our instructor announced the assignment:  Describe an event that helped you realize you were changed for the better after a loss.

The rest of the class sat stunned.  They stared up at the ceiling or down at their giant blank pages, double-daring an idea to come flying out of left field.

Amateurs.

I arranged my facial features in what I hoped approximated reflection.  My shoulders slumped gracefully in an Emily Dickensonian way, but without the consumptive cough.

I focused intently on the empty lines of my pretend notebook until the image of all that shattered glass in the parking lot dissolved completely.

With true memoirist's resolve, I wrestled the cap off the Sharpie.  Employing quick, lilting movements (so as not to soak a big, black blob through even one precious page) I composed a little piece I'm hoping to publish on a billboard one day.

It starts like this:  Thank You For Not Taking My Dog.

(Next Friday we'll check out Organic Jewelry Making together!  Subtitle:  You Want Me To Wear This Around My NECK?)