Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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The Splendid Joy of Writing Humor

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Receiving Award from Pulitzer Prize Winning Writer Maureen Dowd

My stylish but functional carry-on bag is waiting to be packed for tomorrow’s flight to Cincinnati, Ohio for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists Conference. The association is for writers of serial essays, including columnists and bloggers. My goal as a humor writer is to cause at least one person to laugh or maybe snort coffee when reading my blog posts. Apparently, my goal was achieved because I’m receiving another award for humor writing.

At last year’s conference, I received the honor from Pulitzer Prize winner Maureen Dowd. My winning essays included an irreverent collection of political commentaries from sarcastic animals. This year’s winning entry included a travel post because I’d rather be stranded in a haunted airport full of carnivorous dung beetles and feral spiders than write about politics. It’s not funny anymore. I wrote about last year’s award in a piece titled “Humor in E-Flat Alto.” It’s a tribute to my band teacher who told me I wasn’t funny.

Joining funny writers Lee Gaitan and Molly Stevens at NSNC.

The schedule for this year’s conference features excellent speakers and topics, and I’m eager to join provocative debates, learn new techniques, and see friends from across the country.

Here is one of my three entries for the 2018 humor competition:

Stepping and Schlepping Off the Plane

After completing a 14-hour journey from Sag Harbor, New York to Boise, Idaho, I’m convinced the standard travel attire for passengers includes ripped clothes, disheveled hair, and a grumpy attitude. I felt positively radiant in my coordinated knit ensemble, complete with a patient smile. As I cued in line for the privilege to sit in a toddler-sized space for four hours, I reminisced about a forgotten time when traveling was a luxurious pleasure.

Years ago, when I was fancy and corporate, I often visited an exclusive dress shop in downtown Boise. The proprietor, a thin and elegant woman named Dorothy, was hanging onto age 50 with clenched but manicured fingernails. She exuded all things classy and could have posed for a 1950s cigarette ad. Her arched eyebrow raised even higher whenever I entered. She liked me but mourned my conservative fashion sense and untoned body. I was on the D-List of Preferred Clients.

Once I needed a business outfit for a conference out of state. She welcomed me with bangled arms and air kisses and proceeded to collect various outfits to hang in a dressing room.

“This one is perfect,” she gushed as she held up a white sweater with white pants. “You’ll look fabulous as you step off the plane.”

“I’ll look like an albino ox,” I replied. “And what’s the fuss about stepping off the plane? Most of the passengers are wearing flannel pajama pants and stained sweatshirts as they stumble to baggage claim. I could be roller skating in a potato sack on fire with live rats dancing on my head and no one would notice.”

Dorothy sighed. “Where has all the glamour gone?” She replaced the white ensemble and added a serious navy-blue dress with a red collar.

“At least add a splash of color,” she begged.

I liked the dress and purchased it for the trip. After the plane landed, I entered the terminal and paused for a moment to pose as Dorothy would prefer. A young mother pushing a stroller the size of a recliner crashed into my legs, snagging my pantyhose. She mumbled an apology while throwing fish crackers to her crying toddler and ambled down the corridor in a mass of harried, hurried people.

I limped down to the taxis and reflected on the time when travelers wore their best clothes. Typical attire included men in suits with ties and women in dresses and hats, some with gloves. Children and pets were rare and properly packaged. Passengers who stepped off the plane indicated they had, indeed, arrived.

I don’t work for a corporation anymore, so when traveling I opt for a more casual, practical outfit such as black leggings and a black and white tunic. At my age it really doesn’t matter anymore because women over 50 are invisible to the huddled masses yearning to simultaneously read their cell phones and walk while ignoring the repetitive message from Big Sister, “Do Not Leave Your Luggage Unattended!”

Yesterday I️ had two hours before my next flight so stopped at the wine bar in the airport and ordered a Cabernet. A sophisticated older woman also sat at the bar. She wore a red knit suit with white pearls and her hair was full enough to hide small treasures. Her exquisite fingers curved around the wine glass as she smiled and offered a silent toast. I️ returned her gesture, thankful to no longer be invisible. After finishing her drink, she gathered her designer bags and sashayed from view as I heard the distant music from Nat King Cole singing, “Unforgettable.” I imagined her name was Dorothy.

 

 

 

 

  How to Write the Introduction to Your Memoir

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If you want to write a memoir, begin with a powerful scene that provides a provocative glimpse into the story that follows. Here is the first paragraph of my upcoming memoir, Frozen Dinners – A Memoir of a Fractured Family.

“Irritated clouds of gray dust swirl behind my car and settle back onto the patches of scruffy sagebrush as I drive a back road into the village of Wendell, Idaho. I turn down 4th Avenue and stop in front of an insignificant old house where my family lived before my father became rich. Decades of decay and neglect are exposed as cheap vinyl siding sags on the outside walls and dead vines hang on crooked trellises over weathered boards thirsty for paint. I stare at the window of my former bedroom and wonder if it’s still nailed shut.”

Those four sentences reveal several essential facts to the story through key words and phrases. The words “village of Wendell, Idaho” tell readers the location of my small hometown. The phrase “before my father became rich” adds an interesting element in the second sentence. The third sentence about “decades of decay” offers a glimpse into a memoir about loss and longing.  By the fourth sentence, I intend to hook the reader with the words “wonder if it’s still nailed shut.”

Why was my childhood window nailed shut? Keep reading to learn the truth.  Also, to emphasize immediacy, the first chapter is written in present tense. The remaining chapters are in past tense.

Everyone has a story, and you should consider writing yours. Your life’s history contains a series of pivotal scenes that incorporate all the senses and emotions. List the important memories and then review them for the basis of an outline for your memoir. Do certain times and events seem more compelling that others? What is the essence of your story? How do you begin?

My memoir first percolated in my mind more than twenty years ago, and I adjusted the intensity of my writing for several years, often jumping into the mess of words only to quit and relinquish everything to the back burner. How do I, as a humor writer, rip open the scars to inspect the pain of the past? I couldn’t finish it, so I sporadically wrote additional chapters for the manuscript while working on humorous books, including Menopause Sucks, Midlife Cabernet, and Midlife Happy Hour.

My mother’s death in 2014, followed three years later by the death of my younger brother George, convinced me to complete the book. The memoir will be released in the fall by Brown Books Publishing.

Write Your Memoir – Free Workshop in Boise

The Idaho Writers Guild offers a full schedule of free workshops for beginning and intermediate writers. I’ll be presenting a memoir writing class on Thursday, June 21 at the Library at Collister, 4724 W State Street in Boise. The workshop, titled “Your Memoir – How to Avoid Flirting with Fiction,” begins at 7:00 with a 90-minute interactive session followed by audience discussion. The event is free and open to the public. Intermediate writers are encouraged to attend.

The workshop will focus on how to outline a memoir and how to separate fact from fiction. Worksheets will emphasize the importance of an opening paragraph to set the stage for the rest of the story.

 

 

 

 

 

Laughing with Erma Bombeck and Friends

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(Note:  This is my 600th blog post, and it’s dedicated to Erma Bombeck.)

Erma Bombeck was the original Mommy Blogger – without all the alcohol and swear words. I thought I was doing great with 600 blog posts, but that pales in comparison to her 4,000 newspaper columns. Also, she got a regular paycheck for her humor and earned $1 million a year. I eagerly publish free essays on my website and hope someone likes them enough to consider paying $17 for my latest book. I’m just like Erma, but different.

Erma Bombeck’s columns were read twice a week by 30 million readers of 900 newspapers throughout the country. I don’t have quite that many followers, but I did achieve a few viral syndicated posts that attracted readers around the world. The esteemed subjects were about farting, my mother’s casket getting lost, and why politicians resemble braying animals. I think Erma would have liked them.

I try to emulate the famous wit and wisdom she used to transform ordinary family life into hilarious scenarios. My target audience is middle-age women, but that’s now a shameless exaggeration unless I live past 132. I’ve passed the expiration date for midlife and am stumbling beyond the precarious matron category into full-blown senior citizen status. But, I continue to write because she would want me to do that. Her light on earth was cut short at age 69, and I’m in my sixties, so there is no time to waste. I daily grease my wrinkled fingers, squint through my high-intensity eyeglasses, hunch over my large-type document, and focus on adding one more paragraph. “What would Erma do?” is my mantra.

The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, created in 2,000 at the University of Dayton, is the largest national workshop for humor writers. It endures because the world is too crabby, and people want to laugh again and be with funny, positive friends. Attendees hope to belong to that unique club designated for readers and writers of humor. Laughter is the best medicine, and we come on a sacred pilgrimage for the healing power of another belly laugh.

I attended my first EBWW in 2014. I didn’t know anyone and resembled the proverbial goofball in a world of Elite Comedic Thespians. But, they allowed me into their playhouse and we laughed until we cried. I was chosen to perform in the Stand-Up Comic Night show, and I loved the experience. I gained numerous friends, and even the cool kids talked to me.

For the 2016 Workshop, I was honored to present two workshops: “How to Turn Your Blog into a Book” and “How to Write Funny.” The importance of the opportunity became almost too much for this shy farm girl from Idaho, but I plugged in my Power Point and took the stage as if I knew what I was doing. I imagined Erma in the front row. I think she laughed at some of my jokes.

I recently returned from the 2018 Conference, and my body is still sore from all the laughter and bear hugs. The schedule was packed with excellent sessions, enlightening presenters, and some of the best speakers I’ve ever heard. The main conference started on Thursday, April 5 with a dinner at the Marriott. Keynote speaker Liza Donnelly, award-winning cartoonist with The New Yorker magazine, delighted the audience with humorous cartoons and clever comments. She introduced a world of humor writing many of us hadn’t considered.

On Friday morning, I learned advice from bestselling authors through Jessica Strawser’s excellent session. The next workshop featured my friends Anne Parris and Tracy Beckerman as they discussed website productivity. Even for an old crone, I was able to learn new and productive ideas for my site.

Faye Griffin provided the highlight for Friday afternoon with her inspirational session about writing with humor and heart. I want to be BFFs with her. Friday evening I was delighted to participate in a book signing as an author in the new book, Laugh Out Loud – 40 Women Humorists Celebrate Then and Now…Before We Forget. I sat beside Michelle Poston Combs and considered adopting her.

Saturday’s workshops included the memoir writing session and an excellent presentation about branding from Cindy Ratzlaff. I participated in the Pitchapalooza and received encouraging advice from publishing expert Jane Friedman.

In my opinion, the keynote speakers were the highlight of the Conference. Liza Donnelly, Rita Davenport, Karen Walrond, John Grogan, and Monica Piper provided a lineup that will be difficult to equal. Davenport and Piper had me gasping for breath between punchlines. I also appreciate the participation of Erma Bombeck’s sons, Matt and Andy. Unfortunately, Anne Bardsley and I couldn’t convince them to travel on a comedy tour with us.

I have pages of notes to read, links to follow, and action items to complete, but the EBWW 2018 has renewed and energized my determination to write and finish a few more projects. It’s my goal to balance negative complaints with some cheerful chuckles. My mentor Erma encourages me to keep writing and not have a single bit of talent left at the end of my life. So, that’s what I’ll do.

One of the best compliments I’ve received for my writing is from Foreword Reviews: “Elaine Ambrose’s Midlife Cabernet: Life, Love & Laughter after Fifty is an Erma Bombeck-esque tribute to women who are over fifty and ready to explore life on new terms.”

I don’t want to be -esque to anyone else, ever.

Memoir and Metaphor

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My memoir Frozen Dinners is in production and soon the proofs will be distributed for professional review. The publication date will be in a few months.

The book contains several original poems in a chapter titled “Potatoes and Poetry.” I wrote one titled “1964 Town Crier” as a student in a writing class at the University of Idaho. At the time, I didn’t know the poem would become the metaphor for a memoir I would finish almost 50 years later.

 

1964 Town Crier

 Ragged, rhythmic clouds of breath escape from my mouth

as I push my burdened bicycle over the patches of frozen snow.

Frost fills my nostrils and hardens wayward hairs

poking beneath my knit hat like spikes of rigid spider legs.

The only sounds on this dark moonless morning

come from the rustle of my frozen pant legs

and my boots squeaking and crunching through the crusty layers.

I know every house on my paper route, so I keep my head down

in a futile attempt to ignore the bitter winds that slice through my coat.

Take a newspaper from the bag, slap it into a roll, stick it into the can, keep going.

I’m 12 years old, and I’m outside in the brutal Idaho winter

at 5:30 am to deliver 70 newspapers. Every day. By myself.

My fingers hurt. Snot freezes on my lip. A dog growls but doesn’t leave its shelter.

Crunch. Breathe. My bag becomes lighter as a sliver of daylight emerges through the dark.

I arrive home, and my father sits to read the newspaper while my mother hands me

hot cocoa with marshmallows happily bobbing and melting on top.

My aching hands circle the mug, and I lean over so the steam can warm my face.

Silent tears roll down red cheeks.

I am the Messenger. I am the Town Crier.