The Clown, The Gangster, and the Pirate Write a Story...and so did I.

As is characteristic of me, I was running late.  Not only that, I was running late and looking for parking in downtown Minneapolis.  And on top of that, I was running late and looking for parking in downtown Minneapolis and I was taking a flying leap out of my comfort zone by attending a memoir writing workshop at The Loft Literary Center.  With my face burning with the shame that other chronically tardy people can understand and pangs of anxiety and insecurity rumbling in my belly, I made my way through the slightly maze-like building to Conference Room 303 on the third floor.

The room looked just as you'd expect a room meant for artists and writers in Minneapolis.  Lovely exposed brick walls, large expansive windows, and a large conference table lined on all sides by wanna-be memoirists.  Well, actually, many of them were more than wanna-be's.  Some of them described themselves as actual published writers!  There was another Sarah (but with an "h" obviously).  There were two women there to write about their experiences with addiction and recovery.  One woman had gone to California in the Joplin/Hendrix days and lived to tell about it and now actually wants to tell about it.  There were several women there to write their stories of grief and two women wanted to write their life story for their children and grandchildren.  There was a lovely British chap with a mesmerizing accent.  Finally, there was the clown, the gangster, and the pirate.  

That last sentence is not a joke.  There really was a clown, a gangster, and a pirate.  (Sarah with an "h" was the one who pointed out the hilarity of this trio, so I must give her credit for giving them these colorful descriptors).  The clown had been a professional clown his entire life and even in retirement wore glasses that managed to be hipster-chic and somewhat clown-like.  He told a lovely story of growing up with a mother who was terrorized by his early clown-like tendency to juggle everything, including knives.  In fits of exasperation, she vowed she'd one day write a book about what it was like to be the mother of a clown.  He tried to make that happen in her twilight years, but unfortunately Alzheimer's disease robbed her of that ability.  He plans to write the book instead.  He not only simultaneously broke my heart and made it swell, but he also elevated my perception of clowns immensely.  I shall never recoil in fear upon seeing a clown ever again.  

The gangster was this wisened older gentleman who wore a sweater vest, a loony toons tie, and glasses that look like they came from Montgomery Ward's optical shop in the early 1980's.  He shared long, rambly stories of growing up in Anoka amidst warring gangs. I can't remember the names of the gangs, but one of them sounded vaguely Irish (they were O'Something-or-other).  I had no idea that Anoka had gangs of youth who roughed up kids at school and caused innumerable problems within the community of Anoka.  The gangster was talkative and obviously enjoyed telling a good story.  Unfortunately, he did not appear to enjoy writing a good story as he used any work time we had to tell his story to our instructor.  

There is not much to write about the pirate.  He was also an older gentleman.  I don't remember what story he wanted to tell, but I know that he had worked on a ship and apparently did something with planes.  He was also wearing a black eye patch that was not just reminiscent of a pirate eye patch, I think it actually was a pirate eye patch.  He didn't talk a lot, but he seemed to have good humor and asked good questions.

Our class was led by a lovely woman who had glossy brown hair and kind brown eyes.  She was quietly energetic and her brilliance was subtle and understated.  Sometimes instructors like to puff up their chests and the class becomes about how amazingly smart and well-read they are, but she shared her expertise with a quiet, kind dignity and lots of good humor.  She had been a lawyer and realized she wanted to be a writer and so that's what she did.

I could write all of the things I learned in that class, but then I would be stealing her thunder and that would not be fair.  However, even hours later, I find myself thinking, perseverating even, about the very first writing exercise she assigned.  Before she began the obligatory round of introductions, she asked us to write what our stories were about in one sentence.  One sentence.  Just one.  We all cheated and when it came time to share our sentences, we expanded them into paragraphs.  But all day, that one sentence haunted me and bounced around in my brain. 

My sentence was...

Perhaps the sentence haunted me because it's not my best sentence. It was 9 a.m.  I was nervous.  I was still a little worried that I had not parked in a legal parking spot.  Cut me some slack, please.  

I think the real reason that this exercise resonated with me so was because the idea of sharing our story, our entire story, in just one sentence was a beautiful challenge.  I went from thinking about what what one sentence could describe the mythical book I may write one day to thinking about what I want that sentence to be when "The End" becomes more than just a way to wrap up one of my life chapters.  As clumsy as it may be, that first sentence I wrote really does describe the essence of what I want my life story to include.  Despite whatever curveballs life may throw in my direction, I want my story to be about a woman who could always find joy, never forgot to laugh, and always worked to build connections rather than foster division.  

What is the sentence you hope will be written about your life story?

~Sara Renee

P.S.  That was not a rhetorical question!  Write your sentence in the comments!