Lorraine Mace

Notes from the Margin — February 2010

Text Box: Talk About Funny? What an opportunity, I thought, when I read the email from the Writers Bureau. They wanted me to talk about writing humour articles and give some advice to prospective students. They would supply the questions to which I would compose answers – and then the whole thing would be filmed in Manchester as one of a series of YouTube promotional videos. How hard could that be? Now, tell me honestly, doesn’t that sound like a dream set up for any writer? Um, well, not quite. As I live in France, it meant flying over to the UK. The first intimation I had that things might not go smoothly was when my shoes (I kid you not) set off the security alarms at Charles de Gaulle airport. One moment I was walking through the surveillance arch and the next I was surrounded by officials demanding to search every nook and cranny. Pat, blush, pat, blush. Eventually, once they’d determined that I didn’t have anything suspicious tucked in my undies, they put my shoes through the scanner and the alarms went wild. I had visions of walking barefoot through the streets of Manchester, but fortunately it was only the metal heels causing the problem and I was allowed to reclaim my rogue footwear before boarding the plane. The next morning I read through my prompt sheet, convinced I could have recited it word for word. I set off for the Writers Bureau offices happy in the knowledge that I was as well prepared as possible. And I was well prepared – honestly I was. At least, that’s how I felt until I sat in front of the camera. “How did you get into writing humorous non-fiction in the first place?” asked the nice young interviewer. I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth. Not only could I not remember the answer I’d written down, but I couldn’t think of anything even remotely sensible to say. The interviewer smiled and said to relax, the cameraman smiled and said to relax, even the lovely lady watching on the monitor smiled and said to relax. To no avail. My brain had turned to mush and I had to confess that not only could I not remember how I’d got into writing humour in the first place, but I had no idea who I was or why I was there and I’d like to go and lie down as I was feeling severely menopausal. Somehow they pulled me through that question in only about twenty-five takes. Before I was asked the next question, the (still charming, but now slightly tense) interviewer gave me my crib sheet to remind me what I’d written. That worked much better and we managed to get my answers on film in just twenty-four takes! By the time we were halfway through, I’d relaxed enough to remember an answer. In fact, when asked: What tips would you give to someone who wants to start writing this kind of non-fiction? I rattled off the entire response without a pause. Sadly, I’d forgotten to breathe, so was gasping by the end – not quite the right effect. I tried again and this time got the thumbs up from both the lady on the monitor and the interviewer, but not from the soundman! A bus had rattled past and the equipment had picked up the noise. I tried again, forgot my lines and was right back to where I’d started, panic-stricken. The nice people rallied round and eased me through, but I knew there were more questions to come. Heart thumping, skin clammy and hands shaking, I heard myself asking, in a querulous voice that sounded more like a 98-year-old, how many more? If it felt like eternity to me, imagine how it must have seemed to the film crew. The poor interviewer developed a nervous tick asking the same questions over and over. The cameraman’s smile looked as though it had been super-glued into place and I’m sure the lovely lady on the monitor had long since stopped believing in my ability to write my own name, never mind humour articles. Somehow, we reached the end. All the questions were asked and answered and the miracle of editing will, I hope, remove all trace of my idiocy. I haven’t yet seen the final version. I’m not sure I’ll ever be brave enough to watch it, but one thing I now know for certain, it’s easier to write than to speak. Talk about funny? You must be joking. Write Away! Notes from the Margin


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