We all have one. Some of us have more than one.
That one story. The anecdote that defines us. A wild tale of daring, danger, or doody. A story that earns its interrobang. You know, that weird exclamation point question mark hybrid that writers everywhere have been trying to make a thing since the 1960s.
An interrobang story captivates your audience, entertains them, and then leaves them with questions. Listeners’ exclamations will be pointed. Like, “Holy Shit!” or “Oh, my God!” Your audience will ask questions like, “how did you do that?” or “what the hell?”
Interrobang stories are told at family parties, to strangers in pubs, and often whenever you run into someone you went to school with. Whether or not you run into them with your car may be part of your interrobang story.
An interrobang story must be true, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been embellished over time. The seed of truth must always be the backbone of the story. Humor is often a mandatory component as well. Because drama + laughter = INTERESTING STORY!?
My interrobang story is that I was once detained at the Louvre because they thought I had a bomb in my backpack. At this point, my audience already has questions & concerns. I’m a romance author from the Midwest. I don’t do bombs.
This all happened in 1986, generally considered a more innocent era. But, between the time I planned the trip to Europe and the time I got to Paris, the US bombed Libya. Threats and accusations were flying around Europe over who helped the US and who didn’t. Paris had armed gendarmes posted at every landmark.
My travel buddy (US military) was now confined to base, so I went to Paris alone with my trusty wind-up Big Ben alarm clock in my backpack. There were no cell phones back then and the really nice $$ watch I purchased in Germany stopped working—so my Big Ben was all I had.
If you’ve never owned a Big Ben alarm clock, let me tell you, those suckers are LOUD. Big Ben does not mess around with waking you up out of a dead sleep. Unfortunately, they also “tick” loudly. Loud enough, it turns out, to be heard through the fabric of my backpack.
I was in the Louvre less than two minutes before gendarmes surrounded me. These weren’t mall rent-a-cops. These dudes had machine guns and tactical gear.
You know, in high school when you’re encouraged to take a second language? Yeah, I didn’t do that. I especially didn’t speak freaking FRENCH.
They herded me to a security office where I was, through grunts, pointing, and frowns, instructed to surrender my backpack. I did not know why I’d been detained or what they could want with my backpack.
When an English-speaking officer was finally found, only then did I learn they thought my Big Ben was a ticking bomb! I had surrendered my backpack to the bomb squad. My passport was in that bag, along with my clean underwear. They were going to blow it to smithereens.
I did something I’m not proud of then. I started sobbing. Yup, innocent white girl tears all down my cheeks. I ugly cried snot running down my face blubbered. I thought I was going to be arrested.
But, no, cooler heads prevailed. The French realized I was just another American idiot. My backpack, along with my passport and underwear were returned to me. They kept the clock.