READ BY THE AUTHOR BELOW:
I was recently asked how l come up with something to write about every week. The answer is, I don’t know. An over thinker by birth, the first few rounds of any post leave me a bunch of disjointed thoughts about things I’ve been stewing over. Or maybe boiling over—so many bubbles so that since February 2021, the gods of typing have continued to clack away on my behalf.
In honor of World Smile Day I set out to be funny this week, which is a thing I am in person, but not particularly on paper. My unpublished novels are full of razor sharp pain and insight about ordinary people trying to find some peace in a world I foisted upon them. In a drawer, completed, I have unfinished first drafts of four versions of my psyche in novel form—including, but not limited to:
One poorly veiled semi autobiographical story of offbeat love drowning in trauma porn, where the girl escapes to—spoiler alert—the suburbs. Or a museum. I haven’t read it in a while.
Another is a universal tale of the marital discord I was petrified of having, but resolved by the end with the exquisite power of compromise and love. Mostly.
Just to mix it up and because my BA in history was too costly to waste, I
wrote a historical bra burner. A girl versus a Revolution. It was a nail biter, with a plot twist that today makes me look like a prophet.
And currently, I’m working over a piece of speculative fiction. Because even though I can’t predict how this world’s collective dystopia ends, I do have some ideas.
My lead characters war their way through tragedy, especially the historical, which included the literal Battle of Long Island, a turning point of the American Revolution, where Washington’s army, defeated, in tatters retreats across the river under cover of a divinely timed fog. I armed myself for something similarly titled but only metaphorical. My battle of Long Island ended on the ferry in broad daylight, as I sailed to different opportunities up north.
In all of these stories, the funny moments are there—a misunderstood look, a jaded critique of something or other, a disabused blowhard, but no one’s doubled over with laughter. Because I can’t escape the truth. We are caught in a human water cycle. Evaporation to condensation to participation. Or something like that.
In my childhood home, humor was a weapon. Say it. If it makes someone in the room laugh, you’re entitled to an exemption. Or maybe that was just my father, who was brutally funny—with both on paper and in-your-face insults.
I’ve evolved his ballsy, say what everyone is thinking, sarcasm laden approach to humor. Mine leans into connection and away from the insult, which fires off in my mind unbidden like a glitter bomb nonetheless. Only that’s too easy.
The smartest laugh is related to something that came before—a slow burn funny, a one liner on a joke that might have begun years ago. I have a certain mastery for this sort of association.
Is there anything less funny than the analysis of what makes something funny? It’s an honest question. I’m trying to figure it out.
This fountain of thoughts, gracefully pouring forth week after week comes with no small amount of pregame anxiety. Pub day is a thing in my immediate universe and my tribe humors me by respecting my off-the-wall bluster about it. I’ve forced them to love me after all. Even when I’m not fun.
Stories come from anything really. Or everything. This 1,000 words or so each week often includes 10,000 Malcom Gladwell Outliers hours of obsessive thinking. What is life if not delving into a series of obsessions, whether they be myself, other people, pets, or knowledge in general.
Any good piece of writing includes some conflict, which I am moth to a flame attracted to. The other day I was arguing with my husband, both of us threatening to put an end to it, when we realized (I pointed out) that we were about to end 25 years of marriage because he didn’t take the parking spot I suggested. All we needed was laughter to break the tension. No wonder I am so prone to abyss ‘splaining. It’s an occupation hazard. Also, my parking spot was better.
The writer has to be prepared for the resolution, no matter how uncomfortable for all the characters. I understand the problem, but what if there is no solution? What if the conflict is the whole story, which only an emotional explorer—writer or reader—can appreciate. Like seeing the world through a pair of twisted 3D glasses.
I’ve honed my skills trying to tease out plots—real and imagined—from all angles. My father used to say that he liked writing because his characters only said what he wanted them to. I never got to tell him that the things both he and his characters never said, have left unresolved reverberations through my mind all these decades later.
See. Not very funny in writing. My point exactly.