Comedy. Ah, that turned-up smiley face mask. So much nicer than Tragedy.
And yet so damned elusive...
As some of you will know, my current work in progress is a satire novel, Peering Up The Trouserleg of Giants. My previous novels have had humorous overtones, but they have not been out-and-out humour novels.
Honestly, Gentle Reader, I don't know what possessed me. Being funny is damned hard work. The hilarious material I write one day (oftentimes giggling maniacally at my own cleverness), suddenly becomes pale and insipid the next day. As my husband reads through my current work, I sit tensely, unable to concentrate on anythign else, ears pricked for the slightest sound of laughter. A snort? A giggle? Anything would do.
Eventually, of course, he does laugh, and then I - unable to help myself - ask "What? What was it?" But half the time he's likely to say something like, "Oh, I just saw the cat do something funny." And then, of course, I'm plunged into the depths of despair, that not only is my writing not funny, but it's not even diverting enough to keep his mind off the darned cat.
So why do I do it? Well, every now and then you get a kick. Once in a while you read through a scene that was funny when you write it and -blow me down - it's still funny now. Occasionally my husband will laugh out loud, and when I ask him nervously what the cat did, it turns out that he was guffawing over some sparkling piece of wit that I - yes, I - came up with!
Those little moments make humour writing worth it. Now, if I can just figure out how to achieve them wholesale...