Perfectionism Exorcism

I am exceptionally talented at many things. I excel at worry, anxiety, fixation, over-analysis and over-complication. I’m also proficient in preoccupation and fretting, but only when I am trying to predict the future with certainty or second-guess decisions I have already made.

At the very top of this distinguished list – my true claim-to-fame and the thing that may very well gain me a world-class reputation – is perfectionism. If perfectionism were an Olympic sport, I would be its longstanding gold-medal champion. If it were a degree, I’d have an Ivy League PhD and would be working on post-doc research. If it were a country, I would be its beloved aged Queen.

This is not to say I am perfect at everything. After all, the true measure of a great perfectionist is not one’s ability to be perfect, rather it is the conviction that one should be perfect.

To illustrate: I took swimming lessons when I was four years old. After a few weeks, all of the other kids had learned to swim a little – meaning they made some splashy, flailing strokes while kicking wildly – but not me. I was still holding onto the side of the pool. On the last day of lessons, when no one was watching, I let go of the ledge and swam the entire length of the shallow end. My swim teacher met me near the ladder with a confused look. “Why did you wait so long to let go?” she asked. I told her, matter-of-factly, “I wasn’t sure I could swim the whole way by myself.”

I blush remembering the story. What an adorable little perfectionist I was!

As an adult, my perfectionism – this imperative to be perfect – is not so endearing. In fact, it haunts me. It sits on my shoulder and says things like, “If you fail, you will lose everything,” which is, of course, not true, but still paralyzes me.

Over the last year, however, I have learned a surprising lesson about perfectionism. When the specter was not sitting on my shoulder, but on someone else’s – scrutiny and needling being waged at me from the crevices of a psyche unrelated to my own – I was able to see it more clearly. Perfectionism appeared, in a word, inane. It was the Haunted House dismantled: trivial, impotent, ridiculous.

And so I am beginning to change my view of perfectionism. I can’t make it go away entirely – after all, what could I possibly do with all of the energy I invest in trying to be perfect? – but I can negotiate with it. I can meet perfectionism in the middle – a place where I can show myself a bit of grace while not entirely denying my (neurotic?) sense of order and correctness.

When I was in elementary school, we watched a film about the dangers of littering. (I would like to note, it was a reel-to-reel film, the kind that made a delightful thwapthwapthwap when it finished rewinding, which I’m concerned is a sound in danger of being lost forever. Alas, another post for another day!) It followed the aftermath of a single cigarette butt flicked to the forest floor by a careless park visitor. The remainder of the film was essentially an enormous forest fire, and it ended (spoiler alert!) with a close-up of the cigarette that started it all, resting on a pile of ash. A voiceover said in a deep, booming voice, “Let no man regret that I have passed here...”

Aaaaaaand fade to black. It was very dramatic.

(At the time, we adapted this solemn warning into something far more interesting to our 10-year-old sensibilities: “Let no man regret that I have pooped here.” Not for nothing, I think this too is sage advice.)

The movie was a bit extreme for an audience of fourth graders, most of whom were presumably not smokers. But, years later, I have found some use for the film’s final thought. It’s a handy mantra that I may use in place of the doomsday rhetoric my perfectionism seems to prefer: “Let no man regret that I have passed here,” allows me to focus less on perfection, and more on purpose. I can abandon the make-or-break, all-or-nothing paralysis and mindfully act, because my benchmark is no longer perfection, it is the measure of my integrity.

I am not cured. I still wake up some mornings with criticism ringing in my ears even before my feet have touched the ground. But I have threaded together a few words that have helped me to throw back the covers on my bed, stand up, and bravely insist that the shadowy ghost perfectionism leave me be for the day. (The Writer would say it is gauche to present your own poetry on your blog. But as I am merely a Hobbyist, I hope you will allow it.)

Morning Prayer

Today I will fail at perfection. I will fumble
as if in dim light.
So let me be blameless
and walk softly among my shortcomings.

XO,
JM

Mood Check (A story)

This is a day-time story for my fellow Corporate Americans. Keep up the "good" work, friends.

XO,

JM

Monday morning you file into the conference room. You choose a seat exactly halfway between the door and the back of the room and summon just enough enthusiasm to make your face look innocuous. Around the conference table, there is a lot of flipping through notebook pages and checking phones for emails, texts, tweets, status updates … anything to avoid being where you are. Anything.

“A-hem.”

Everyone looks at New Dave. He looks back. False alarm – he was only clearing his throat. Again. New Dave ALWAYS clears his throat. Is it allergies? Is he thirsty? Does he need a lozenge? Does he eat too much dairy? Do not roll your eyes, you think. Do not roll –

“AHEM,” says New Dave again. You roll your eyes.

You look down at your notebook and press the point of your pen into the paper making tiny blue dots next to the words you have written there.

Patty, your boss, finally arrives, five minutes late, per usual. “Good morning, everyone,” Patty says too cheerfully. She stands at the head of the table and constructs a tower of items: a closed laptop, an expandable folder full of loose papers, a manila folder holding more loose papers, a portfolio-style notebook with an imitation leather cover, an empty interoffice mail envelope, her two iPhones.

“Sorry I’m late. Per usual, ha ha.” Patty takes her seat and pulls out a blank sheet of paper from the middle of her tower. Placing it squarely in front of her, she looks around the table. Her eyes search for one person with whom she can make eye contact. She has explained that this ritual of locking eyes with exactly one person before the start of each meeting is called “Engaging.” It makes you squirmy. It makes everyone squirmy. Veronica, this week’s unwitting “Engagee,” is literally squirming while Patty is trying to make eye contact with her.

Veronica smiles sheepishly and adjusts her skirt. Veronica’s eyelids flutter in Patty’s general direction, which is apparently close enough to “eye contact” for Patty, because she finally begins the meeting by touching her fingertips together under her chin.

“And who do we have on the phone?” Patty asks the black, pyramid-shaped device in the middle of the table. No one answers. “Dave? Are you with us?” Patty looks back at Veronica, as if Veronica can somehow vouch for Dave’s existence.

Veronica squirms again. Patty says, “I guess Dave will join us a bit late– “

“HELLO?” a voice shouts from the center of the table. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?” The voice is all around you, vibrating the air, rattling the conference room table.

Patty stretches an arm toward the speakerphone, holding out her pencil to extend her reach. Her hand floats aimlessly over the device, searching for the volume button. “THIS IS DAVE … IN PITTSBURGH.”

Joel, from IT, pokes the volume button twice for Patty. “Dave? Hi, this is Patty. We’re all here in the Philly office, and we’re just getting started.” She grins at the speakerphone.

“Great,” mumbles Pittsburgh Dave, his voice now sounding considerably less epic. “Hi everyone,” Pittsburgh Dave adds. Only New Dave responds, with his customary greeting: “ahem.”

“Great. Dave, you already have the floor. How would you like to begin our Mood Check?” Every week, Patty phrases this as if it’s a suggestion. “Dave, would you please share with us, what is your mood this week?”

“Okay …” Pittsburgh Dave is quiet. “This week, I’m feeling …” he begins.

Patty looks at the speakerphone. Veronica looks at her skirt. Joel-from-IT checks his phone. New Dave also checks his phone. You look down at your notepad where you have written:

1. Optimistic
2. Constructive
3. Positive
4. Happy
5. Confident
6. Content

“I’m feeling optimistic,” Pittsburgh Dave mumbles. “And happy,” he adds.

The bastard! You silently curse Pittsburgh Dave as you draw a single line through the middle of each of his words. His double-down technique is unprecedented. If this catches on, you think, you’re going to be in trouble. In the margin of your notepad, you write, Find Thesaurus.

“Excellent, thanks for sharing, Dave.” Patty says. She jots something down on the piece of paper in front of her. “Who’d like to go next? Veronica?”

Veronica looks startled and like she might pass out. She shakily moves a strand of hair behind her ear. She smoothes her skirt. “This week, I am feeling …” There is moisture forming at her hairline.

“I am feeling …” she squeezes her eyes shut. “Con-fi-dent?” she squeaks. Slowly, she opens one eye at Patty.

“That’s great, thank you for sharing, Veronica.” Patty’s smile is meant to be reassuring. Veronica exhales in one long stream of air.

“Let’s just go right around the table, shall we?” This is only a question to the extent that compliance is expected. “Joel, you’re next.”

Joel-from-IT looks up from his phone. “Okay. Um, sure, I’m also feeling confident.”

“Great.” Patty cocks her head. She laces her fingers together on top of her paper. “Anything else, Joel?” She looks at Joel-from-IT, her eyes wide and imploring. She prefers each person to have his or her own mood. No repeats. No piggy-backing.

“Okay. Um, sure, I’m feeling … optimistic.” He adds a hopeful smile. Patty nods and makes some marks on her piece of paper. Joel-from-IT goes back to checking his phone. You cross another mood off your list and write, Thesaurus App? in the margin.

“Dave?” Patty asks. She turns to New Dave. “How are you feeling this week?”

“I’m feeling ahem … AHEM … constructive.” He turns both palms up when he says it, like he is making an offering. You tap the tip of your pen against your notebook and bite the inside of your lip.

“Ooh, ‘constructive,’ that’s a great one, Dave.” Patty approves. You underline item 2 on your list and add a star to remind yourself to put it on the list again next week. Patty jots down a note too, then turns her attention to you.

Your turn. All at once, it feels like only you and Patty in the room. If your life were a play, you’d be sitting in the middle of a dark stage with a spotlight on you at one end and Patty at the other end of a giant conference table.

“And what is your mood this week?” Patty asks. Her words seem drawn out and amorphous, as if you are only hearing the echo of her voice.

Your mouth is dry. New Dave’s throat-clearing suddenly feels contagious.

“I am feeling …” You desperately look down at your list. It has dwindled down to one, your only remaining choice. The tip of your pen is resting next to it: “Content” you mutter.

Silence.

Silence?

Something isn’t right. Maybe you hadn’t said anything at all, you’d only imagined you said it. “I’m feeling content,” you say a little louder.

You look around the table. Pittsburgh Dave breathes heavily though the speakerphone, making a shoooosh sound. Veronica looks nervous. Joel-from-IT looks intrigued, momentarily. New Dave looks like he needs to clear his throat. The empty chairs at odd intervals around the table stare back at you. Patty looks flabbergasted.

“Content?” Patty asks. She begins to scratch her pencil against her paper, but stops mid-mark. She looks up and locks eyes with you. You squirm.

“What do you mean ‘content’?” She makes finger quotes in the air as if, in all historical uses of the word, she cannot imagine how “content” could be used correctly in this particular setting. It is the same response she would have given if you had spontaneously coined a term for the specific purpose of describing your mood at this very meeting and had just then decided to introduce it: “This week, I am feeling ‘Flenderbul.’”

“I mean … I– I meannn …” you stutter. A follow-up?! Follow-ups are not part of Mood Check. As Patty had clearly explained, Mood Check is one, simple question to, in Patty’s words, “take your temperature.” There are no follow-ups in Mood Check.

You try not to panic. You look at the empty swivel chair next to you, noticing its stiff mesh back, it’s uneven armrests. You blink back at your notepad. Say something, you think. Anything.

“I am feeling content … because …” The items on your list are swimming around on the page; they fall out of your mouth in a pile: “I am optimistic this week will be constructive, and I am confident that having a positive attitude will help us all be happy with our work. So …” Your voice trails off. You cannot think of one more thing to say, and you pray to any god that will listen that there are no more follow-ups to this follow-up. Because your list is shot.

“Ahhh. I see,” Patty nods. Thank god(s), you think. “That’s excellent, thank you.” You smile wanly and move your head in the world’s smallest You’re Welcome nod.

“My turn, I guess.” Patty says. “This week, I am feeling … good!” Patty offers a satisfied smile. “I feel good, don’t you?”

Pittsburgh Dave mumbles, “Sure” through the speakerphone. Veronica nods her head rapidly. Joel-from-IT says, “Okay.” New Dave says “ahem.”

Awash in numb relief, you attempt to raise one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug.

“Good! Alright, let’s dive right into the first item on our agenda. Now I know there have been changes around here. I’d like you to see these as opportunities. Opportunities to shine, to lead, to blaze a trail …” Patty says.

While Patty chirps through her discussion items, you look down at your notepad and draw a line through “content.” You place an “X” over each letter, obliterating the word from its rounded beginning to its jagged end, just in case you get confused – or develop amnesia – and attempt to re-use it.

1. Optimistic
2. Constructive *
3. Positive
4. Happy
5. Confident
6. XXXXXXX

You summon a modicum of enthusiasm.

You check your phone for emails, text, tweets, status updates ... anything.

You look down at your notebook and press the point of your pen into the paper again. But this time, you add to your list a mood for next Mood Check:

7. “Good.”

Hearing Loss, Smoke Monsters, and Waiting Rooms: How to be a Grown-Up

I remember being eight years old and listening to a family friend make fun of my grandparents. Her call-and-response impression of my impatient grandmother and my unflappable grandfather was flawless:

“Pete …”

“What? …”

“Pete …”

“What? …”

“Pete …”

“What? …”

“Pete …”

“What? …”

“Pete …”

“What? …”

“PETE!!!”

“WHAT?”

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO YELL, I’M RIGHT HERE!”

It was funny to me because I had never heard anyone mock my grandmother before (that is, no one had dared mock my grandmother before). It was funny to my parents because, as golden-hearted as my grandfather was, he also had a very, very dry sense of humor.

We had an eerily similar conversation with my father recently, when he walked into a room where music was playing and asked:

“Who is this singing?”

“Straight No Chaser”

“Who…?”

“Straight No Chaser”

“WHO…?”

“STRAIGHT NO CHASER”

“OH. I THOUGHT YOU SAID ‘STRAIGHT, NO GAYS HERE.’”

Ouch, it still makes me cringe. It had to be a terrible, hearing loss-related joke, right? I mean, right??

Either way, I have a sneaky (and terrifying) suspicion these conversations will only get worse. At 30-mumble years old, I am now at a stage where my parents are becoming the grandparents, and my siblings and I are now “The Grown-Ups.” Some days, this strikes me as a bizarre plot twist – when did we get so responsible? – but most days I realize that, of course, this was bound to happen because life is nothing if not a series of paradigm shifts.

I thought being a grown-up person would mean having my act together. I imagined saying things like, “My husband and I have decided to purchase a lilac farm, once we return from our third cruise ‘round the world in our sailboat.” (Naturally, as an adult, my sophistication would be evidenced by a British accent.) Instead there is a lot of sitting in traffic, sorting through junk mail, listening to hold music. And sometimes, as Elizabeth Bishop points out in one of my favorite poems of hers, “In the Waiting Room,” being “one of them” can be surprising, uncomfortable and even horrifying (see the anecdote above … or on second thought, don’t).

To me, being a Grown-Up is like being a character on the TV series Lost. You end up with a crowd of people somewhere you didn’t quite intend to be. A few people in the crowd are your traveling companions, but most of them are total strangers. You’re not sure how you all arrived – everything up to this moment is a blur – but you realize you’re going to be here for the rest of your life, so you should figure out some of the essentials, like who you can trust, and who needs help. And with the violent storms, the sometimes-violent people, and the daily struggle for survival, you’re not entirely certain how long you’ll be able to convince yourself – or anyone else – that you got this.

Having sat in a hospital waiting room myself a few days ago, I agree with Bishop. Realizing that I am now one of The Grown-Ups can feel like “falling off the round, turning world into cold, blue-black space.” It can be disorienting, disempowering, disillusioning. (Both the sailboat and the lilac farm seem like WAY too much work. My only “accent” is from Western New York, and I try very hard to cover it up.)

I’m learning that, like the Lost survivors, Grown-Ups have only a moment to decide how to balance their daily must-do lists with the unexpected. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about polar bear attacks, or being held hostage by a megalomaniac, or deciding whether to detonate a 20-ton hydrogen bomb (#LostPeopleProblems). But the unexpected can be just as life-threatening. Just as devastating. Just as grave.

Even so, somehow, as with those on the island, Grown-Ups get up every day and do what needs to be done. They trust and help people – even when they’re pretty sure they may need some serious help themselves – until they suddenly realize the hike from the beach to the caves has become a well-beaten path; and that odd shift in the air means rain is coming (or, just as likely, the Smoke Monster is coming); and a pattern of hoofprints and broken twigs will lead to a wild boar that may be prepared for dinner.

You can call it Divine Grace, Adaptation, Blind Luck. But, by some sweet confluence of the cosmic, the human, and the supernatural, you might just make it as The Grown Up after all.

Some days, like the day I spent at the hospital, I think this remark from one of Emily Dickinson’s letters perfectly sums up How to Be a Grown-Up: “This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.”

Other days, I think Dr. Jack Shepherd’s words sum it up much better, if not more succinctly: “Live together, die alone.”

And other days still, I get up to do what needs to be done. I trust and help people, and I tell myself, Hey, I’m one of The Grown-Ups now … And – at least for today – I got this.

XO,
JM

Eat, pray, shove it: Response to a reluctant blogger

This post is cordially and humbly submitted in response to Torchier, who insists he is "kinda embarrassed" about blogging. You may read his original post here.


I started reading Gilbert’s memoir, “Eat, Pray, Love,” but I couldn’t finish. It’s probably revealing that I read through “Eat,” mostly for the descriptions of Italian cuisine. I read diligently through “Pray,” knowing I’d feel guilty if I gave up during the author’s spiritual awakening. I read halfway through “Love,” before throwing the memoir down in exasperation.

“Feelings schmeelings!” I growled at the discarded book. “What’s your POINT?!?”

Admittedly, I am not the world’s most sympathetic person. I would like to live in a world of right angles and complete sentences. I am logical, rational, sensible, and pragmatic. When I watched BBC’s Sherlock, I knew I was supposed to roll my eyes and groan at the detective’s cold, inhuman reactions; instead I nodded and thought, “Yes, exactly!”

Even so, my trouble with Gilbert’s memoir was not only her preoccupation with emotions; it was the assumption I would share her preoccupation. As if navel-gazing isn’t painful enough for a cold-hearted crank like me, I was expected to enjoy staring  at someone else’s gut-hole. More appropriately put, for me, Gilbert neglected to connect her feelings to a broader context. By displaying (exploiting?) her emotions without establishing their relevance, she fabricated a flimsy intimacy between herself and 10 million anonymous readers. If you were Martin Buber, you might say she gave us readers the old “I - It.”

This is the struggle I sometimes have with blogs as well. There is a strange dichotomy created between intimacy and anonymity when a blogger blindly launches internal monologue into cyberspace and leaves virtual strangers to make sense of it. To borrow the words of a reluctant fellow-blogger, in blogs “we have something to say because people are listening.”

Blog.com tells us, “A blog is your best bet for a voice among the online crowd.” I suppose this is intended to encourage a gang’s-all-here type of camaraderie. But for an introvert like me, it initiates my power-down sequence. I’ve seen this “online crowd,” and it’s pretty sizeable. And verbose. And opinionated. And sometimes mean and incendiary. If this is my best bet for having a voice, count me out. My silly musings cannot compete with the tedious play-by-play of FredSchnieber.blogspot.com’s sweaty-palmed eHarmony date, or the uncomfortably intimate details of SoManyBabies.wordpress.com’s breast-feeding schedule.

But, wait. Unlike the memoir I tossed aside, I can’t simply opt out in the name of Reason, and here’s why: Although the blogosphere may seem like a Pathos free-for-all, where success is measured in Clicks, Likes, Reposts, Retweets, Comments, and Shares, blogging is undeniably a part of contemporary culture’s dialogue.

To put it in McLuhan-ese, this is the conversation now.

Yes, blogging’s Amateur Hour aesthetic can chafe compared to our well-worn and comfortable media – our perfectly-constructed speeches, our painstakingly-edited essays, and our time-tested literature – but, at least for those of us who spend time thinking about human communication, to file blogs under “Social Media Nonsense” is to opt out of an opportunity to connect these goofy little symbols we call letters with our ability to influence, persuade, explain, enlighten, change, move, shake, stir … and create meaningful things. It’s taking a back seat during a broader conversation in which we are actually entirely invested.

I recognize this medium and its message/massage certainly has its limits. It is vacuous yet noisy, overpopulated yet solitary, data-driven yet highly-personalized. But, friends, this is our new frontier. You can bet it’s going to be messy as we continue to figure things out here – boundaries will be negotiated and fought for, and some of them will be summarily ignored (to my chagrin … More feelings, yyyuck!). But we have an opportunity to help shape this rhetorical landscape as it evolves from nothing into something.

The challenge, then, is to be the ones to help spur this evolution forward by participating in the conversation with purpose and intent. Some important ideas will congeal, crystallize, and rise to the surface amid all of the babble, and they will do so as a result of pointed discourse. This is to say, among the quacks who have something to say simply because there is an audience, there is ample space – perhaps even a responsibility – for good, old-fashioned Logos, Ethos, and, yes, even a little Feeling Schmeeling.

XO,
JM

The art of YOLO

Two months ago, less than five miles from where I live, a 19-year-old young man brought a shotgun and two explosive devices to the mall, shot two randomly-selected mall employees, then shot himself. Thankfully, the crude explosive devices did not detonate.

Whoa, what? I live in the lazy, boring suburbs. I worry about accidentally colliding with one of the ever-present and vapid deer that wander around unfazed by cars, buses, people and dogs of any size. This is not a world in which I have to think about whether Macy’s will install metal detectors in time for the next One-Day Sale.

By stark contrast, I was recently making small talk with someone at work, and I casually dropped in the statement, “Well, as they say, you only live once!” My co-worker, who happens to be Asian, replied nonchalantly, “Actually ... I don’t believe that’s true.”

Again, I thought -- under admittedly different circumstances -- whoa, what? This phrase, “YOLO,” which has become pervasive, even intrusive, has been used to justify everything from skydiving lessons to pricey impulse purchases to third helpings of dessert. And it is so obviously, essentially, terribly … ethnocentric!

These moments -- the Whoa, What? moments -- make me feel like the guy snoozing next to Lake Michigan in that 70s film you probably saw in middle school science class called, “Powers of Ten.” The camera zooms away from him at a rate of 10 meters every 10 seconds, shrinking the man smaller and smaller until he is a teeny tiny speck that is virtually invisible in the middle of the swirling galaxy. These moments make me feel not just small but feeble; silly; impotent; worthless. Stripped of self-importance.

These moments rock my world. 

As well they should -- because compared to the universe, I am, in a word, nothing. And to be reminded of this is to be reminded that there is not a single thing I can do that will make me more significant. But I firmly believe there are some things that -- done consistently, purposefully, and mindfully -- may be somewhat significant. These things won’t make me bigger in comparison to the universe; but perhaps they may initiate a pattern of goodness that, if I leave any legacy at all, may resonate behind me as I go -- a ripple of good intention that spreads farther and farther away from me, like a boat’s wake.

To some, the concept of reincarnation might sound like a warning: “Don’t do anything that will make you come back as a slug.” But even for those who don’t believe in it, and are YOLO-ing through life making decisions for the here and now, reincarnation carries an important point. Without getting into the nuances of rebirth -- because I am not an expert by any stretch -- the essence is that each choice leads closer to an ideal. To be pithy, you will eventually reap what you sow.

To be even clearer: choices are important.

But we know, while choices are important, they are rarely simple.

The young man who recently ended his life and the lives of two others made a decision that was rotten with complexity. Since the shooting, it has been determined he struggled with an undiagnosed mental illness. If you’ve ever loved or lived with someone who wrestles with this particular demon, you might understand this man's ability to make reasonable decisions was undermined by an engulfing sense of disorientation. His world was chaotic to its core, and so his viewpoint was skewed. It is true, he chose poorly; but it is also true there were many, many other variables in play.

My suggestion is simply this: Every day, we fold decisions into the paper of our lives such that, in the end, what is left is a small and fragile token. Whether yours is a crane, a lotus flower, or a tiger, it is truly your choice.

Maybe you only live once; or maybe you get more than one chance. Either way, it is essential to recognize that each decision is predicated on the decisions before.

Life is not strictly chaos, though sometimes it certainly feels chaotic. But, like origami, living is an art of making choices, recognizing their consequences, and, ultimately, discovering our own transformation.

XO,
JM

Cat wearing shark costume chases duck while on Roomba

This post isn’t really about cat videos, I’m just working on my search engine optimization.

Just kidding! But not about the cat videos. We’ll definitely get back to cat videos, or their titles, at least.

One of my dear friends, who is brilliant and talented and hilarious (and a Writer! Please read her blog) is kind enough to indulge me when I ask her questions like the one I asked the other day: “What makes writing funny?”

When I think of funny writing, I think of stand-up comedians, whose jokes by nature are generally visual or aural, or both. (That is to say, there is an emphasis on Delivery, for you Aristotelians.) Some comedians have schticks, like Sarah Silverman, whose potty-mouthed girl-next-door persona manages to be relentless, offensive, and endearing at the same time. I’d link you to a clip of Silverman in the “The Aristocrats” -- a documentary about the joke whose sole purpose is to offend -- but, if you haven’t seen it before, I don’t want to be responsible for making you feel THAT uncomfortable today. Suffice it to say, it is the perfect material for Silverman’s schtick. 

Melissa McCarthy blends precise physical comedy with blink-and-you’ll-miss-them one-liners. If you haven’t seen her 2013 SNL monologue, you must, it is a gem.

I happen to like Bo Burnham’s timing. This set is a good example of the way he can speed up, then draw out his jokes. The haiku at 2:45, for example, is only funny because of his timing.

But humor isn’t exclusively seen or heard.

More importantly, for writers anyway, technology has changed the way readers experience content. We’re in an environment of limits. There are character limits in social media; physical limits imposed by technology (I happen to know, for example, that the majority of you who read my last post did so from the tiny window of your iPhones); and time and attention span limits. In fact, this infographic says there are more than 150 million blogs on the internet! So, practically speaking, how can you convey humor, in writing, within limitations like these?

All comedy manipulates expectations. We know there’s a tension between what is expected and what is presented by the speaker/writer that creates amusement. My rhetorical theory-friend readers are thinking of quoting Kenneth Burke, because, yes, we’re talking about “perspective by incongruity” here. In Shakespearean puns, Dorothy Parker-type satire, or wordplay like Lewis Carroll’s, which I suppose is satire in itself, it’s the surprise that gets us in the end.

My dear/brilliant/talented/hilarious/Writer friend put it this way, referring to the eponymous YouTube clip:

“Maybe that title is all we really need to know about humorous writing. Absurdity is wonderful and if it turns out to be true, even better. Create illogical combinations that will surprise, confuse, provoke, and then present them plainly. Or on the flip, create plain, bland combinations and present them illogically. State the obvious by throwing in a funny word if you can. In this case, cat and duck are both funny ... I truly do not care for cats, but I write about them more than dogs because ‘cat’ is a funnier word.”

In essence, humor happens when you make banality squirm in its seat. And, as she points out, sometimes you can do this with the sound of a word – “cat,” “duck,” and/or “Roomba,” for example.

James Thurber -- you know him, he wrote “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” -- would agree: “humor is a kind of emotional chaos told about calmly and quietly in retrospect.” Not sure about the “chaos” part (drama queen!), but I like his point: Humor is not just expectations gone awry, it’s in the storytelling too. 

This I like, because what's better than a well-told story? Like a jack-in-the-box, part of the fun -- or the terror, depending on your comfort-level with jack-in-the-boxes -- of a great, funny story, is in the process. You have to work a bit before the little guy pops out.

So, Gentle Readers, after all of this, can I claim to know how humorous writing works? Nope. Can I give you a nice little recipe for hilarious exposition? Also no. Am I going to exploit a tired rhetorical device by continuing to answer my own questions? I hope not.

I can, however, state two things with certainty: (1) Spoiler alert, I am a nerd, and if you have made it this far, you are either related to me (hi, Mom!), or you may also be a nerd; and, more importantly, (2) Sometimes, funny writing is truly just a well-told story about life in a neighborhood on the outskirts of “average.” 

Or it’s pretty much any story about a cat.

XO,
JM

Party crashing, soul crushing, and why I'm not a writer

Sometimes motivation is a middle-aged guy who shows up at your birthday party and crushes your soul a little.

Don (no, not his real name) wasn't technically invited to my birthday party. He wasn't unwelcome, per se, although there was definitely a moment when my only birthday wish was for him to … well … how to put this delicately … eff off.

I had met Don a couple of times before the evening of my party. He teaches creative writing and has published several books, so he seemed like someone who might have Thoughts/Things To Say. Late in the evening, I noticed Don sitting alone, so, being the -- ahem -- social butterfly that I am, I thought to myself, "I will bring him back into the fold. No one feels lonely here, not on my watch!" 

I sat down with him and chatted about the normal stuff -- family, travel, whatever. At one point, I said to him, "You know ... I enjoy writing as well." I thought, surely this topic would begin a lifelong dialogue between us about the aesthetics of self expression, the power of words.

"In fact," I probably smiled self-deprecatingly here, "I wrote poetry throughout college. I found it was a good way to express myself." I was ready to talk with him about Alice Walker's use of repetition; Elizabeth Bishop's sense of orientation; Rilke's lyricism.

Instead, he shrugged. He looked at the ceiling. He said, "Welllll, there are writers..." He frowned at me. He sighed. "And then there are hobbyists." 

Gulp.

There are many, many things I could have said to him in reply (for example, on the milder end, the ubiquitous and all-purpose, "Really?!?"). But instead, I smiled pleasantly and excused myself politely, because I am a Lady, or because it was my flippin' birthday and he was being a jerk. 

Or, maybe, because I knew he was a little bit right. 

Writing, I've always thought, is when my voice is at its bravest and best. But, for a long time, I wasn't writing. And one of the reasons I wasn't writing was because of a paralyzing fear that investing in something that is so essentially ME gives The World something to mess with. Something to diminish, mock, not take seriously … kind of like what Don had just done. And it was annoying, unnecessary, and a bit rude. But it didn't actually make me a poor writer. Maybe I had failed (miserably) to win over Don with my literary prowess, but -- gasp -- my talents had survived intact.

In time, I have decided, no, I'm not a “Writer” -- I’m not published, I don't go on book tours, nobody wants me to autograph anything. And if that makes me a "Hobbyist," cool. I’ll take it, and I’ll own it. I write because it makes me feel human. Because, without it, I wouldn't be me. I can't NOT write just because someone might (by that I mean, will) tell me my writing isn't awesome, or worse, they don't get it. And when that does happen, it doesn't make it true. 

So, Don-The-Writer, challenge accepted! I'd say "this one's for you," but it's not. It's for me, The Hobbyist. 

XO,
JM