Earlier this year, I was compared to the scintillating, cheery comedian, Mr Jack Dee, by a fellow writer who had witnessed my debut performance of poetry on subjects as uplifting as maternal bonding problems, dementia and joy (which turned out to be about my inability to get in touch with my joyous side). At the same event, I was told by a respected poet/mentor “You are funnier than you realise”. I think it was a compliment, as in funny- ha-ha,rather than funny-peculiar. I am choosing to believe this interpretation. Please do not disabuse me.
This week, I was thrilled to forge through floods in my trusty Micra to view Mr Dee performing on the very same Middlesbrough Town Hall stage on which I had graduated only three days previously. How spooky is that? Okay, so not very. However, it does give Jack (first-name terms, now) and me yet another thing in common, in addition to our dead pan delivery and somewhat underwhelmed observations on life’s many ironies.
I have never been one for gushing and enthusing, I am definitely a ‘wry internal chuckle’ gal, and not an ‘explosion of canned hilarity’ merchant. (Woman on the right-hand side of the balcony please take note: you are a raving exhibitionist and hooting louder than the rest of us does not mean you are getting better value-for-money. Also, laughing at a joke ten minutes later than everyone else interrupts the evening’s flow and makes you seem simple or drunk).
In my novel-in-progress, Blues, I am channeling dark, dry humour which punctuates the seriousness of the storyline and prevents the reader from being plunged into a depressive chasm (there isn’t room down here for many more of us). But without turning my hard-hitting, hyper-realistic drama into The Suite Life of Zak and Cody, which, to be fair, seemed funny when you watched an episode for the tenth time (my toddler liked it, alright?) because it failed so spectacularly to be funny, whilst trying so valiantly to be funny.
This humour lark is a tricky, slippery customer. But I am determined to pin him down (50 Shades – ooh-err). As Jack so wisely pointed out in gale-lashed Middlesbrough on Monday , it is our duty to carry the Jubilee/Olympic spirit bravely into 2013 and beyond. But don’t make us laugh. Without our misery, Jack doesn’t have an act and I will never have my book.
I like this v much, but then I could be accused of being biased as we are lady that lunch mates, but must disagree with internal chuckles, I have been fortunate to experience these out bursts of mirth too numerous to mention, but definitely not exaggerated just genuine lil auld mrs a
If I laughed out loud, it must have been Schadenfreude or Chapel Hill Chardonnay. Or highly excellent company.
It’s interesting to me that you were told by a respected poet/mentor, “You are funnier than you realise”. I was once told by a respected poet/publisher, “You are considerably less funny than you think.” Evelyn Waugh was convinced that if he found himself laughing – internally or externally – at his own work, then it was a very bad sign and he would invariably delete the passage in question.
Oh Tim, that is so sad! How nasty – I haven’t had to face this kind of feedback (yet), but I suppose I’d better toughen up in preparation for the inevitable less-than-constructive criticism which comes every writer’s way.
Also, I going to read up on Evelyn Waugh: he sounds extremely wise.
It’s OK, he’d just had a tooth out. Michael Schmidt. He was one of the tutors on my MA course and was fiercely opposed to my idea of introducing a comic sub-plot into my novel. Sam Bain, co-author of ‘Peep Show’, liked the idea, though, and I tended to take more notice of him.
Congrats on the poetry prize, by the way. Have you written much poetry?