Two Wrongs Don’t Make a Writer

Some of my friends think too much. One pointed out that my humor seems to have a subtle edge that is hidden beneath a veil of sarcasm and observational levity that belies the truth that I am compensating for some hidden pain by making light of serious situations to deflect attention away from the turmoil within. I have no clue what she was talking about because I was just making a joke.

As soon as I got out my dictionary, a psychological text book, and consulted three therapists, figured out what she was talking about. She was accusing me of hiding my pain behind humor. Some of the best writers and funniest comedians are able to derive humor from pain. Having been maliciously accused of having depth to my writing, going beyond the surface to reveal something about myself, all I can say is: “Oh yeah?” See, I’m not that deep. I’m so shallow you could wade across me.

That’s not totally true. There has been pain in my life. There have been sprained ankles, a couple of broken bones, two surgeries and numerous concussions in my past. You are nodding thinking that the concussions explain a lot, aren’t you? Just yesterday, I suffered physical pain beyond what I thought possible. While stacking paper that came out of my printer, (those of you who are squeamish may want to skip to the next paragraph) I got a nasty paper cut. It bled for almost ten second. I thought was going to pass out from exsanguination. Weeping and wailing, I dabbed it with liquid bandage. That is stuff that is supposed to seal a wound, preventing bleeding and infection. It also contains a chemical (I think it was sulfuric acid) that kills germs and makes a grown man scream like his finger is on fire and beg for his mommy. You see, I do know pain. (Excuse me while I wipe tears off the keyboard)

There is also the emotional traumas through which many writers must struggle for their art. I could tell you about divorce, lost loves, betrayals and jobs that I hated; however, the real psychological and emotional abuse comes from drivers. Last week, while minding my own business on the Interstate, I encountered a car that was driving the speed limit. I know, right? What kind of moron drives 55 on a five-lane highway in one of the left lanes? Can you believe the nerve of that eighty-five-year-old lady? Even though I wanted to draft behind her and honk my horn until I had a good place to put her into the wall, I showed restraint. I suffered in silence, knowing that emotional suffering is part of being a writer. Also, I knew it would make a good paragraph for a blog someday.

With these great trials and tribulations in my life, it makes sense that I’m a writer. It also proves that I’m really not that complicated. Eccentric, odd, and unusual; but not complicated.