The English teacher told him there was no spark in his writing. She said it lacked passion.
The young writer remained composed. He thanked her for her honesty before leaving. Walking to the parking lot, his manner betrayed nothing.
Once inside his electric blue Dodge Neon, however, the young writer sounded his barbaric yawp.
“Why must I be male and middle class? Why was I not born gay? Why was my mother not black and my father not Jewish? Where is my addiction, my depression? Where is my story?”
I write humor very rarely. If I cannot see the person in front of me laughing, I lose faith in my jokes and references and puns. This, however, was supposed to be funny, and it was supposed to give me an audience that would laugh or not, that would allow me to know whether it was funny or not, but then I had to go and lose in the first round, and I never found out.
What do you think? Does it make you giggle? Chortle? Snort in derision? Yearn for the simple pleasures of Marmaduke and Family Circus?
3 years ago