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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Gone Fishing

Each morning, or afternoon, or evening, I awaken and follow a set routine to prepare for the day. A couple of salt licks, two shots of Cuervo Gold and lime sucking prepare me for the single glass of Berringer White Zinfandel to cleanse my breath, roll over and kiss the corpse of my mummified wife, ten years dead, and thank her for being so discreet about her death that her long-term disability insurance checks still arrive weekly and permit me to write rather than scrunch on a corner with dark glasses, a borrowed dog and a tin cup. She wasn’t much fun alive but is perfect in death. I assure you she died accidentally, slipping in the shower and cracking her skull on the faucet. Why she cleaned the tub with Crisco remains a mystery.

However, this morning felt different. Something was wrong. I decided another Cuervo Gold ritual was necessary, again performed the routine, and threw the empty shot glass at my keyboard. Once again, my throw was perfection epitomized, struck the space bar and my computer too awakened. I guess I worried for no reason. I crawled out of bed and continued to crawl to the computer. I hoisted myself into my ergonomically designed typing chair and reached for the monitor clip-on that held at least one page of scribbling daily from my Muse. I snatched the single sheet of paper, placed my Dollar Store reading glasses on the facial protrusion passing for my nose and read the note. I read it again. A third time. My jaw then dropped in a mixture of shock and fear.

The note was brief and simple. "Morning, Afternoon, Evening of whatever day you finally dragged your butt out of bed. Gone fishing. Shall return when I damned well feel like it. Good luck without me, you imbecilic cretin! Your ever unfaithful Muse, elf."

elf had abandoned me! I was on my own! Oh dear, what can I do, baby’s in black and I’m feeling blue, tell me oh, what should I do?

I thought of those days long past before elf had entered my life. What did I do before my Muse was born? Indeed, how did muse, a simple word, become Muse, an existent entity invariably by my side to help me write? If I could recreate the past events leading to elf’s birth, I might be able to shorten his fishing trip. Unfortunately, I’ve never been an aficionado of thought. I rose from my chair, wobbly, and returned to bed. I nodded off for another hour before again awakening and repeating my morning ritual.

As I crawled back to my keyboard, a revelation of past practices struck me like that errant bus in Speed, a movie that still stands as one of the worst flicks I have ever had the misfortune of paying money to see. I began to remember the pre-elf days and what I needed to do to end elf’s fishing trip early. It was all too clear. I sensed its clarity conflicted with the effort I would need to expend in achieving my goal, but what else could I do?

I sat at the keyboard and stared at desktop icons. Chameleon? No. Eddie Hamilton? No. How To Get L—Definitely no. Stop Watch? Got ya, you little sucker! I double clicked the icon and the world’s most complicated stopwatch appeared. Fortunately, I didn’t need most of its whistles and bells and went immediately into the Simpleton Mode, perfect for this user. But what next? What came next?

Have you ever shot a gun towards the heavens and wondered where the bullet landed? Wonder no longer. All bullets fall within a ten foot radius of me, occasionally even striking me, leading to a loud scream of pain or an insight, a revelation. The last fool who shot at a 747 35,000 feet above him, with no chance of even approaching the plane, hit me on my miniscule—hey, stop that! Miniscule is subject to many definitions!—bald spot, and the reason for the stopwatch became clear. Open up Word or WordPerfect, wait for the screen, set the stopwatch for two hours, and write. Simple!

Sometimes the words don’t come. I fiddle with the keyboard, staring at a blank screen. For variety, I change the color of the blank screen, hoping my Muse will enjoy the light show, and return. Or type a few nonsense words and immediately erase them. Scratch my head, tug my beard, pick my nose or daydream. No matter what, though, I sit at the computer until my computer stopwatch screams obscenities, the two hours are gone and I’m free to leave. This just isn’t my day, I decide, and proceed to do other things necessary to exist.

Occasionally, though, some thoughts will strike me and the words begin to roll like cigarettes on the production line. Two hours pass, the stopwatch screams obscenities, I shut it down and continue to write. Two hours turns into four, four into six, six into eight, on and on until I discover I’ve been thinking and pecking at the keyboard for twenty hours.

My norm is neither of the above. Usually I will commit something to paper before finishing. On those rare occasions that 20 hours pass, I will eliminate much of what I wrote. The point of this article is not limited to humor. It is applicable to all genres and, simply stated, is to create a discipline that works for you. Those days I begin with a blank page and leave with a blank page are no less productive than the days I leave the computer after writing 20 or more pages. I have created a discipline that forces me to write and has thus far worked.

I realize this column is not humorous. However, writing humor is serious business and occasionally we must depart from humor per se and direct our attention to the craft itself. I hope you find this article helpful no matter what genre you enjoy.

Afterthought

In last month’s column, I wrote the following:

I won’t try to emulate the humor of Dangerfield, Buchwald, Feiffer and Trudeau in this column. It’s not that I don’t have the time. It is rather the simple fact that each person has a unique style. I will try to write a brief story on a common event utilizing exaggeration. For the first time, I ask whatever audience I have to do the same and email your stories to me at Ed@wvu.org. I would like to show some of these unique styles by including a sampling of your stories in this column.

Initially, I thought no one responded. I then noticed mail, ostensibly sent to Ed@wvu.org, that was not delivered due to the length of the mail. Could it be that someone actually reads this column, attempted to respond and the WVU address has a length restriction? I hope so, ‘cuz I’d certainly enjoy reading your stories, thoughts, profanities, whatever. If this is indeed the case, please resend your work to eflaim@starpower.net.

Hey! Is there anybody out there?


About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world's asylums.

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King. Or at the very least, a cookie.