I have had several people (okay, one person) ask me recently whether I have written anything humorous for publication lately. I was sorry to disappoint my readers (pardon, reader) by answering in the negative.
It sounds unpleasantly haughty and snide to say that I have grown out of my attempts at humor writing, so I will not say this. I will say rather that I have been taken up with other things, such as attempting to secure employment, going endlessly over the last ten years of my life in hopes of ascertaining where I went wrong, and experimenting with various lay therapies.
It is not a situation I am pleased to report.
It's not that I have been completely devoid of ideas, but let's pose a hypothetical. Let's say I am at home after a long, soul-crushing day, and I think of something amusing while lying supine with a copy of Entertainment Weekly at half-mast on my untoned stomach. Then what? Am I to raise myself, risking upsetting my drink and my general composure, trudging the entire eight-foot length of my room, to either laboriously write or type this thought for posterity? Will this lead directly to a position writing for a popular HBO television series, or to readings packed with my adoring fans, who have become acquainted with me on NPR? Am I to fashion a hit sitcom from this material?
Really.
So you see what I'm up against. It's an existential crisis more than anything. And yet it also seems related to physical and mental fatigue. Have I mentioned that I recently passed my 31st year?
I suppose what usually pulls me up short, in so many other things besides this, is that adolescent yet chillingly reasonable motto "Why bother." Why do anything at all?
I regret to say that I had to think for awhile before answering this, and I guess the response lies in the very existence of this text, which is being typed as a distraction from the work I am being paid to do. Distraction is highly underrated, and I suppose in the great realm of distractions that I might create for myself, this is among the most harmless. (For exacting types who would ask what one needs distraction from, in order to keep things as simple and uncomplicated as possible, I will simply defer to Freud and answer, Sex.) On occasion, this pastime has even resulted in checks for small but not insignificant sums. Even more gratifyingly, it has resulted in entertaining some people.
Over the weekend I confronted some of these motivational issues in a "career inventory," which is an industrious-sounding name for what is in fact a questionnaire designed for the poor souls who have gotten themselves so confused that they need to be given a survey in order to discover their own likes and dislikes. Aside from the dismaying frequency with which I expressed a fondness for "meeting people," I also discovered that when asked to come up with three things I felt positive about doing in my work life, getting published (as far as having one's text spewed forth on the Internet can be considered publication) as a humor writer was one of the only genuine pleasures I could come up with.
As a result I have resolved to try writing snippets and essays again because I enjoy it, even if no one ever reads it; and because one of the chief signs of getting old is neglecting to do things you enjoy precisely because you realize just how pointless and sad they are. I do not wish to appear any more aged than I already appear, especially considering that emotionally I am not a day over 14.
It is undeniable that the act of setting something like this down and plugging it in is egotistical, dare I say insolent. How reckless of me to put this in a place where you, an unsuspecting intelligent person, might happen on it while searching about for information on Freud or sex or career inventories, and waste precious time in determining its worthlessness. On the other hand, perhaps you are looking for a hopelessly aimless and egotistical person, for the purposes of research or ridicule -- or perhaps you are me, a few months hence, wondering what I have been doing with myself. Perhaps you are looking for a distraction. Who am I, then, to deny you the fruits of your search?
August 8, 2002