One of the oldest and most reliable pieces of advice given to any writer is to “write what you know.” This is great council for writers of all levels of ability, because you can lie about things that you know with a level of detail and conviction that would be completely lacking in a subject unfamiliar to you.
That’s why you find John Grisham writing about lawyers, Robin Cook writing about doctors, and Steven King writing about disturbingly freaky people you probably wouldn’t want to be alone with.
Of course, as a humorist, I deviate from conventional wisdom on a regular basis, writing with great boldness and bluster about the fashion industry, Google algorithms, the Fed, and other topic of which I have no actual working knowledge.
But every once in while, the pressures of life cause my flights of fancy to be delayed or even canceled, and I too must find my way back home to write about the things I actually know.
This usually results in very short articles.
In fact, I am tempted to stop right here before I have to do any mental heavy-lifting, but then again I would hate to have fired up the word-processor for nothing. So here it goes.
What exactly do I know?
I know the frustration of being a philosopher trapped in the unquestioning grind of business efficiency. Or at least I did until quite recently.1
I know the emotional fatigue of investing years of effort in someone else’s dream.
I know the bruised sensation of dusting yourself off after a wild ride, relieved to still be in one piece.
I know that I am whining and grousing like the scores self-absorbed bloggers that I generally avoid.
Clearly, I need some help in finding my way back to the realm of confident humor.
I need a mentor, a guide, or perhaps a new patron saint. Someone like St. Desperous, champion of miscast actors and all those who find themselves in roles for which they are unequipped to succeed.
I could wear a little medallion around my neck in the shape of a broken mask, a reminder to always be myself and not bow and scrape to the whims of those who would label me. In fact, every time I found myself beginning to suppress my identity I could cry out in a loud voice, “Forgive me St. Desperous! The folly is thick upon me today M’Lord!”2
Of course this would not prevent me from being labeled, it would merely change the label being applied.
It would probably go something like this:
Director of New Disorders: “Be sure to keep an eye out for Brent, he’s got HVCWFSD.”
Vice President of Embarrassing Nicknames: “What’s that?”
Director: “High Volume Conversations With Fictional Saints Disorder.”
Vice President: “Oh, that. Why do I get all the weirdoes?”
Why indeed?
So now we have come to the big ending. This is the part of the show where I dip into my ample reserves of wisdom and share with you all the moral of the story, wrapping up this whole dilemma with time to spare for a couple commercials.
Except, that I don’t know what the moral of the story is.
- Does the ugly duckling get reunited with his biological family?
- Do Hansel and Gretel learn not to wander off into the woods without a GPS?
- Does Humpty Dumpty profit from his new-found knowledge of gravity?
It appears that I have once again written about things I don’t really know.
I hope that consistency is a virtue.
This post can be found contemplating its own navel at humor-blogs.com
- My sudden unemployment has released me from the old unquestioning grind into an exciting new grind, entirely filled with haunting questions of worth and competence. «
- I have actually done far stranger things, but they are all conveniently classified “Spleens Only” and unless you have a spleen-mounted Direct Data Inductor, I cannot share that information with you. «
{ 38 comments… read them below or add one }
If you want some advice on the literary front, I suggest you write what “I” know. It’s relatively easy and low-stress work.
Brent, if i interpret this article correctly, you are asking me to be your mentor…? My answer – an unqualified “no.” I just don’t have the time right now, but good luck with your search.
Brent, go look in the mirror…you will see OUR Saint Diggs staring back at you. I know it’s lonely at the top being a Saint and all but that’s the price you pay for genius.
“*My sudden unemployment has released me from the old unquestioning grind into an exciting new grind, entirely filled with haunting questions of worth and competence.”
This is what most homemakers would say if they were honest.
I am jealous. I wish I could be a great philosopher. Or even a minor philosopher. As it is I’m a wannabe philosopher whose opposable thumbs are the only thing that distinguishes me from goldfish.
Remember this quote from Barry regarding the definition of a sense of humor:
“a measurement of the extent to which we realize that we are trapped in a world almost totally devoid of reason. Laughter is how we express the anxiety we feel at this knowledge.”
Kind of relevant to your post today.
In regards to…”*My sudden unemployment has released me from the old unquestioning grind into an exciting new grind, entirely filled with haunting questions of worth and competence.”
You are so worth everything in the world and beyond.
To put it simply…you are incredibly AWESOME!
It is not always a case of writing what you know, more of a case of writing what you don’t know so convincingly that the readers don’t know that you don’t know. You know?
I’ll mentor the crap out of you.
Oh dear,
I did not think of Brent as having any crap.
Just don’t take the red pill.
Refreshingly honest and funny, makes for great reading
suejeff
“I know the emotional fatigue of investing years of effort in someone else’s dream.”
The emotional fatigue is wearing to say the least, but the calluses and bill collectors are what really burn my bum.
“My sudden unemployment has released me from the old unquestioning grind into an exciting new grind, entirely filled with haunting questions of worth and competence.”
How true. However, if you did not question worth or competence, it is highly doubtful you could achieve either.
“I know the bruised sensation of dusting yourself off after a wild ride, relieved to still be in one piece.”
Ah yes, the all balls and no brains phase. You couldn’t pay me enough to do certain things again. However, it would take even more money to have kept me from doing them in the first place. Ah… the memories.
You have cut me to the quick, and made me spew coffee through my nostrils, which is infinitely worse.
Yeah, that honesty stuff is scary.
This is a little more towards soul baring than is normal for me, at least on the internet.
It always feels safer to follow the literature approach and write a bunch of stuff that is not literally true in order to get at “the truth.”
When I was a manger, I imagined it would be easier to just be an associate, employee, or other type of worker-bee. Then, I wouldn’t have to answer for the work of others.
I am seeing for the two-thousand, nine-hundred, and twenty-fourth time that the grass is always greener anywhere but where you are.
At least my family likes the grass in my neighborhood.
Looking in the mirror I discover:
Our saint needs to shave.
And some botox if there is going to be a be big, saintly photo shoot.
Oh God no! We like our Saints scruffy with plenty of forehead wrinkles.
My husband can get you some grass seed, if that helps.
Well, that is your problem. Anyone who has ever been a manger knows just how difficult it is to be covered in straw and sleep with the animals.
I have always loved that quote. I guess today falls into that Napoleon Dynamite /Something About Mary school of humor, where you go: “How awkward, am I supposed to laugh now?”
Thank you, you are very kind. I was not fishing for compliments, just thinking out loud.
I like to think I can face my own limitations by myself, but all too often I require back-up, usually in the form of brownies.
And coffee.
Just remember, without thumbs your fish’s tank would be filled with dropped and rotting containers of fish food.
To your fish, you are an all-powerfully deity. Able to reward the faithful with continued life, and reprobate with the eternal swirling toilet of doom.
You know there are programs where you can get help for your coffee addiction.
Speaking of fish and compliments; I hear that jell-o goes great with both. Your last jell-o work of art was genius, I think.
Oh you have hit it upon the head, your Lordship. Blatant bluffery has always been my motto, I must have let it slip today.
Oh well, there is always Wednesday.
What about a 12 step brownie program?
Step 3: admit I am powerless over small girls selling cookies.
No, I don’t think so. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint, you are funny even in small moments of self-doubt. It’s like a curse almost. You can’t shake the funnies.
Y’know I’ve read this post a couple of times because there is so much beneath the surface that even your most ardent of fans may not fully comprehend. I like it though. Maybe it is better to be a troubled genius than a focused unintelligent person (?). Maybe restless is a more appropriate word than troubled.
Anyway, I really connected with this post so thanks for sharing.
But what if the subject knows more than his mentor?
Jell-o is a delight. Face your fears and limitations even if they make a fool of you. (makes sense to me anyway)
Bye bye
Yeah – I think everyday life just scares him crapless.
I think that inconvenient and nettlesome little intruder known as “reality” scares the crap out of us all.
At least someone is skilled enough to make us laugh instead of cry!
I don’t think it is scared as much as Occasionally Worn Down and Needing Sharpening.
Fortunately, Diesel and Karl have graciously offered to grind my blunted cerebellum into pointy sharpness.
Just like my dear therapist, Doctor Toboggans.
Yes, I was a manger. Hungry barnyard animal used to crowd around me all day long.
I’m glad I left that job.
I like restless. The word, not the sensation.
It is so much less threatening than other terms like troubled, tortured, or congressional.
Come now, I know I have a home team advantage, but let’s play nice.
sorry.
No, he’s got me on an IV drip.
That’s a short leash.
I’m glad to know you understand what I mean. You hang on over there and I’ll stick to it over here and perhaps we can both find something of merit before the bill collectors catch us.
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