A Writer's Lament

By the time you get to a certain age, most people are just not that much fun to hang around with anymore. Unlike back in college when you yukked it up with everyone you sat next to in class or bumped into at the library or met at a party or the local pizza joint or in your dorm, now everyone has their own steamer trunk full of tragedy that they lug around, and if you show the slightest interest they open it up and dump out the contents and suddenly you are dealing not only with your own dirty laundry but a whole new pile belonging to somebody else.

Most of the time you listen because really, what else can you do? I certainly try to help, offering soothing bromides and suggestions, hoping for a quick recovery and maybe even a few minutes of a good time. Depending on who the person is and the magnitude of their problems, an evening -- or a friendship -- may be salvaged. Sometimes not.

Anyway, as you can tell by the fact that you're not laughing, this is not a funny post. That's because The Truth is not always a laugh riot. Apparently that's what's wrong with my latest work in progress, a novel about a family torn asunder by events beyond their control, at least according to three different people I have asked to read it thus far. They all say what a great writer I am, blah blah blah, but it's too dark and maybe depressing and they wonder where's that sardonic humor I'm usually so good at?

Hey, if you find it, tell it to call home.