I recently told a friend I had lost my funny bone. I’m fairly certain it isn’t in the house. I’ve combed the place and the dust bunnies aren’t talking. I don’t know what has happened. Perhaps, it needed a break and it hurdled over the pasty lunar thing with that bovine fella. Sheesh. I need to get out more.
I like reading funny (as in haha…not as in upside down) and up until a few weeks ago I liked writing funny. It’s the weirdest thing, though. I’ve lost the ability to make words fasten together in any sort of chuckle-worthy order. See? You’re not even smiling right now, are you?
I adore most kinds of funny. I even like sight gags as long as they’re clever. Silly ala stooge isn't my thing and dirty turns my stomach, but show me a little dry wit and I’ll follow you anywhere. Speaking of which...I think my husband is about the funniest guy on the planet. At least, most of the time. (Note to DH: Funny is NOT squashing your face against the shower glass yesterday and scaring the skeebeehoosits out of me. Funny IS asking the grocery cashier if we have a large enough package of toilet paper based on the amount of food we are buying.)
To make matters worse, I’m revising my MG mystery and am having a tough time deciding whether the humor fits my character’s personality or whether it’s me lumbering through waving my wacky wand. How do you make that distinction? And what do you do when your witty flame burns low?
Oh, and if you happen to see my funny bone, send it home please. The morning is about to go POOF and I’m off to the shower. (Note to DH: The bathroom door will be locked.)