Private Jokes Are No Joking Matter

Did you hear the one about the hen at the hectic intersection? Yawn. The only thing funny about a well-worn comic moment is someone thinking it’s funny. But genuinely “funny”? That matters. It doesn’t just give novels depth and texture beyond basic plot and theme. Humor makes novels better simply because everybody likes to laugh. And private jokes are the best of all.

So. Take a second to picture yourself with a spouse, partner, or dear friend roaring with laughter over—something hilarious only to the two of you. This is a special kind of funny. Whether slapstick, witty, subtle, or all of the above, it feels personal. No one else quite gets it. That’s the point.

Personal humor (or anything else for that matter) is special. It feels slightly illicit, which most of us find sensual. A private joke involves a clique, if only of two, so it’s exclusive. In-group humor depends on insider information and is thus a commodity. All great, but can you do that in your novel? Of course.

~ Set the scene.

Bad jokes inundate with context. Decent jokes offer almost enough. Great jokes hint what the audience needs to know, preferably in advance and just clearly enough to command attention without being obvious.

~ Plant seeds.

Good jokes, in fiction and everywhere else, build slowly, often in three’s: A vague reference, a slightly more pointed one, then—whomp!—the punchline.

~ Use slightly esoteric references.

If you never ask readers to stretch for dim recollections about Paul Bunyan, Walter Cronkite, the Uncertainty Principle, or Teddy Roosevelt, then no private joke is possible. Private jokes depend on a somewhat arcane reference clicking into place.

~ Suggest rather than state character behavior.

Forget those tedious assumptions about prom queens or neurosurgeons. Instead, give your astronaut or whatever traits that plot forces to the surface. Humor flourishes with the surprise of foiled expectations.

~ Use the five senses.

A good joke is not just something you hear or read, but one you can at least visualize, and, ideally, connect with viscerally.

~ Mix and match.

Blend graphics, word play, irony, and burlesque. Besiege us in more than one way and—we’ll love your book all the more for the fun we’re having.

Tip: Charm your readers not just with public jokes but private ones.

Tension and Texture

In fiction, creative nonfiction, or screenplay, a good storyteller adds layers to elevate story beyond plot, infusing it with humor, originality, psychological insight, and deeper understanding of the human condition. If a story seems multi-dimensional instead of flat, that’s texture.

Tip: Texture enhances tension by making what happens more original, empathetic, and thus haunting.

Only so many basic plots exist. But you can add texture in as many ways as there are writers to add layering.

Film is a terrific vehicle for investigating texture. Your commitment is hours instead of weeks, and you can find many free screenplays on line. “Silver Linings Playbook” is a good example.

It opens with protagonist Pat’s main concerns: His biological family and his wife.

~ We know what’s at stake right at the starting line.

The protagonist immediately explains that the situation is his fault—but it’s going to be better. Because he’ll see to it.

~ We immediately know how much we like this guy: He’s honest, responsible, resilient.

The protagonist’s room in the institution appears next: Jar of mayo, black trash bag, and the sign “excelsior.”

~ We know this story might be dark, sad, and romantic: It’ll be funny, too.

Then the group therapy session starts.

~ We can expect realism: We can expect an antidote to grim realism, as well.

After that, Pat’s doctor warns that his mom’s taking him home without medical approval.

~ We know, because we know how stories work: He’s just not ready.

That means trouble. Count on it. 

If you haven’t seen this, do. So the synopsis stops here. If you watch it and/or read the screenplay, notice how playing with expectations creates texture. What’s happiness? What’s sad or funny, sane or crazy? What’s true love? Who deserves what—and why do they?

This film lets you examine ways to open, interweave plot with theme, create likable characters, and transform individual predicaments to universal ones. It does that with texture.

Psyche and Nike

The common meaning of “psyche” is soul—spirit. But its source is a complex myth about the relationship between soul and body, the antidote to another goddess’s envy, and the union of two beings. What’s relevant to the contemporary novelist, though, is the equally complex relationship between “self” and story.

Enter psyche. What makes a story matter is the revelation of an individual spirit. Maybe you love being Irish or Hmong or Norwegian and this story brings your culture to life. Maybe your relationship is so happy that you want to write a romance where every dream comes true. Maybe, like Chad Harbach, you love both "Moby Dick" and baseball and want everyone to see how much they have in common. Psyche provides a way to express “self” through story.

Some consider psyche the “true” self and ego the false one—overly focused on goals, materialism, arrogance. Whether or not you agree, you might think of psyche as the source of your story and ego as the engine driving you to complete that story.

  

Few novelists can survive without a healthy dose of ego. After all, if you lack confidence in yourself and what you have to say, even the quickest, worst first draft ever is a ridiculous amount of work. If neither you nor your story is worth anything, why bother? Ego—i.e. confidence, gets you started and keeps you motivated through all the revising and strategizing needed to find an agent, a publisher, or a do-it-yourself plan.

~ Only your psyche can originate a novel people want to read because you alone could write it.

~ Only your ego can generate the fortitude to strive until your novel is good enough for people to read.

Ego and psyche are twin sources of strength. At its worst, psyche breeds amorphous images meaningful only to their creator. At its best? Psyche weds individuality to commonality, lets you transform subjective imagination into community property.

At its worst, ego generates the kind of defensiveness that rationalizes away useful critique: You’re always right, of course, and the reader (Why listen to this dolt?) is simply too foolish to see why you had to “tell,” introduce twenty-six characters in your first four pages, or bury any shred of plot or tension beneath exquisite description. But ego also inspires the confidence to strive for excellence, often best achieved by welcoming and implementing intelligent feedback, even when it’s painful or arduous. Ego can actually let you put your story before your “self.”

And Nike? Athena’s sidekick symbolizes flight, glory, victory, triumph. She represents ego, not egotism. You needn’t be a winged deity or fast-mover who relishes competition and hungers for fame. But you do need the energy that unites spirit with ego.

Tip: Those folks are exactly right: “Just do it.”

Down with Wimpy Protagonists!

Yes, the protagonist’s journey must resemble an arc from weakness, confusion, or shortsightedness to growth and maturity. That’s how he or she earns the happiness of the ending, granting readers the satisfaction accompanying that. And yet.

Of course we don’t want to blame the victim! But we don’t necessarily adore victims, either. We sympathize and willingly offer support, pity, concern, possibly money. But love? If heaven helps those who help themselves, readers love those who help themselves even more. Spunk is a big draw.

Empathy correlates with the reason for the protagonist’s problems. When life deals you an unjustly crummy hand like poverty, an abusive partner, or incurable cancer, we root for you. It’s not your fault! There are no easy answers. Even the questions might be unclear. But if the problem’s primarily insecurity, an annoying boss, or too much jealousy, this might evoke different questions. Did someone promise you a rose garden? Do you know that others suffer starvation? Homicidal spouses? Incurable tumors?

Every protagonist needs a flaw. But external pressure causes the protagonist to conquer this weakness. Whether the limitation is moral or psychological, there’s no better way to build arc. That’s how story works: The audience watches plot drive someone toward greater personal and universal good.

So weakness can only be a single facet of a personality that’s complex, energetic, and appealing. Otherwise—yawn, rather than watch this struggle to transcend self-pity, readers might just as well have a petite snooze.

The source of arc isn’t voice or description or a terrible childhood or a depressed outlook. It’s a cornered protagonist facing a moral dilemma where the single choice is growth toward heroism.

Here’s how you might offer that to your readers:

Give your protagonist a sense of humor.

Make your protagonist maintain a positive outlook.

Grant your protagonist an immature yet beautiful soul.

Ground your protagonist’s problems firmly in the external world.

Don’t weaken those around your protagonist. Instead, empower your protagonist to rival the strength others exhibit.

Trap your protagonist.

Trap your protagonist much, much more.

Eliminate every viable escape route.

That’s how to shape an arc. Everything we need to know already exists in our own minds and hearts. This applies to your protagonist, too.

Tip: Appealing protagonists suffer more from circumstance than personal weakness.

What’s in That Bag?

I picture my friend’s kids eyeing their holiday presents on the coffee table. “Whaddy’d I get? Whaddy’d I get?” I think of another friend bringing a surprise dessert secreted in a fancy bag, and although I’m supposedly more sophisticated, my question’s exactly the same. What enticing surprise awaits me?

Novels, of course, operate on the same principle. An opening that gorgeously packages the promise of surprise presents a present. You can’t be sure what wonder hides under the foil and ribbons, but, man it’s gonna be good.

Tip: Don’t ruin the surprise!

Of course not, you protest. I want my readers entranced, suspicious, empathetic—all the great stuff that comes from a set up that stays secret until that exquisite paper is slashed, revealing contents even more exciting than what veils them. Then why give away too much? And, alas, it’s so easy to do.

Here’s how to ruin the surprise:

·         Set up so carefully that there’s no possibility of wondering or guessing.

·         Set up so obscurely that there’s no possibility of wondering or guessing.

·         Divulge the right clues, just at the wrong moments.

·         Divulge useless clues, though at exactly the right moments.

·         Explain everything.

·         Explain nothing.

So how do you wrap with as much wham as the secrets it masks?

ü  Set up adroitly. Careful packaging foreshadows fun, and that’s what the packaging’s for. Tease us about the joy of eventual disclosure.

ü  Play with disguise. What if it looks as if you could expose the contents one way, and yet—maybe there’s a more original solution? Maybe no one ever used before? There’s more than one way to wrap a gift.

ü  Disperse clues cleverly. Who wants to guess how to remove the paper or ribbon. We want to shred that covering ourselves! We don’t want to break fingernails, though,—or minds, or hearts, wrestling until quitting suddenly seems more attractive.

ü  Remember what you’re wrapping—and for whom. If you put holiday paper on a birthday present, someone will complain (as well they should). If the tape shows or the edges bulge, it kind of says, “I don’t love wrapping (writing) or you,” or, at best, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Don’t ruin the mystery. Don’t ruin the gift!

That’s what a novel is. But its true value arrives with its climax. Until then, hide shrewdly, so the reveal feels as thrilling as receiving a present from someone who wants the lucky recipient to enjoy every moment—from snazzy bag to even better surprise within.

The Dreaded Deadline

Like many things in this world, the deadline is a double-edged sword. Deadlines set by writers, their critique groups, or even their writing partners can leave lots of “i’s” undotted, not to mention characters and plots undeveloped or inconsistent. But without deadlines, we can either write one thing forever or not write much at all.

Yet rushed deadlines can eliminate readers, including agents. One reason for rejecting manuscripts is a great idea almost executed. Just not quite. So determination to send out your queries on September 15 or January 1 is only in your best interests if your work is as good as it needs to be.

How good does it need to be? Hundreds of positively dreadful books get published. Yet the goal is surely a good book, not a “good enough” one. Still, about half the writing population never feels satisfied, always thinking it could be a little better. Yes, it always could be, yet writers need a realistic level of satisfaction, a willingness to let go so that someone else can enjoy it, even it’s not perfect. It doesn’t need to be.

It does need to be good. The other half of the writing population is too easily satisfied, quickly deciding that it’s already as good as it needs to be, probably better. But sending or self-publishing too soon is arguably worse than stressing for too long. The novel needs to be good enough not just for you, but for your readers. You don’t want an agent or anyone else thinking, “Love your idea! But you didn’t pick up the pace, deepen the characters, eliminate the passive, exploit the setting, or remove the clichés.”

So. If you honestly think you revise for too long, consider these questions:

·         Would a deadline help you?

·          How will you stick to your deadline if you start rationalizing?

·         Are you aware of a perfect novel?

·          Do you secretly believe that enough patience will make your novel perfect?

·         How will you know that you’ve “finished”?

If you honestly think you don’t revise enough, consider these questions:

·         Is your deadline an excuse to avoid revision that feels hard or boring?

·         Does your deadline provide enough time to polish your novel as it deserves?

·         Have you objectively assessed which improvements your novel needs?

·          If you start rationalizing about need for revision, how will you curb this?

·         How will you know that you’ve “finished”?

Tip: A deadline is a tool, and any tool can help or hurt. You can use it to pound yourself in the head or—make your novel a must-read.

Passion and Revision Both End in “s”-“i”-“o”-“n.”

The luckiest writers are probably those who adore revising. A whole string of metaphors exists for this achievement: Sculpt the contours, trim the dead wood, justify the arc, and, ultimately—make your dream of what your novel could be come true.

Naturally the flip side is a competing set of metaphors: Buckling down, facing the music, dragging your heels, missing the good times. So is there hope for passionate revision? Of course. They share four letters in common—and more, besides.

“S” is for seriousness. Whether the ardor’s about ping pong or pinball, Puccini or promiscuity, people take their passions seriously, perhaps obsessively. Obsession makes some writers adore revising until the scenes sizzle and the sentences sing. Other novelists are daunted, even bored, by striving for perfection. Maybe you find tinkering torturous. But, seriously, is anything more thrilling than making your good novel great?

“I” is for intellect, because that glorious, electric, utterly creative and uncensored flood of words, images, and ideas has ceased. It’s time for a clear-eyed assessment based on your knowledge of craft combined with your best efforts to apply what you know. Does this seem unrelated to passion? Hmm, unless you’re doing some thinking about even the most fundamental kinds of passion, you’re apt to behave like a teenage boy. Unless you actually are a teenage boy (and possibly even then), combining mental agility with ardor will likely achieve happier results. This applies to fiction, too. 

“O” is for old. Been there, done that. And this is the reason those who dislike revision usually offer first. “I don’t want to revisit what I’ve done. I want the thrill of something new.” But does real passion ever get old? If what you adore is Beatles or Beethoven, do you truly mind hearing it one more time? If your characters stride and your prose hums, will it hurt you to keep improving even more? Old things mean you’ve laid the foundation; you’re not always worrying about what follows, because you already know. Finally, old stuff is invaluable: Antiques, good wine and cheese, vintage clothing, Shakespeare’s sonnets, Botticelli’s paintings, and the last draft you’ve completed, still awaiting the magical touches you’ll add next.

“N” is for new—yes, new. When revision works for writers, it’s because the process of polishing, of reaching for perfection, doesn’t just redo but continuously produces something different from what preceded, i.e. new. Philatelists go nuts over a new stamp and lepidopterists over a new swallowtail. Successful novel revisers revel in each draft—as different from the preceding as another stamp or species. If it feels old hat, if you’re not learning as you go, if you’re sucking the life from your manuscript, then you’re not revising with the passion you need, and of course you don’t enjoy it that much.

Your attitude toward revision controls your approach. How much baggage do your drag along? What might you leave behind? What can you add to your bag of tricks?

Tip: Revise your attitude toward revision to fuel it with passion.