The Sad Comedian

Being a funny writer is a lot harder than I expected. It takes a crazy amount of effort to stop short stories from becoming dark and over emotional. Maybe it’s because that’s exactly how I’m feeling at the moment.

To emulate a feeling, to pretend you are able to spew a joke or two with an ever fading smile is an herculean task. I appreciate actors more and more each time I try to convey a feeling I don’t feel, like Emma Stone who has to pretend she’s talented.

Oftentimes I wonder about the off stage lives of famous comedians. Is Robin Williams the rule or the exception? Does putting up a front of a gleeful, filled with joy human being always means there’s sadness and depression underneath? Am I going to stop being funny once my mental healh reaches a point of actual wellbeing?

I’ve been told once or twice I’m hilarious. Not funny, hilarious. When I make people laugh it’s a burst of joy, not a ‘lol’. However, my short stories fall flat. Even I, the bloody author, don’t find them funny. Everytime I try to write comedy I can sympathize more with Laganja Estranja and her ‘dry vagina’ punchline.

On social media I get the right words at the right timing, but there’s a momentum to it. The joke is already there, I just express it. When writing fiction everything feels artificial. I have to dig up the joke, cook it, flambé it and set the plate nicely so Gordon Ramsey don’t make me go back to therapy.

I won’t give up, though. Guess I’ll resort to comedy podcasts and YouTube videos, your primary source of knowledge with mainly terrible content but free of charge.

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