A few years ago, I had the idea of becoming a humor writer. Not to write the brilliant humor Dave Barry and others did in weekly columns. No, my idea was to learn humor techniques I could add to my nonfiction pieces, and maybe write a funny book someday.

I had a few models for this kind of writing: James Herriot, Bill Bryson, and others who could take the mundane (and just plain bizarre) and make it fun.

At the same time, I had been a fan of Sally Breslin's humor for years. Her "My Life" column, with a tiny picture of the author, appeared weekly in our local paper. One of my favorites was about her attempt to teach humor writing to a group of community education students. Of course, everything that could go wrong in that class did, according to Sally, but she made it sound like a freewheeling good time.

Hey, I thought, I want to take that class. A year or so later, I did.

That first night, I entered the high school and climbed four flights of stairs before puffing into Sally's "Make Me Laugh" class. I saw a dark-haired, youthful woman seating at the head desk, teacher-like, but she didn't look the photo I'd seen in the paper. She stared down at her materials and did not speak as I took a desk. The other students were three middle-aged ladies and a teenage kid. We sat and waited

After a few minutes this woman who didn't look like Sally but obviously had to be, looked up. She spoke to us quietly, as if in private conversation. I wasn't expecting a noisy, lampshade-on-the-head type, but this low-key approach surprised me.

Sally asked us our names and what we hoped to do with humor. The ladies just wanted to write funny, the teenage kid wanted to tell jokes like Bill Cosby, and I told the class my nonfiction-seasoned-with-humor idea.

Then she was off. Sally explained the principles for humor writing she had discovered in her transformation from straight-news reporter to "SillySally". One technique was using 'so', as in, "There were so many mosquitoes on my arm, I felt I was auditioning for a bug spray commercial."

She didn't consider herself a naturally funny person, but actually kind of a worrywart, someone who didn't really enjoy herself. But in writing humor, she learned to enjoy life more. That gave me hope, since I've been deadly serious since I was a kid.

Later that night she had us write our first exercise. Sally helpfully provided some topics to get us started, but in my case, it didn't help. I was stumped. In fact, that night and the other four nights I attended, I always managed to squeeze out something, but the results were dreadful. I almost cringed as I read them aloud. I can only imagine what Sally was thinking. Probably something like, "Wow, this guy has zero talent for writing."

The thing is, in the safety and familiarity of my home, the words flowed - and what flowed out was usually pretty good. But not in class.

It was fun to hear what the others came up with (absolutely brilliant compared to mine) and it felt good to be in the same boat with these people. We began to bond.

After week three, the teenage kid stopped showing up. Maybe he got impatient and decided to launch his stand-up career. Sally was puzzled but we soldiered on and in no time at all it was like he was never there. "Just us old timers now."

Sally kept teaching and we kept practicing - and learning. Way too soon, the last night of class arrived and we students had to read our "final exam" - a carefully crafted humor piece we had prepared for the occasion. I laughed as the middle-aged ladies all read their fabulous, hilarious work, pieces that used all or most of the techniques we had learned.

My turn came. I was sure that my writing was pure gold, not knee-slapping funny but humorous all the same. I began to read what I soon realized was a long, boring, unfunny piece. Amidst the silence, somebody chuckled about halfway through. When I finished, the class was polite, and so was Sally.

But I could tell she wasn't pleased when she said, "That was more like an essay than a humor piece." She was right, of course. I hadn't used the all techniques available, save one or two. I had thought it would be better my way.

Sally gave us a final pep talk, handed out signed certificates, and told us to keep in touch.

She may have regretted the last part. I've kept in touch since then by monthly e-mails and Sally answers each one, thoughtfully and lavishly. I ask advice, she gives it, and we talk about the writing trade and just about everything else.

Right after the last class, I went home and really went to work on my boring final exam piece. I tore it down and rebuilt the damned thing, cut out the boring parts and added humor. Then I polished the thing until I was sick of it and posted it to an online writer's site.

It was worth the extra work. People seemed to like it.

About a month ago I sent it to my local newspaper. The editor liked it and published it last Sunday. Sally read it. Her most recent e-mail to me contains what I've received again and again from Sally over the years: effusive praise. Not just from a former teacher, but a good friend:

"Just wanted to send some 'bravos' and 'attaboys' your way - I'm so proud of you!"

Likewise, Sally, and thank you. Which reminds me...

Your class was 'so' much fun, you even got a stodgy guy like me to lighten up.

Copyright © 2003 Don Kelley
All rights reserved

About the Author

Don Kelley has lived in New Hampshire from the age of twelve. He works for the state government as a research analyst and has published articles in the Sunday (Concord) Monitor and several websites. Some of his nonfiction and humor can be found at ThoughtCafe. Don enjoys exploring the state with his wife and young children, as well as walking, spinning, and reading

Image: "Smiling Woman (Dorelia)," John Robin, 1909

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