The Flavor of Melancholy
In college, I got a little obsessed with coffee. Somehow I got it in my head that writers drink coffee. Part of this, I’m sure, was because my writing professors always carried around their coffee mugs. They had their mugs sitting on their desks during class. They had them on their desks during office hours. They walked down the halls carrying their mugs. I’d meet with other writers from my classes and they too would have their cups of coffee while we wrote.
I started ordering coffee and drinking it but I never really liked it. Beyond the jittery feeling, it also made my stomach hurt. Still, I kept drinking it for a time. I tried different flavors, like hazelnut thinking that might help. I do love hazelnut. I tried adding lots of creamer and sugar. That only made my stomach more upset. And then one day I learned that one of my writing professors only ever had water inside his mug. This was a revelation to me. I realized then that the tactic I’d been using at parties, of filling my cup with water and calling it vodka, could work here too.
I also wanted to write funny pieces during this time. A good friend of mine was busy writing performance art pieces that were intelligent, enlightening, and hilarious. I wanted to be like her. I have always loved making people laugh. And I love laughing. My mom says that one of my names means “full of laughter.”
I’m not all that funny in my daily life except for these little streaks I have. Sometimes the funniest thing I do is make a mistake. Just yesterday, my husband nicked his finger and cut the skin open. This happens to him all the time. I often tease him that he has delicate skin. He might, but he also does all the hard jobs of fixing things and using tools. That leaves the hands susceptible. Still, I looked at his cut skin and said, “I hope as you get older you don’t turn into an old lady like Marcy’s mom.”
We both sat there for a second. I was waiting for his response. But then I realized what I'd said and the giggles erupted.
Eventually, I clarified that I was referring to Marcy’s mom’s skin, which breaks easily and doesn’t heal well. This probably would have been implied information if my husband had known beforehand, which he didn’t.
I tried writing funny things often during college. They never quite worked out the way I wanted them to. It’s my delivery. I’m not that good at setting up a joke and then punching the funniest part. I don’t seem to get any better at it the more I study either.
For the most part, my jokes are an accident. Or they’re spontaneous and only fit the moment. Describing the moment later doesn’t usually bring out the best in my jokes. I’m not even sure you can call them jokes. Quips is maybe a better word.
The person most likely to be laughing at something I said is me. That’s right. I laugh at my own jokes. I also retell them only moments later when my husband hasn't laughed with me because I'm convinced that if only he'd heard the quippy thing I said, he'd laugh too.
Sometimes he does.
Over the last twenty years, I’ve grown into myself more though. I stopped trying to turn myself into a coffee drinker. I have fully embraced my love of water. I don’t even fake it with a mug anymore. I also stopped trying to squeeze my writing into something humorous. I’ve come to realize that my quips are best suited for the moment when I come up with them. And I’ve fully embraced the writer that I am.
I write melancholic pieces. It’s my natural writing flavor.
This post was inspired by a monthly theme from illuminate, a writing community from the creators of The Kindred Voice.
Read more on this month's theme, Flavor, written by other illuminate members:
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