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Channeling Erma
Dear Erma,
It's that time again. The Erma Bombeck Contest. I've got nothing.
I need your help. No, you don't know me, but we were practically neighbors. You were cranking out columns in Dayton; I was devouring them in Columbus. Close enough. I had your words magnetized to my refrigerator door:
In two decades I've lost a total of 789 pounds. I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.
Funny! Then. I hate to say it, but these days a joke like that could get you slammed. Is she making light of yo-yo dieting? A heavy topic. (Yes, I'm not above using puns.) Let me tell you, it's hard being a humor writer now. I'm wondering if I should even enter the contest. This would be my third shot at it.
I am qualified. I read everything you ever wrote. Back when the kids were little and napping I'd grab a soup-sized cup of oolong tea, plop on the sofa and read. That was afternoon delight. I remember:
The only reason I would take up jogging is so I could hear heavy breathing again.
Funny! I had to swallow hard to keep tea from squirting out my nose.
If only the members of my writers group had the same problem. They sip with complete composure when reading my offering. One little chortle would be balm to the wound inflicted by that grim bunch, those mirthless uber-critics. (Most of them unpublished, let me add.) I run the gauntlet of their verbal blows:
"Tense shifts. Confusing pronouns. Too many hyphens." And finally: "Is this a story? It doesn't have a plot!"
I respond with the most humiliating words a humor writer can utter:
"It's supposed to be funny."
Writing can be unnerving. You know. You almost gave up writing once when some "academia nut" didn't get you. But we did. You understood us. You kept us sane. You said:
Housework done right will kill you.
"Ain't that the truth," we answered.
Writers don't go in for plain truth telling. They go for spin and glitz. Shock and sensation. At most, they want to be "compelling."
I'm learning. There's no excuse not to, with all the Internet programs, magazines and how-to-books out there. They make it sound easy. "We've helped thousands stand out from the crowd, get their unique voices heard!" (Huh?) "Unleash the muse! Push the boundaries! Stretch the envelope!" (How about avoiding the cliché?)
I found a book that promised to take the mystery out of grammar. Why not? Strunk and White are dead, after all. They won't be asking: "Mystery? What?"
Publishers encourage writers to join critique groups. I understand. What better way to create a need for those how-to books? I've bought a few myself. Some are helpful. But why are the humor books so morose? Now there's a mystery.
I joined an elite writers group, all MFA's. These are the erudite elbows I need to rub, I figured. A young man read his story. It's about rubbing a toe. No, it doesn't lead to anything risqué. Sorry. It's about a father and young son. The pair are chatting amicably in the bathroom, when suddenly, inexplicably, the father implodes, leaving nothing behind but his big toe. (I think it was the right. Not sure.)
The toe lies on the bathroom floor. The son picks it up. He sticks it in his pant pocket and, without telling anyone, carries it everywhere, perhaps as a good luck memento, like a rabbit's foot. As the tale continues the boy not only carries the toe he conceals, he also clutches, cuddles, claws and caresses it. Maybe the kid carried around a thesaurus, too. I don't know. I stopped listening.
Everyone loved it.
"Fresh." "Evocative." "Powerful." And, of course: "Compelling!"
I got distracted, Erma. I mean, where was the boy's mother? I could understand not noticing a missing father. But a bloody stain on a kid's pocket! Who wouldn't notice that?
Didn't the boy leave the nasty thing lying around sometimes? Maybe on his dresser or under the bed? You know how kids are.
I dropped out.
I know you stopped writing once, too, but then that special man came along, someone you admired and respected, who said the three magic words you longed to hear. (No, not those words.)
"You can write!"
That's all it took. You wrote 15 books and received numerous honorary degrees. Plus you traveled coast to coast promoting the Equal Rights Amendment.
There's something you couldn't get away with now, not in these times. Your agent wouldn't let you. He'd wail: "Erma Bombeck, you're a brand name! You're an icon. Don't do this to me! It's bad enough you won't endorse products."
Yes, you were a class act. These days it's all about money. They'd make you promote grass seeds and septic tanks. But now to the point: Please send some good vibes my way. There's still time. I'll come up with something compellingly funny. Maybe I'll win, get published, get a byline or make enough to buy more how-to books.
Thanks Erma - for everything.
- Lynda Zielinski
Lynda Zielinksi has switched careers frequently in what may appear to be a determined effort to spiral downward in remuneration. A former teacher, social worker and antiques dealer, she has finally hit bottom - a free-lancer. This year she is taking a stab at the Erma Bombeck writing contest. Her third. Poor thing, she just keeps at it. Wish her luck.