Make Me Laugh,Seriously!

Write a story to make the reader laugh. Hold your horses, I think I’ve got this. Wait for it, you know what happens next. Absolutely nothing! One hundred percent writer’s block just settled its ugly head on my keys. My friends are laughing at the boastful way I told them how it would be me this time. I would be the winner of the prize. I told them all that I was taking them out for a beer. Ha ha. I get up from my typewriter and head to the kitchen for a snack. I stare at the abyss of the open refrigerator waiting for inspiration. Bologna, turkey, or ham. Sandwich or Pita. Decisions based on that empty growl of my stomach. I pull the turkey out and some bread, mayo, pickles and a slice of tomato. What else? Oh, to wash it down. Cold brew, pop, tea, water, or fruit juice? I choose the healthy fruit juice. More decisions. This was not helping my writer’s block. How to be funny? I can’t just can’t slip and fall from stepping on a banana peel. Whoever came up with that? The peel is not slippery, the whole fruit is slippery. Seated back at my desk, I set my drink down to the side of my typewriter while taking a bite of my beautiful attempt at a deli-made sandwich, the tomato slides out of the backside. Screw it. I bent to pick up the errant fruit (or vegetable) off the floor. Mayonnaise squishing from the sandwich as I lay it on the table next to my juice, ruining my manuscript that was destined for my publisher’s desk first thing in the morning. Writer’s block making it all worse. I really don’t need to win the stupid prompt contest, I just didn’t want to admit, oh my God, I am a failure at comedy. Writing humorous stories is the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. Well, my sandwich is now a soggy mess. I toss it in the trash bin beside my desk. I look at the ruined manuscript and pat it dry. This just isn’t my day. My glass of fruit juice tips over and re-drenches the pages. I yell a bunch of cuss words that not even the worse sailor at sea would utter. I go back to the kitchen, yank a sheet of paper from the paper towel holder and cringe as it continues to spit out paper towels and empties the roll. Another mess to clean up. Rushing back to my desk, blotting and soaking up as much as I can of the mess, trying to salvage what’s left of my book. The print is still legible, all is not lost. Yeah, right. Nine hundred pages to be retyped by my editor’s deadline…Not even the fastest typist in the world could manage that in the time allotted. I thought, it would be fun to ditch the computer on my manuscript. I had found the typewriter to be fun at first then about two hundred pages in and a few thousand corrections later, I was too far gone to re-think my position and start it over on my computer, so manuscript not SAVED TO DISK. What a horrible way to go down in flames. Ten best-selling books by the time I started that book. My editor will of course demand a refund if I don’t make the dead-line. Jeez louise, my hubris was riding high on this one. To be brought down by a turkey sandwich, juice and a case of the “yips”. Really incredible. I ruined a best-seller on the hopes of winning a contest that I had no hopes of winning. Funny. Not my nature to be funny. I was a drama writer with a lean towards macabre tones. The creepier the better. Who did I think I was trying to impress with my typed words so messy, with the white-outed mistakes. My margins were marginally bad, as was my font choice and size. So, I sit here now, trying my best to type three hundred words per minute, on my computer, to finish retyping my book. I have four hours till dawn. But you and I both know that it is impossible. I am giving up on the prompt contest for now, manuscript comes first. I’ve grown accustomed to the finer things in life, such as opening my fridge and finding cold cuts and fresh fruit and vegetables. There was a time my cupboards held only peanut butter and jelly with stale loaves of bread from the thrift store. I can’t believe I told my friends that comedic writing was a snap. When I got the emailed prompt, I puffed my chest out and told them, it was nothing to write humorous stories. After all the books I had written and sold worldwide, there was no genre I couldn’t surpass. I furiously pound the computer keys. Two hundred pages in, time until cock crows, three hours. Holy crap, I have to stop commiserating and get to work. Two hundred pages in record time. I work furiously, banging out the manuscript, not taking the time to proof as I go. Five hundred pages, two hours to go, final stretch. I crack my knuckles and hammer at the keyboard. Thank goodness for auto correct. Eight hundred pages, clock says I am good, thirty more minutes. Computer died. Power out on the whole block as I sit there and laugh hysterically. My fingers continuing to pound the keys, even though it is a moot effort. The power comes back on an hour later and my editor calls and tells me that due to the power outage, the dead-line had been moved to the next morning. I laugh as I hang up the phone. This would make a great humorous story. Now let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, the prompt said to write a story that made people laugh. No that’s not quite right. Write a story that makes the reader laugh. Maybe that was it, no that doesn’t sound right either. Well screw this. I have a grace period of twenty-four hours to perfect my now computerized manuscript. I think I’ll call it what it is. Humorous writer’s block.