ABOUT ANNE FRASIER
Anne Frasier (a.k.a. Theresa Weir) is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of thirty books. Her memoir, The Orchard, was an Oprah Magazine Fall Pick, Number Two on the October Indie Next List, a B+ featured title in Entertainment Weekly, a One Book One Community Read, Target Book Club Pick, and Books-A-Million Book Club Pick.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
FILE UNDER NONFICTION
I was having a conversation with a friend the other day and he was telling me a story I'd heard years ago. I laughed just as hard this time, so I started thinking about how tough it is to translate real-life humor into writing. It's not just a case of you had to be there, because the verbal teller can work the story for years and years. But when you try to write it down, it feels flat and lifeless.
Emotional replays often work better in text, so why is humor so tough?
Here's a little experiment. This is a bit of the conversation I had the other day, but I'm not sure the humor holds up in this form. This is just the beginning of the story. It goes on and on. It might help to know that Mark is a burly farmer.
We’re standing in the mall, and there’s this display of shoes at the front of a store. My wife picks up a cowboy boot and looks it over, then she hands it to me and says, “Put this on.”
I check the size and see it’s an eight. I wear a ten. Sometimes eleven. “This won’t fit,” I say, and start to put the boot back on the table.
“Put it on!”
“It’s an eight.”
“It’s on sale!”
I’ve seen that look a million times, so I sit down on this padded seat, take off my right shoe, just to show her that I can’t even get my foot all the way in the boot.
“Put it on! Force your foot in there. Just shove it in there! Shove!”
“Can’t. It’s too small.”
“It’s on sale!”
If you know Darlene, you know she won’t take no for an answer, so I cram my foot in there, mash it in there, and my toes are layered one on top of the other.
“Too small,” I gasp, grimacing in pain.
“Walk,” she commands.
I hobble around, and my toes are screaming.
“That’s a nice-looking cowboy boot,” she says.
“It’s too small,” I tell her.
I tug off the boot, and my toes pop back. I’m tying my sneaker when I look up and there she is, standing at the counter, paying for the damn boots!
Then she’s aiming herself at me, handing me the bag. “Put them on. Wear them home.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Put them on.”
So I sit back down and shove my feet into the boots. I wonder how in the hell I’ll be able to stand, but I’m finally upright. Then, like a baby learning to walk, I hobble out. My knees are bent, and my feet feel like balls.
“Hurry up!” she says, looking at her watch. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? What the hell do you think?”
As I hobble to the car, she keeps casting glances at me and my new cowboy boots.
“Those look so nice,” she says, beaming.
“They’ll look a helluva lot nicer once there off my damn feet.” I’m looking forward to hiding them in the back of the closet. Maybe burning them.
“You should wear them all the time. Whenever we go to town.”
“All the time? I need a wheelchair to wear these.”
“They look nice.”
“They’re killing me.” My elbows are sticking out, but my legs are finally straight. My body is already figuring out how to walk without toes and it's like walking on stilts.
“They were on sale,” she says.
“What does that have to do with anything? There were adult diapers on sale back there, but I’m not forcing you to wear them.”
She glares at me. You know Darlene.