How to Write Funny About Hard Things

Or How I Turn Pain Into Stories Without Turning On Myself

Wait, wait, wait: I wrote this piece to accompany the 3.2.26 episode of the podcast I’m hosting, Cared For, Knock Knock It’s Your Doctor, all about using humor to get through some stuff that’s hella non-funny. It begins with MY MOM telling a story y’all. And resources on the way.

Also. We ALL need some Very Serious Humor right now, (including—or perhaps especially—folks who can’t leave the house) so on March 19th, come check out Paws 4 Laughs: A Feline Forward Comedy Show. Yes, I have an hour of cat material, and yes, you should get your tickets right now; I’m keeping it smallish to be manageable, so it will sell out.

So, anyway…

If there’s a question I get asked more than “what kind of undergarments do nuns wear?” or “Why on earth are you eating [insert weird junk food normally marketed only to 7th grade boys]”, it most certainly is:

How do you tell stories/create/write about terrible stuff that has happened to you?

I’m assuming this is not a question about the nuts and bolts of these creations. People are not seeking information about my choice of verbs. Or nouns. Or gerunds even.

What they mean is “How do you write about terrible stuff and not make yourself feel more terrible?”

I don’t have a formula. Or a degree in a mental health-related field. Or even—come to think of it—a laminated feelings chart like I’ve seen in modern pre-K classrooms. I do have experience. And two dead partners who were very funny people. And punchlines that hover over my shoulder like chaotic guardian angels.

So here is my experience which might be helpful. Or at least hopeful.

Or at least, hopefully not too annoying.

Before we get cute, let’s remember: trauma (no matter what they tell us) is real.

I know, I know, I know. We all understand how traumatic experiences can complicate our lives, but sometimes we’re less than patient with how traumatic experiences can complicate the creative process.

Let me rephrase that.

Most of us are patient with how trauma can complicate the creative process for other people.

But we’re dramatically less so patient when it complicates our own creative process.

We’ve got deadlines to meet and followers to parasocially inspire and an algorithm that demands fresh vulnerability by Thursday.

But PTSD has diagnostic criteria. It also has a pulse. Words are powerful. Narrative construction is powerful. You can retraumatize yourself with a Google Doc.

Before you start excavating the worst thing that ever happened to you, ask:
Is this still happening in my nervous system?

If your heart is racing and you’re not in the scene but back in the scene, maybe it’s still “too hot.” Cooling time matters. Distance matters. Therapy helps. Sleep helps. Being fed helps.

You are not weak for pacing yourself. You are smart.

Commit to creating beyond comfort — but not beyond safety.

Making art from pain is not spa day energy. It may not feel good while you’re doing it. Sometimes creating is more important than comfort.

But “uncomfortable” and “unsafe” are not the same thing.

Uncomfortable is: I feel exposed writing this.
Unsafe is: I cannot regulate my body while writing this.

Figuring out the difference (with the help of a trained professional, possibly, if you have access) can make the difference between “ouch, that hurts” and well. You know. Much worse.

Assess Your Emotional Load-Bearing Walls

If you just ended a relationship, lost housing, or are actively navigating a crisis, this may not be the moment to draft your 80,000-word memoir about your time in a coercive religious community.

Or maybe it is. What do I know.

Just ask yourself whether you have enough emotional scaffolding in place. Stable housing. At least one friend. A therapist. A cat who tolerates you.

Work with an editor you trust.

Someone who can say, “This part lands. Now let’s trim the sections where you’re arguing with the boulder.”

In most stories about harm, the harm is obvious. What keeps readers engaged isn’t how long you explain it — it’s how you metabolize it.

I want to write “You need someone who won’t push you to share more than you’re ready to share: your mental health should be more important to your editor than clicks.”

But then I remembered capitalism.

So maybe the realistic version of this sentence is “your mental health should be of some importance in this equation.”

Try working in the presence of other humans.

I’m saying “try” because you’re literally just trying this out. For some folks, the presence of other humans will be a big huge NO.

But what would happen if you wrote next to your best friend?

Virtually? IRL?

Or next to strangers, at a coffee shop, or co-working space. Or (get this) a cat cafe!

Anywhere your nervous system can sense: I am not alone.

You don’t need someone holding your hand. You just need evidence that life is continuing. That people are ordering lattes. That the world did not stop because you opened Chapter Three.

When I wrote the foreword to my deceased partner Cheryl’s book, I did it at someone else’s apartment. Sometimes you literally need to go away. New air. New walls. Fewer ghosts.

Monitor your relationship with mind and mood altering substances.

That’s a clunky subheading, isn’t it?

I used to joke that whiskey and late-night typing will not turn you into Hemingway, it will only turn you into someone with a hangover.

That was a better sentence, but apparently worse advice.

And I’ve since been called out for this, frankly, judgmental stance. Some people really do use certain substances (alcohol, cannabis, psychedelics are what I hear most commonly) as part of their creative process.

So I no longer say “straightedge is the only way to satire.”

I will say that if you need to numb yourself in order to write about it, it might be worth considering that your nervous system might need a little more time.

Have deadlines.

Deadlines someone else knows about. Grief will sprawl if you let it. A due date creates a container.

Work somewhere intentional.

Pretty. Ugly. Industrial. Sunny. Just choose on purpose.

Your physical environment affects your emotional range more than you might think.

Write out of order.

The first draft of Pudding Day (about the death of my first partner) I wrote chronologically. It felt like losing my partner again, in real time.

When my second partner, Cheryl, died, I wrote about her starting at the end. Then I wrote our meeting. Then the illness. It required more structural editing. It required less emotional triage.

It’s weird how it works, but structure can protect you.

You can write like hell about something that hurt like hell, and some people still won’t get it.

This will also hurt like hell.

But you will have made something.

And that, my friend, is a win no one can take away.

PS Don’t forget to listen to Cared For, Knock Knock It’s Your Doctor, and don’t forget to get your tickets to the Feline Cat Show online 3.19!