In grad school I recall being envious of some of the other writers in my workshops—they could be so funny. And funny writing gets an immediate response: you laugh; thus it’s good. My kind of writing doesn’t really make you laugh. Get a little lost, feel a little uncomfortable, say oh that’s pretty, maybe. But laugh ha-ha? Not so much.
Until now. Because it turns out that when I’m writing this YA stuff it’s sorta funny. Other people say so (I can’t really tell). I mean I make myself laugh, but that doesn’t always translate to other people. I’m finding this whole situation somewhat odd. I’m writing differently. I’m feeling differently. Maybe I’m a whole different person from that twenty-two-year-old who was oh-so-serious all the time about the slimmest, densest of short stories. With age I’ve become a goof.