Why Humorists Don't Get Writer's Block.

Life is too funny to run out of ideas. That's why it's called the Grand Comedy.

“Comedy is acting out optimism.” Robin Williams.

Robin Williams was a very funny guy. What made him funny wasn’t some kind of humour gene. There’s no such thing as a humor gene. His gift was finding something amusing in just about everything. If you see life that way, it’s hard to have writer’s block. We’re surrounded by so much funny stuff.

Like most comedians, Williams could make comedy out of the simplest ideas. Like how golf was invented. It’s really just hitting a ball into a bunch of holes. For a brilliant comedic mind, that could be turned into a hilarious scenario, as Williams proved with one of his best routines.

Seen through his eyes, golf was just a way Scots could bean a few gophers and have a good laugh at the same time.

“Here’s my idea for a f**king sport,” he said in a strong Scottish brogue. “I take a stick and knock a ball into a gopher hole.” He goes on to explain how you whack away at the ball until you feel like you’re having a stroke. “That’s what we’ll call it,” he says in the same Scottish brogue. “A stoke.”

Since golf originated in Scotland, and Scots like cheap entertainment, Williams probably wasn’t far off the mark. He made it funny because the first games probably were funny. At one point, he has someone ask, “So you do it one time?” and Williams responds, “F**k no, you do it eighteen times!”

Seen through his eyes, golf was just a way Scots could bean a few gophers and have a good laugh at the same time. Since they probably did start out using walking sticks, it’s very possible they were having strokes.

Jim Carrey once described comedy as an extension of how he grew up. “I was the centre of attention in my household,” he admitted. “Now, it’s just like having the neighbours around, watching me make an ass of myself.”

Laugh tracks are for those who need others laughing to get them started.

In one of his more recent interviews, he explained that comedy is a form of honesty. “We all wear masks,” he said. “When someone’s honest, we realize we’re wearing masks. Laughing is a way of dropping them. For a few hours, we get to be our real, uninhibited selves.”

Being uninhibited is good therapy. It’s just hard for some people to let go. Over the years — or however long comedy has been around — we’ve come to see comedy as an excuse for being uninhibited. Laugh tracks are for those who need others laughing to get them started. Since all sitcoms have laugh tracks, people obviously need more prodding then they realize.

That’s probably why so many people have writer’s block. They’re too serious. There aren’t any laugh tracks. Maybe that’s why so many writers hate humorists. They’re bleeding while we’re laughing.

It’s only when you sit around in a trench coat looking at pretty girls that you get arrested. That’s the beauty of comedy.

As any comedian will tell you, it’s material. Charlie Chaplin once said, “All I need to make comedy is a park, a policeman and a pretty girl.” In other words, it’s there for the taking. We’ve all had experience with parks, policemen and pretty girls. It’s only when you sit around in a trench coat looking at pretty girls that you get arrested. That’s the beauty of comedy.

So why do writers agonize each day, being serious, creating plots and characters even they don’t understand. Many go on writer sites, asking for help, saying things like, “Has anyone had any experience being a dog catcher? I have one in my story and I need some background. Do you actually have to like animals?”

One woman got on a writer’s site with this rant: “Guys, if you want to write about deaf families, do your research. The amount of times I read about deaf people who can read lips like it’s no big deal from huge distances is crazy.”

“Write what you know,” seems to be anathema to many writers. They’d rather focus on what they don’t know, thinking somehow they’ll become worldly by calling a postman a “postie.” Then they go on Facebook asking if a period piece should be written in third person.

You could say “writer’s block” is our brains giving up on us. How many times can you have a character reading lips from the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge? Brains aren’t stupid. Every time you go on Facebook, asking for advance, your brain is smacking itself. It’s probably wondering why it couldn’t be in the head of an elephant or a sea slug.

“Here’s the thing if you’re a lip reader: You can say anything you want. You can say, ‘They just admitted they bonked a cow.’ How’s anyone going to know?”

The day your brain would rather trade places with a sea slug’s brain is the day you should lighten up. Betty White once said, “It’s your outlook on life that counts. If you don’t take yourself too seriously, pretty soon you can find the humor in our everyday lives. And sometimes that can be a lifesaver.”

She’s absolutely right. We make ourselves sick trying to be serious when we should be silly. Imagine Robin Williams on the subject of lip readers: “It’s a great job. You can say anything you want. You can say, ‘They just admitted they bonked a cow.’ How’s anyone going to know?”

“Humour helps us cope with the unbearable,” Allen Klein once said. Most comedians feel the same way. Even Mahatma Gandhi said, “If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide.”

Humour is more observational than it is created. If you look hard enough, it’s there.

Lucille Ball claimed humour is bravery. She didn’t see herself as a particularly funny person. But she knew she was brave. Anyone who says, “Well, she was already a star when she did I Love Lucy.” Actually, she wasn’t. She was a respected actress, but mostly a character one. She created I Love Lucy to show she could be funny (and her husband, Desi, as well).

More importantly, she, and Jerry Seinfeld, and a host of other comedians found their humour in simple, everyday events. Humour is more observational than it is created. If you look hard enough, it’s there. If you lighten up, you’ll see it. If you don’t, you’ll probably get writer’s block.

Is humour the only way to prevent — or cure — writer’s block? Probably not. What it does teach you is to relax. Think of all the writing we do through work, the emails, the briefing, the research. It’s stiff because we’re stiff.

Life was formed billions of years ago in hot swamps where two amoeba bumped into each other. We’ve been bumping into each other ever since. You could say we’ve maintained the slapstick of evolution. That’s what makes it the Grand Comedy.

In which case, Charlie Chaplin was right. All you need is a park, a policeman and a pretty girl. The rest is evolutionary.

Robert Cormack is a humorist, novelist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online and at most major bookstores. Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press.

If you’re interested in writing humour, check out our writer’s workshop/retreat at Clonmel Castle, Ontario, Nov 20–24. 5 days and 4 nights, writing and discussing humour in a 90-year-old Georgian Revival Estate. Includes 3 gourmet meals a day, aperitifs and wine. Book early for best rooms. Contact Lynneee at clonmelcastle@gmail.com or call 1–519-583-0519.