I can be credibly accused of countless writing indiscretions. Indulging in idioms and clichés. Focusing almost exclusively on first-person stories about sad, inarticulate men. Using the word indiscretions for no discernible reason.

 

Of my indiscretions, I’d say the most egregious is my compulsion to say goofy things in my stories.

 

Why do I say goofy things in my stories? The simple answer: It’s just how I’m wired. Maybe it’s my congenital Little Brother Syndrome. Maybe I ate too much lead paint in the seventies. Either way, I’m simply incapable of uncoupling the comedy from the drama. To me, funny isn’t synonymous with trivial, and levity doesn’t negate substance. These two modes aren’t opposites. They’re inseparable parts of the same human experience. Different ways of seeing the same thing.

 

So what does that mean for writing? In my case, it means what I’m calling tonal fusion. I like that term because 1) it has a nice ring to it and 2) it captures the particular mix of goofiness and gravity in my writing. And it's a pretty handy craft technique.

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For one, it engages the reader. Approaching a serious topic with humor invites the reader to lower their guard. Soon, before they even realize it, they’re invested in your piece. And it comes with a truckload of character development. It’s a little diabolical.

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Take the movie Hard Eight (1996). Early in the film, the main character (John C. Reilly) tells a story about matches that suddenly catch fire in his pocket, what he calls “spontaneous friction.” The story is so weird, sad, and funny that we’re riveted. We empathize with him. We laugh. And we roll our eyes because he’s made a solemn vow never to use matches again. He’s a wounded man but also endearing and a little dim-witted. And we get all that in just two minutes of dialogue.

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It also energizes the writing. There’s an inherent tension between humor and drama, a kind of latent energy that wants to equalize. Running the two extremes in parallel releases that energy into the surrounding narrative. Readers sense this and are propelled forward.

 

Lorrie Moore’s short story “People Like That Are the Only People Here” is about a baby with cancer. Nobody would blame you for turning away from such a story. But Moore so masterfully fuses dry humor with sheer parental horror that we’re compelled to keep reading. Having imparted her tonal energy to the prose, Moore builds momentum and empowers us to face the incomprehensible. Consider this passage:

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Still, she phones the clinic at the children’s hospital. “Blood in the diaper,” she says, and, sounding alarmed and perplexed, the woman on the other end says, “Come in now.”

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Such pleasingly instant service! Just say “blood” and “diaper.” Look what you get!

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The driving force here is more than just being curious about what happens next. We relate to the mother. We make a quiet promise to stick with her. Whatever comes her way, we’re in.

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You may be thinking, “Hey, that’s fine for you, but I’m not funny.” First, that’s about the funniest thing you’ve ever said. Also, fusing humor and drama isn’t the only way to write. Plenty of great writers create extraordinary pieces without a trace of humor. Maybe you’re one of them. I’m not.

 

Or maybe you’re thinking, “Sign me up, bub! How can I, too, be hilarious?” The honest answer is I don’t know. But if you do somehow become hilarious, please be careful. You can’t just toss in wackiness and expect automatic thematic depth. It has to serve the narrative. It has to be meaningful. Most of all, it has to be properly timed—a silly comment in the wrong place can undo all the tension and characterization you’ve worked so hard to build.

 

But, by all means, crack your jokes. Engage in tomfoolery. Let delightful hijinks ensue. Just make sure it doesn’t undermine everything else. As long as you behave, you’ll get the engagement and energy you need to make your story, poem, and/or corporate email come to life.