Writing rubbish

Writing a humor column is, at first glance, a calm and orderly process. You sit down with a clear mind, a sharpened pencil and a respectable cup of coffee that has not yet been knocked over by your elbow. You think, “Today I will be clever. Today I will be composed. Today I will avoid descending into linguistic nonsense.”

This optimism lasts approximately seven minutes.

The first sentence usually behaves itself. It walks in properly dressed, shakes your hand and sits down politely. You begin with something simple — perhaps a reflection on daily life, or the gentle absurdity of modern living. You feel in control. You feel like a professional. You feel like someone who would never accidentally write “freshly baked confusion” instead of “freshly baked muffins.”

And then, something shifts.

It starts subtly. A misplaced word here, a slightly suspicious phrase there. You write about “reading the bread and baking the news,” realize it doesn’t make sense and convince yourself it is merely draft humor. A harmless stage. A creative fog. Nothing to worry about.

But spoonerisms are already creeping in.

You intended to write “writing a funny column,” but instead it becomes “fighting a runny column.” You pause. You stare at it. You wonder if perhaps the column has developed allergies, and if it has, is there any antihistamine that could possibly help? You move on.

This is your first mistake in a long line of mistakes.

Soon, the writing begins to loosen its grip on reality. Sentences stop walking in straight lines. They begin skipping. Occasionally cartwheeling. You attempt to describe your thought process and instead produce: “I am thinking while I am sinking my brain into a glass of logic soup.” Which is not only incorrect, but possibly medically concerning.

Stubbornly, you persist.

At this stage, spoonerisms are no longer occasional guests. They have moved in, rearranged the furniture and are eating snacks in your mental kitchen. You attempt to write “creative writing workshop” and instead produce “wreative criting woodships,” which sounds like either an artisanal bakery or a minor maritime disaster.

You tell yourself to stay focused. You tell yourself to maintain dignity. You tell yourself to avoid writing things like “blushing crow” instead of “crushing blow.”

Too late. You’ve already been given a blushing crow.

The column is now accelerating into full linguistic collapse. You are no longer writing sentences; you are herding them like confused livestock. Words slip and slide into each other with increasing enthusiasm. You attempt to describe structure and end up with “stuck chair,” which may be a geological phenomenon or a very unlucky piece of furniture.

At some point, your internal editor tries to intervene. You can hear it faintly, like a concerned librarian trapped in a washing machine: “Hey! Slow it down.”

But you have already written: “I am now deeply invested in the art of blonking shupoonerisms,” which, while meaningless, feels emotionally accurate and very sticky.

The final stage is inevitable.

Grammar dissolves completely. Punctuation leaves the building. The shift key on your keyboard resigns in protest. You are now operating purely on instinct, producing sentences such as: “The flumorous column is wrunning away from my braining mind and I cannot constop it.” Then your brain takes a vacation altogether and you end up typing, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAA!”

You attempt to conclude your work, but even conclusions have abandoned you. You mean to write “thank you for reading,” but instead produce “spank you for needling,” which sounds like either a medieval insult or a horrible come-on.

At this point, you do what any reasonable writer would do in the face of total linguistic collapse: you declare the column finished, done, abandoned.

You step back and try to admire your work. It is unclear. It is chaotic. It is also possibly sentient. But it is, undeniably, a humor column about writing a humor column that has successfully transformed itself into a cautionary tale about writing humor columns.

And somewhere in the distance, a calm version of yourself is still sitting at a desk, sipping coffee, confidently planning a simple, well-structured piece. The problem is this: That person is hiding from yourself.

You almost feel sorry for that person … almost.

Ensure These Stories Are Told

Despite the challenges facing independent local journalism, what sustains us — and fills us with deep gratitude — is the loyal support of readers who believe our communities deserve accurate, trusted, and locally rooted news.

It is no exaggeration to say that we are here because of you. Every story we report, every local issue we follow, every public meeting we cover, and every community voice we lift up is made possible by readers who understand the value of an independent newspaper.

Your support does more than fund articles. It helps protect the independence that allows us to report honestly, ask important questions, and keep our community informed without fear or favor.

If you are able, please consider supporting the News Letter Journal by donating to our Unabridged Fund today. Whether your gift helps cover reporting time, printing costs, video, photography, editing, or distribution, every contribution helps keep local journalism strong in Wyoming.

All gifts are deeply appreciated. Your support helps ensure that local stories continue to be told, local decisions continue to be watched, and local voices continue to be heard.

Thank you for standing with independent community journalism.