Losing Kate

There are 71 roads named Peachtree in Atlanta. But it would be funnier if there were 73. Because 71 is just big enough that it could be hyperbole, but 73 feels more specific, so it would feel more like I’m telling the truth.

Sadly, I don’t like to take much license with facts when I write essays. So I had to use the less funny number in my essay Ode to the Atlanta Driver.

But in general, these are some guidelines to what makes a number funny. To me at least.

1. Odd numbers are funnier than even numbers.
2. Of odd numbers, 3 and 7 are typically the funniest because they are furthest from 0 and 5.
3. Triple digit number are funnier when at least one of the middle numbers are zero. (3,007 is funnier than 3,247).
4. True numbers are funnier than lies (most of the time).
5. The sounds and rhythm of a number are funnier than the quantity itself.

To make it even simpler, these miscellaneous rules can be boiled down to one simple principal: What makes a funny number is subverting expectations with specificity.

The subversion of an amount is funny. It’s funny when there is more or less of something than you would expect. And what makes that subversion trustworthy, is the specificity of the number.

Beyond numbers, I think this is the heart of any good piece of writing advice. The heart of any good story is unexpected things happening to a character you know as well as a friend.

You don’t want to read about John Doe going to work and coming home. You want to read about Sylvan Bryer opening a browned envelope as her 73 cats look on in anticipation.

Good stories are about real people with real things going on in their lives. And I don’t mean realistic. Sometimes realism is good. But sometimes realism doesn’t feel real because it doesn’t surprise you.

We read to be surprised. And as writers, we need to manufacture that.

And while generally writing advice can be discarded at will (like mine for example), Robert Frost demands some respect. He says in one of his essays:

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

Now the double edged sword is that when I write the number 73 again, it won’t be as interesting. Because the next time I need to pick a number, 73 won’t surprise me.

So to give this post a purpose (other than ruining a perfectly funny number), I will say the point is that it takes practice to surprise yourself, to bring yourself to tears, to make yourself laugh. It takes practice to find your own humor or sorrow in numbers.

But once you’ve figured out how to surprise yourself, you have to be convinced of the value that you’ve created. No matter how unwarranted the belief might be, I believe that what I write has value.

And I did not expect my little jokes about numbers to take me to quoting Robert Frost and pretending like someone out there will head my advice. Even if I have not convinced you (which is more than likely), I have convinced myself of the value of this essay. And that is, and will always be the first step.