"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery."
As a humor writer, I like to make people laugh. As an optimistic person who happens to be a reporter, I like to report good news. If I had my way, all my writing would sound like a compilation of Mark Twain, P.G. Wodehouse and Erma Bombeck. I am an admirer of Gilbert and Sullivan operas, Noel Coward plays, and snappy Cole Porter tunes. Nedra, my British chum, describes my writing as "champagne bubbles, light, frothy and charming."
But as much as I always wanted to play the part of the delightful, bratty (it's-all -about-me) Eloise whose mantra is "I -can-do-whatever-I please cause I'm Eloise," I'm from a different tribe altogether, one far far away from blond blue eyed six-year-old girls who live at the Plaza Hotel.
My DNA is not programmed for being Eloise (who I suspect is Episcopalian) or one of the upper crust in the delightful P.G. Wodehouse tomes. These characters are charming twits of the finest order. Their biggest concerns are centered on the minutiae of the day--- episode after episode about stolen cow creamers and house parties filled with bickering amusing aunts and divine French food.
Nice work if you can get it but these choices weren't available to me,a Jewish girl in rural Indiana. Tuna noodle casserole was the Hoosier state's most exotic fare and Jewish humor was more like angst, about as far from crisp British subtlety as possible.
