Sometimes we need somebody to tell us what to do, how to do it, and preferably how to avoid making the same mistake twice.
The problem is that human beings don’t always work that way.
We can read all the sensible advice in the world and still walk directly into something we probably should have seen coming. Then, years later, we look back and think, “What in the world was I doing?”
At least that’s been my experience.
That may be one reason humorous memoirs connect with readers differently than traditional self-help books. They don’t always begin with somebody standing at the front of the room saying, “Here’s what you should do.”
Sometimes they begin with:
“Here’s what I did.”
Then comes the mistake.
Then the embarrassment.
Then, if we’re lucky, the perspective.
In Subject to Change, I never set out to present myself as somebody who has mastered life. I describe the book as a collection of stories, songs, and musings from my life about life—funny, thoughtful, heartfelt things about growing up and growing older. The goal is to entertain, inspire, and maybe get people thinking about their own lives along the way. That feels a little more natural to me than pretending I have a twelve-step system for becoming a better human being.
I’d probably lose the instructions by step four anyway.
Humorous Memoirs Start With Real People, Not Perfect Examples
Perfect people are difficult to relate to.
Fortunately, there don’t seem to be many of them.
One of the things that makes humorous memoirs appealing is that they usually begin with imperfect people trying to figure things out in real time.
They misunderstand things.
They make poor decisions.
They say something ridiculous.
They take themselves too seriously.
They learn something years later that everybody around them apparently understood at the time.
That sounds familiar because that’s pretty much life.
When we read about somebody making a mistake, we don’t necessarily think less of them. Often, we trust them more.
They feel human.
And when an author is willing to admit, “Yeah, I really did that,” the reader gets permission to remember some of his or her own less-than-brilliant moments without treating them like evidence in a criminal trial.
That can be surprisingly useful.
Readers Connect With Mistakes They Have Made Themselves
One of my earliest lessons in humility came shortly after I was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Army.
I was walking across Fort Benjamin Harrison when a captain came flying out of a car to inform me, rather loudly, that I had failed to salute the vehicle carrying the commanding general.
Unfortunately, the only thing I remembered about the vehicle was that it was green.
So, for the rest of the walk, I saluted every green car I saw.
Somewhere on that Army post, I’m sure several confused privates drove past wondering why the new lieutenant was showing them so much respect.
Not exactly Patton.
But that’s the kind of story people remember because almost everyone has had some version of it.
Maybe you didn’t salute the wrong car.
Maybe you walked into the wrong meeting.
Sent the wrong email.
Called someone by the wrong name.
Made a bold prediction that turned out to be spectacularly wrong.
The details change.
The feeling doesn’t.
That’s where a memoir begins to feel less like someone else’s life and more like a mirror.
Self-Deprecating Humor Creates Trust
I’ve always believed that if you’re going to make somebody the punchline, it’s safest to start with yourself.
There’s plenty of material.
Self-deprecating humor works because it lowers the temperature.
It tells the reader:
“I’m not standing above you.”
“I’ve made mistakes too.”
“In fact, sit down. I’ve got a few.”
That approach is very different from trying to impress people.
In my own stories, I’m often the person who doesn’t understand what’s happening until everybody else does.
There’s the young Army officer saluting every green vehicle.
There’s the kid announcing he’s going to become the radio voice of the New York Mets, only to have his father suggest—in considerably more colorful Jersey language—that this might not be a realistic career plan.
There’s the father watching his daughter play youth soccer so badly that one of her two “kicks” for the entire season happened when the ball hit her foot while she was running away from it.
She still got a trophy.
Of course she did.
The humor works because nobody has to pretend.
Humorous Memoirs Make Personal Growth Feel Less Like a Lecture
Traditional self-help often starts with the lesson.
Humor memoirs often start with the mess.
That difference matters.
Nobody likes feeling lectured to, especially about life.
Most of us have already had parents, teachers, bosses, spouses, relatives, television personalities, internet experts, and complete strangers provide unsolicited guidance.
We’re covered.
A story can do something different.
It lets the reader arrive at the point.
You hear about the mistake.
You laugh.
You recognize something familiar.
Then, somewhere underneath the humor, a thought sneaks in.
Maybe I do that too.
Maybe I worry too much about looking foolish.
Maybe I’m taking something more seriously than it deserves.
Maybe the thing I was embarrassed about five years ago isn’t nearly as important as I thought.
Nobody had to underline the lesson.
That’s probably why it got through.
Ordinary Life Can Be More Relatable Than Extraordinary Success
A lot of books are built around extraordinary lives.
People who founded billion-dollar companies.
Climbed impossible mountains.
Won championships.
Survived events most of us will never experience.
Those stories can be fascinating.
But most of life isn’t extraordinary.
It’s work.
Marriage.
Kids.
Parents.
Bills.
Vacations that don’t go according to plan.
Family arguments.
Old friendships.
Bad career decisions.
Good decisions we didn’t appreciate until later.
Breakfast conversations.
Getting older.
Trying to remember why you walked into a room.
That’s why ordinary life works so well in humorous memoirs.
Readers don’t need to have lived the exact same story.
They just need to recognize the emotion behind it.
I once decided to open up to my wife about being stressed over work. I explained that things were slow, clients weren’t paying, and I wasn’t sleeping well.
She listened.
Paused.
Picked up the cereal box.
And told me the muesli had a lot of fiber.
There I was pouring out my soul.
Apparently breakfast was going extremely well.
That sort of moment isn’t historic.
It’s human.
And human travels pretty well.
Why Humorous Self-Help Books Work Best When They Do Not Try Too Hard to Teach
The strongest humorous self-help books understand something important:
If the lesson is wearing a flashing sign that says LESSON, readers may start looking for the exit.
Humor is most effective when the point grows naturally out of the experience.
A funny family story might eventually become a story about forgiveness.
A career failure might become a story about priorities.
A ridiculous misunderstanding might become a reminder not to take ourselves quite so seriously.
The insight does not need to be announced every three paragraphs.
Readers are smart.
Let them find it.
That is especially true when writing about personal growth.
Life rarely hands us a neat conclusion at the end of each chapter.
Sometimes meaning arrives much later.
Sometimes what seemed awful becomes funny.
Sometimes what seemed insignificant becomes important.
And sometimes something remains completely ridiculous no matter how much time passes.
Those stories deserve a place too.
Humor Helps Readers Feel Understood, Not Corrected
There is a big difference between:
“You’re doing this wrong.”
and:
“I’ve been there too.”
One creates distance.
The other creates recognition.
That may be the real strength of humor in reflective writing.
Laughter says we are allowed to be imperfect.
It reminds us that being confused, embarrassed, disappointed, stubborn, overconfident, or completely clueless is not a rare condition.
It’s membership in the human race.
The best humorous memoirs don’t laugh at readers.
They laugh alongside them.
That creates room for honesty.
And once people feel understood, they may become more willing to think about what could change.
Not because somebody corrected them.
Because they recognized themselves.
Sometimes the Most Helpful Book Is the One That Feels Like a Conversation
I have nothing against advice.
Good advice has saved me time, money, trouble, and probably a few additional embarrassing stories.
But sometimes what we need isn’t another person telling us how to live.
Sometimes we need somebody to sit across from us and say:
“You wouldn’t believe what happened to me.”
Then we listen.
We laugh.
We think about somebody in our own family.
We remember an old mistake.
We see something differently.
That’s the kind of connection I enjoy in a humorous memoir, and it’s what I’ve tried to create in my own stories.
Not a lecture.
Not a formula.
A conversation.
One that makes you laugh first.
Think second.
And maybe, somewhere along the way, recognize that the person telling the story hasn’t figured everything out either.
Personally, I find that reassuring.
Because if having all the answers were required before we could learn something useful from each other, most conversations would be over pretty quickly.
