Okay, so July was tough month for writer’s block. I had some work stuff, some health stuff, some family stuff. A real hat trick. (Am I using that correctly? I don’t know sports.) (Just Googled it – I did.) I haven’t been able to write a single word in any of my current WIPs that I liked. And I didn’t even set the bar that high, to be honest. I was shooting for “I don’t completely hate this” and I couldn’t even hit that. Jokes fell flat, dialogue was stilted, and any jokes I did manage to come up with seemed too mean-spirited when read out loud. There was an anger there I didn’t like.

I don’t normally go into personal details here or online, but I’m going to splash around in the deeper end of the pond for a bit. I did my first author interview in July—big shout to Rebecca Yelland (rebeccayelland.com), thank you so much!—and some of the questions really got me thinking about my writing and more specifically, how I see myself as an author.

A little background for you: I grew up in rural Nova Scotia, but I never felt like I belonged there. I love my family, but I always felt restless, like I was supposed to be somewhere else. I just didn’t know where. Then I married my husband and he joined the Canadian Forces, which seemed perfect. No matter where we were, as long as I was with him I knew I was home. We moved on average once every two years. He did two tours overseas and when he got back, the opportunity for a posting in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories came up, so we took it.

I wrote my first book, The Blacksmith’s Wife, a fantasy/historical romance novel, that year. It was a total train wreck, but a great learning experience. I followed it up with Some Assistance Required, the original edition of which was also a train wreck but garnered more interest than my first book. To quote my husband, “you’re funny. Just do that.” I started the first draft of Skipping Out on Henry next.

Things were going great. I had completed two books, both of which I was very pleased with. I had many more planned. I worked for one of the most respected lawyers in northern Canada, handling child protection cases for the government. Most importantly, we adored Yellowknife. We had a great circle of friends, and we were financial secure for the first time in our entire marriage. Due to his frequent northern deployments, I was on my own a lot, and I learned how to do stuff I never thought possible. I changed a tire! I learned how to bake without setting off the smoke detectors! The great thing about the north is you either adapt or die (or move back south, if you want to be less dramatic about it).

We adapted. We flourished.

But then… remember how I said my husband did two tours overseas? I won’t go into details because that’s not my story to tell, but things got… complicated. I had to make a lot of decisions about who I wanted to be as a person and a wife and a friend. And what I was willing to sacrifice for someone I loved. I left the job and city which I loved, the first place I’ve ever felt still, settled, that delightfully weird and eclectic home we’d made for ourselves, to move back to the east coast to get access to more resources, and to be closer to our family. Eventually, we decided there was no longer a place for us in the CF, and he was medically released. Things got better, but not without a fight. (Seriously, by the end of it, his Warrant Officer would do a complete 180 whenever he saw me and hide.)

I have no regrets for the decisions I’ve made. I loved Yellowknife. I loved my job. I loved our mobile home in the middle of a junkyard, nicknamed “The Hideout.” And I would give it up again in a heartbeat. Because I love my husband more.

But when someone you love is in pain, the last thing you want to do is add to it. So, you push down everything you’re feeling and concentrate on them and what they need. You Scarlet O’Hara that crap. (“I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it!”) And you can do that for years if needed—my personal record is four—but eventually, tomorrow comes. It’s really not a viable strategy when you think about it. The person you love and have spent the last however many years supporting is finally doing better, and that’s when your own crap starts floating up to the surface.

They say tragedy plus time equals comedy, but what happens when humor is your coping mechanism and you’ve been cracking jokes this whole time? What do you do when it feels like you’ve run out of jokes? And I won’t lie, that’s a scary thought for me. My humor is the most interesting thing about me. It’s okay, I can admit that. I don’t follow current events, I’m not into politics, and I still don’t understand the point of Snapchat. As a writer, it’s kind of my “brand.” People don’t pick up my books to read about a searing take-down of modern society or in-depth character studies. I am the potato chip of literature: tasty, a little salty and not much substance or nutritional value.

But laughter isn’t always the best medicine. It can break the tension, but it doesn’t absolve it. Everything gumming up the emotional works is still there when it stops. But I believe it can be an effective tool to allow for healing, if only has a reminder that we can still find joy, if only for a moment. But I need to be willing to push past the jokes and punchlines. And that’s going to affect my writing. It has to. Otherwise, I’m never going to grow, both as a writer and a person.

So, what am I saying, no more humor? No more comedies? Am I packing in all in and only writing dark, psychological thrillers? Probably not. (Nothing against the genre, just not my thing.) Humor is my strength, I am who I am. But I think I’ve finally reached the point where I can say, I’m laughing but I am not happy, not always. Not lately. And I need to be okay with that.

I said in my interview that I believe my writing reflects whatever is inside of me that needs to come out, and while I still think that’s laughter, there’s more. I need to explore what’s behind the laughter, the tension trying to break.