I was working away on my next non-fiction manuscript this week when I suddenly realized it was boring. Filled with boring scientific terms, arranged in boring order, presented in boring prose.

So I did what any reasonable writer would do: panicked.

Then, once I’d talked myself down from the ledge, I remembered that my first drafts are always boring. They’re for gathering research and arranging it logically. For figuring out where exactly I’m going with my thoughts and ideas. Once all that’s done, I have to go back through the text and add the funny. I have to find places where I can present the facts in more interesting ways, places where I can use new voices or concepts, and places to be just plain silly.

Two drafts required.

I complained about this to Rachelle Delaney, and she agreed. Rachelle is a committed outliner, and says that even in her fiction, she has to re-write for funny.

Apparently the organizing brain and the funny brain are two separate entities.

A story from my husband’s misspent youth:

Min and Glenn were away one weekend with a group of friends. Someone had made dinner and it was the boys’ turn to do dishes. Glenn grabbed the Pine Sol.

“What are you doing?” Min asked. “Isn’t that poisonous?”

“Just watch,” Glenn said.

He began washing the dishes with Pine Sol, and Min began dutifully drying them.

Within two minutes, one of the girls walked through the kitchen, gasped, called them incompetent, and kicked them out.

“See?” Glenn said.

I thought of this story while indexing a few days ago. I think I index with Pine Sol. Should one list delusions and hallucinations separately in an index, or put “see hallucinations” under delusions? Should boa constrictors be listed under predators as well as individually? Is anyone ever going to search for the island of Giglio in an index?

I’m sure there are answers to these questions. Just as I’m sure there are rules about where to alphabetize names beginning with “St.” But do I ask anyone my questions? Do I check other indexes? No. I muddle through with my Pine Sol, on the assumption that a kind editor (thank you, Tanya Trafford) will soon kick me out of the kitchen and take over, with the real dish soap in hand.

I’m constantly surprised they let me write books at all.