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but it’s not a Trekkie kind of Khan Man, it’s a Genghis kind of Khan Man, and that’s all I’m saying about that, because I know there are people out there trolling Dumpsters and blogs and even paper shredders for ideas to steal. And if, 18 months hence, the publishing world is overrun with novels featuring 11th century Mongols, I’ll know who to blame, William.
    Another NaNoWriMo motto I mutter feverishly is “Fix it in December.” Nancie-the-Gun-Tart has money on me being unable to resist futzing. Sure, I’ve futzed, but my rule of revision is I can’t make it shorter. Still, rewriting is not time-efficient. The Word Count gods demand fresh paragraphs. So I’ve stopped reading what I’ve written. That’s right. I’ve no idea what’s in those 56 pages. And so if I die this month, and someone (William) tries to read my novel, I’ll just . . . die. Thus, I forbid it. If I go, all three computers, plus flash drive, are to be thrown onto the funeral pyre.
    So here goes. Current word count:12,203. But it’s not my fault! I’ve been preparing to teach a seminar this weekend in Nebraska, and now my kids only have school half days this week and then NO SCHOOL next week, and Thanksgiving’s at my house and my sister’s wedding’s in Wisconsin, and what demented mind picked November for this?
    The only way to pull it off is to throw grocery lists into my novel, along with my Thanksgiving Squash Soufflé Recipe, William’s home phone number, notes to my kids’ teachers, and drafts of the text for my Christmas cards, which need to get to the printer.
    Why, just by cutting and pasting this blog into The Khan Man and calling it Chapter Twelve, I’ve bumped my word count up to 12,838.
    Next week: I bump off William and steal his novel.

    Harley Jane Kozak— http://www.harleyjanekozak.com
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7. Jeers of a Clown: Exploring the Balancing Act of Black Humor Writing
    By Adrienne Jones
    http://www.adriennejones.net

    Back in college, a bunch of us got called into the dorm lounge one day to receive some bad news—one of our dorm mates had attempted suicide. He was fine, they were able to save him, but he wouldn’t be coming back to school. A terrible thing, of course. We all sat mournful and appropriately shocked at the news. Then my buddy Al asked the dorm director how this kid had…you know, done it. Turns out he’d taken an overdose of Sudafed.
    I went into one of those inappropriate snicker fits, the kind that happen in church or in a meeting with your boss, where laughter is the worst option. I was weakened by it, sliding off the chair, unable to stop while the others stared on in horror, like I was a monster. Come ON! The guy tried to dry his sinuses to death.
    Since I started publishing fiction, my brand of humor as been repeatedly called “dark” or “black,” which recently led to pondering the source. Does a dark sense of humor come from the viewpoint of an author, or does the world regularly present us with these scenarios that only a certain personality type recognizes as humorous? Is it the same thing? And where do we draw the line between dark humor and a simple lack of taste?
    The late Roald Dahl considered this endlessly, as evidenced in this quote:
    "If a bucket of paint falls on a man’s head, that’s funny. If the bucket fractures his skull at the same time and kills him, that’s not funny, it’s tragic. And yet if a man falls into a sausage machine and is sold in the shop at so much a pound, that’s funny. It’s also tragic. So why is it funny? I don’t know, but what I do know is that somewhere within this very difficult area lies the secret of all black comedy."
    I think most will agree that Roald Dahl found that balance in his own work. I wonder if his was based purely on speculations, or if he too felt plagued with darkly humorous scenarios thrust before him in daily life. This reminds me of another incident that happened while I was skiing with a group of friends at Killington