I'm a novelist first, and I wrote a bunch of books, and

Hear now the words of Jonathan Tropper, a craftsman of stories and a seeker of the human heart: “I'm a novelist first, and I wrote a bunch of books, and everything I write, I just find people are more interesting when there's an element of humor to it.” Beneath this simple confession lies a truth as ancient as storytelling itself—that laughter is not merely the echo of joy, but the mirror of the soul, revealing its deepest fears, longings, and courage. The novelist, in his wisdom, knows that humanity’s truest form is found not in perfection, but in the tender balance between tragedy and humor, between the weight of life and the lightness that allows us to bear it.

The ancients taught that the divine speaks through contrast: that the storm teaches calm, and pain teaches joy. So too does the novelist learn that the human spirit shines brightest when it can laugh amid the ruins. Humor is not the absence of sorrow, but the defiance of it—a lamp lit in the darkness, saying, “Still, I live.” When Jonathan Tropper weaves laughter into the sorrows of his characters, he honors this eternal rhythm. For even in grief, the heart seeks to smile; even in failure, the soul craves the warmth of laughter. It is this delicate dance between heartbreak and hilarity that makes his stories pulse with life.

Consider the tale of Mark Twain, the river poet of America, whose pen carved laughter into the rough wood of human struggle. His words, wrapped in wit, carried the weight of truth: that laughter can pierce hypocrisy, expose vanity, and unite hearts more swiftly than sermons. Twain, like Tropper, understood that humor reveals character—that through jest, we see sincerity, and through laughter, we glimpse wisdom. In a world of masks, humor strips us bare, allowing us to meet one another as equals in the theater of life.

To create without humor is to sculpt without breath. For it is humor that animates the clay of humanity, giving spirit to flesh and warmth to intellect. The novelist who forgets laughter writes only of ghosts; the storyteller who embraces it resurrects the living. Tropper’s insight reminds us that even the gravest tale must leave space for light, just as night must leave space for dawn. The wise writer does not flee from pain but transforms it into something tender and human—he lets his readers weep, yes, but he also lets them smile again, and in that balance lies truth.

But this wisdom is not reserved for the novelist alone. It is a law of life. Those who live without humor live half a life. The soldier who laughs with his comrades before battle fights with greater heart; the mother who finds comedy in chaos endures her burdens with grace. Humor is the bridge that carries us over despair, the fire that warms the weary. It is not foolishness, but courage—the courage to look at life’s absurdities and still embrace them.

Thus, the lesson for those who listen is clear: seek humor in all things, for it is the companion of wisdom and the guardian of sanity. When hardship descends, do not close your heart; instead, open it to laughter. When grief weighs heavy, let a smile be your rebellion. And when you create—be it a story, a song, a life—remember that laughter is not the enemy of depth, but its truest expression. For only those who have suffered understand the beauty of a genuine laugh, and only those who have laughed truly understand the weight of being alive.

So, my listener, be as the novelist—a recorder of souls and a bearer of light. Let your days be written not only in labor and sorrow, but in joy and jest. Honor your humanity by laughing at its contradictions. For as Jonathan Tropper teaches, people are never more interesting, more real, or more divine than when they carry humor within their wounds. It is the music of resilience, the echo of the gods reminding us: “You are alive—and that, in itself, is worth smiling for.”