I'm always trying to make myself laugh. I'm the most enthusiastic

The words of Victor LaValle echo with a playful yet profound wisdom: “I’m always trying to make myself laugh. I’m the most enthusiastic audience I’m likely to find, so if it doesn’t make me smile then it probably won’t work on you. The jokes that only make me shrug get cut.” At first they seem light, the musings of a writer about his craft. Yet within them lies a teaching of great depth, for he speaks not only of comedy but of authenticity, of the eternal principle that one must first convince the self before convincing the world.

To seek to laugh at one’s own creation is to test its truth. A false word, a hollow joke, may deceive the crowd for a moment, but the soul of the creator knows when it rings empty. LaValle reminds us that the first measure of worth is not the applause of others, but the resonance within one’s own spirit. If his own heart does not rise to smile, why should another’s? If his own mind does not find joy, how could he expect strangers to do so? This is no vanity, but the discipline of integrity: the recognition that art must be alive within the maker before it can live within the audience.

The ancients too bore witness to this truth. The great orator Demosthenes of Athens practiced his speeches alone, speaking them to the sea and to the cliffs, testing the rhythm and passion until his own heart was moved. He knew that if his words could not stir him, they would never stir the people. Similarly, the playwright Aristophanes is said to have laughed aloud at his own jokes in the silence of his chamber, for he trusted that if the lines delighted him, they would delight the city. LaValle walks in this same tradition: he honors himself as the first audience, and only when his soul is fed does he offer his work to the world.

Consider, too, how this wisdom applies beyond the stage or the page. The soldier must believe in the courage of his own cause before he can inspire his fellows to march. The teacher must find joy in the lesson before the students will see its light. The leader must be moved by his own vision before others will follow. In all things, authenticity is the fountainhead; without it, influence is but a passing shadow.

LaValle’s words also guard against the temptation of pandering. It is easy to craft jokes or words that may gain shallow approval, that earn a momentary nod or a hollow laugh. But such works are fragile; they do not endure. By cutting away that which only makes him shrug, LaValle shows us the discipline of excellence: that we must be ruthless with mediocrity in our own lives, refusing to present to others what does not truly move us first. This is a call to honesty, to never offer the world what we ourselves cannot believe in.

The lesson is clear: to create, to lead, to speak, you must begin with yourself. Test your thoughts, your actions, your jokes, your dreams—if they do not ignite your spirit, if they do not make you smile, they will not endure in the hearts of others. Let your own joy, your own conviction, be the first measure of worth. Then, and only then, will your work carry the strength to resonate beyond you.

Therefore, take this wisdom into practice. When you craft words, let them be words that stir you. When you dream dreams, let them be dreams that set your own heart alight. When you act in the world, act in ways that would make you proud to be your own witness. Be, as LaValle teaches, your own most faithful audience. For in doing so, you ensure that what you offer to others is not hollow performance, but truth, alive and radiant.

Thus, Victor LaValle’s lighthearted confession becomes an enduring teaching: that the path to others’ hearts begins with our own, that the truest measure of a smile is whether it first blooms upon our own lips. And if we live by this, our lives themselves will become works of art, crafted with honesty, rich with joy, and worthy of remembrance.