Can AI Make Me Laugh?

I chose not to let any AI app anywhere near my writing. I do use Microsoft Word, so I am constantly fighting off Copilot's offers to help. Thanks but accurately: butt out.

I 'm not here to condemn writers who use AI in ways that I choose not to or to debate the issue. I am horrified by the idea that there are folks out there who throw a few ideas into an AI app and ask it to write an  essay, a short story, a novel. That's a major concern but not today's topic. 

Today I am here to investigation an issue. Can AI make me laugh?

This topic was actually suggested to me by an AI app. I won't say which one for fear of retribution--you know when they take over and make us all use em dashes--but let's just say it was one that was willing to chat with me for free. (Misplaced footnote: em dashes are considered a sure sign of AI authorship by some.)

Having decided I needed to know more about AI,  I picked a random paragraph from a novella I was working on and fed it to the bot. I asked for an edit. It changed two articles, changes I did not agree with and ignored. But then the ever-helpful chatbot asked if I would like it to make the paragraph more suspenseful or funnier. Why not? I selected funnier.

The results weren't horrible. But they weren't funny. Then again the paragraph I gave them was not a laugh riot to begin with. I moved on. Or so I thought.

At 3am this morning when I found myself unable to sleep but not awake enough to do real work, I decided I hadn't given the chatbot a fair shot to show me what it could do. 

I set the bot free and asked it to write something funny on four topics. 

*Going back to school at 57

*Becoming an orphan at 25

*Traveling constantly on business 

*Moving to New York in the 1980s

The bot tried. It applied some of the basic conventions of comedy to produce hackneyed results. My opinion was that when incorporating what it considered humorous elements, the bot forgot style. 

I thought I'd help it out by giving it three styles to emulate: Dave Barry, David Sedaris, and Andy Borowitz. Of course, it issued a disclaimer that it could not imitate their style. Then it listed the characteristics of each style and wrote accordingly. Let's just Dave, David, and Andy could have done better.

In an effort to understand my bot buddy, I next asked for the rules of comedy. After reminding me that there are no rules, only guidelines, it created a comprehensive list. 

As I read the list, I could see that the bot took the entries seriously. Especially the rule of three. I can sympathize. I too love the rule of three and have to fight the urge to overuse it. The bot did not fight the urge.

If I might digress for a moment, I once read a review of Tina Fey's "Bossy Pants"'in a major political journal. The reviewer who was not familiar with the idea of a comedic triple, noted with some disdain that the author tended to make lists of three where the first two items were the same and the third was the same but somehow different. (I offer as a sample one of my favorites not from Tina Fey but from my nephews: Larry Bird, Big Bird, Sheryl Crow.) Shortly after that Tina Fey observed on "Thirty Rock" that her character did tend to make lists where the first two were the same and the third one was different. I always wondered if she was responding to the review.

Anyway, the bot described its work as playful, but it didn't impress me that way. To me, playful requires a person, a personality, behind the writing. I've known people who long to be funny but just aren't. As an example, a dear friend loved the Carnegie Hall joke. You know. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. But when she told it, her punchline was: it's really hard. You have to practice a lot.

I am of the opinion that funny people are born not made. Environment can help them hone their skills. Practicing their skills with other funny people can enhance those skills. Understanding guidelines can improve them.

Improve? Yes, but when I think of the funny people I know, I don't believe anyone told them the rules. Excuse me, guidelines. They may never have heard of the rules. I think they are somehow embedded in their DNA. 

And that is why I do not believe that AI can produce any groundbreaking humor. It's all derivative. Maybe someday that will change. Dave Barry, David Sedaris, and Andy Borowitz have all made me laugh out loud. During my experiment the bot did not. I don't think I smiled.

I'll leave it at that. I don't like to say too much - the bot is listening and I don't want to offend it. Besides, I could be wrong.

© Jane Kelly 2026

Temporarily Old

I wrote this the day before I reported for knee replacement surgery. 

Why surgery? I am not a world class athlete. I have not landed too many triple salchows. I have not skied too many moguls. What did I do?

I tend to think that driving hundreds of thousands of miles might have contributed. I found out knees are the most frequently needed joint replacements among truck drivers. Pushing all those pedals. Evidence in my case? I only drove about 100,000 miles in a stick shift car. My left knee is fine. For now. 

But the truth? What did I do? I aged. 

My hope is that with my right knee fixed, I will return to being normal. Actually, my hope is that my body will be thirty-five again, but I'll settle for what it was like seven years ago. You see, I've been temporarily old before.

I feel as if Covid catapulted me, and a lot of my friends, into old age. My customary somewhat active lifestyle was replaced with something more limited largely because the world had changed. Not specifically Amazon but the Amazon effect. I never actually had to move. No need to run errands. That I liked. Zoom. I could see friends without driving. That I didn't like. But shortly after the Covid restrictions were lifted, I discovered it no longer mattered what I liked.

During Covid, I would comment that there were people all over the country developing cancer because they were not going for routine checkups. Turns out I was one of those people.

Chemo made me old. Very old. I lay in bed all day staring at fifteen seasons of "Silent Witness" on the iPad my friend Susan sent that I attached to the gizmo (old word alert) that my friend Carolyn sent to suspend my iPad from the hospital bed that my friend Carole allowed me to keep in her living room for months. (Great friends.) 

I couldn't tolerate the entire chemotherapy course. After surgery I did better on chemo-lite, but no one would have described me as youthful. And then it was over. Well, after months of shaking off the last of the side effects that would actually go away. Despite some permanent damage, I felt great. Younger than I had in years. I had been temporarily old and learned being old was no fun. I wasn't eager to go back.

Subsequent events made me old again. First up was some wonder drug. The only wonder it produced in me was amazement at how a single drug could have such varied and extreme side effects in so many people. My symptom was a frozen neck that kept me old and unable to drive for close to a year.

Then, despite a series of infections related to antibiotic prescriptions for extreme dental work (chemo and my teeth were not a good match), I managed to feel not ancient again. I wouldn't say young but I fought off the old. Then I tripped myself. Broke my right wrist and got a compression fracture in my back. The wrist could be fixed surgically. I can write my name again. COMPLETELY OUT OF PLACE BLATANT SELF PROMOTIONAl INSERT: so come to a book event and I'll be happy to sign a copy. END INSERT. 

Then before the back pain stopped, the knee. 

I accept that I will have to work hard at keeping the old out, doing things I don't particularly want to do. But I tell myself I've done it before. I can do it again. And will probably have to do it again. And again. And again. 

The project begins tomorrow. They tell me just about as soon as you wake up from the anesthesia. I'm ready. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

At the Movies with the Parents

Lying about in ortho rehab, I find a lot of random thoughts running through my head. This is one of them. 

As I grow older and older and older, I realize that in many ways my upbringing was not standard. The realization hit me recently when I could only recall seeing one Disney movie. Not that I actually remember the movie. My memory is a badly distorted recollection of being terrified by a crocodile at the Philadelphia Zoo. I say distorted because I suspect they did not keep a croc in an unfenced two-foot deep cement hole three-feet in diameter that allowed visitors to walk right up to the edge. Safety standards were looser when I was a kid, but even back then zoo officials would have provided more protection for the animal if not the customers. At any rate, I recall trying to climb up my mother with images of Captain Hook crowding my brain. So, I must have seen "Peter Pan." And maybe "Lady and the Tramp." Or do I only remember the classic spaghetti scene that is part of popular culture?

My parents must have taken me to other kid movies but none of them made an impression. The only reason I think we did go is family lore that when asked if I wanted to see some film I replied, "Okay, but not if I have to watch 'Bear Country' again." Bear Country was a documentary short about, spoiler alert, bears in the country. 

What strikes me as unusual is the list of movies I did see with my parents in the theater, not accidentally on the early or late show. 

Love in the Afternoon 1957 

I think we saw this at Radio City Music Hall. The story involved an affair (implied - it was the fifties) between Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. I have no idea what I thought was going on as a seven-year-old. I remember the ending clearly. Well I know there was a train. I don't think I ever saw the movie as an adult.

Girl on the Red Velvet Swing 1955

No idea where we saw this movie loosely based on a sensational crime of the early 1900s. Harry Thaw (Farley Granger) kills Sanford White (Ray Milland) over Evelyn Nesbit ( Joan Collins). I kind of remember Farley Granger looking nuts but basically what I took away from the movie was the need for an indoor swing in our home. It wasn't red velvet but a nice wooden one hung in our basement for years.

Funny Face 1957

I suspect in today's world this would be a G-rated romance. Not sure since I last saw it in 1957. What I took from this film was a love of shocking pink and a desire to move to Paris. It's probably the reason I started college as a French major. 

Rains of Ranchipur 1955

Sometimes I wonder if I only saw the coming attractions. They alone were enough to scare a five-year-old to death. An earthquake and flooding in India. All I remember is the flooding.

Also important are the movies they saw without me. I really only know of one for sure, a French mystery called "Diabolique" in which Simone Signore and an accomplice murder Simone's husband. My mother really loved that movie. Couldn't stop talking about it. I wonder what my father thought.

I was the baby in the family and my two teen-aged siblings were probably not into babysitting, so I got to do a lot of age inappropriate activities.  Ask me about my cocktail umbrella collection. 

Just a random memory while doing knee exercises. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

Collateral Damage

Saving my stories so I can recall them after my brain can't . . .

May, 1976. Monte Carlo. Tourist hotel.

The hotel was not fancy but it did have a restaurant, one with a maitre d'. A maitre d' who asked me if I wanted to share a table. In the midst of a solo trip across Europe with a Eurail pass, I was in the habit of chatting with strangers so I agreed.

I am not sure what I thought the maitre d's motives were. I probably did not think he had a motive. If I'd thought about it, I probably figured he was playing concierge or matchmatcher. It didn't take me long to figure out his game was fundraising. I was twenty-six and traveling with two outfits, so I can pretty much guess what I was wearing. I don't know what would have made him think I was a rich American, but maybe any American was seen as rich in those days. Even in Monte Carlo.

He led me to a table where I found a guy. Not a heartbreaker but he did have an interesting story. He was from Lebanon which was then in the throes of a civil war. He was living in the hotel and broadcasting back to Lebanon. He was on the Christian side. I enjoyed listening to his story all the while waiting for a request for a donation, which in the days of traveler's checks and no ATMs could not happen even if I wanted it to. It never came to that. A friend of his, newly arrived from Lebanon, joined us.

From then on, I was an eavesdropper on their conversation. I don't remember the entire story, but I do recall the gist of it.  My tablemate said he wanted to return to Lebanon. His visitor said that was impossible. And, this part I do remember very clearly. His visitor said, "If you come back, you'll never get out of the airport. They kill you as soon as you step off the plane."

Now I thought I only had one rule in life (never wearing white after Labor Day - well two if you count before Memorial Day separately), but I realized I did actually have another rule. Never eat dinner with someone marked for death by Arab terrorists, any terrorists actually. Since the situation hadn't come up often growing up in Philadelphia, avoiding dining with terrorists had never been a big problem in my life. I accepted that it could happen inadvertently, but from that day on I made it a rule. I finished my meal, excused myself, and returned to my room happy to be away from the man who was marked for death.

Back in my room, I settled in to read, happy to be away from the controversial duo. And then I heard them in the hallway. And then in the room next door. I spent the next hour or so conjuring images of my becoming collateral damage in the Lebanese Civil War. In the morning, I realized how silly that seemed. Worrying about being blown up just because I had the room next to a terrorist. Really. And then years later, I saw Munich.  I am not always paranoid.

© Jane Kelly 2026

Book Rush 2026 (Updated)

Update: As of March 24, 2026, all these books are available as paperbacks and ebooks via Amazon.

Throughout the first three months of 2026, I published books with alarming regularity. Alarming if I'd been writing these books with matching regularity. That is not the case. Some of these had been in the works for decades. 

Those three books (listed below in order of publication) have little in common besides their author, me.

NIGHTINGALE SONGS

I thought this book was a romance, but it turns out it doesn't adhere to the strict rules for novels categorized as romances. Nonetheless, NIGHTINGALE SONGS is romantic and, first and foremost, a love story. The question: two love stories or only one? The novel has a supernatural element, but I won't categorize it as paranormal. It has humor, but I wouldn't place it on the humor shelves. Maybe it's a Rom-Com. I think of it as NOTTING HILL meets SOMEWHERE IN TIME. In this case, 1944 intrudes on 1985.

A DEATH IN SCILLY

A traditional mystery that adheres to most cozy mystery rules--an amateur sleuth, no on-screen sex or violence, a small cast of characters--A DEATH IN SCILLY is set on an island with a permanent population under one hundred, a truly cozy setting. The reader has a couple of puzzles to solve. The plot is complex but not convoluted. The tone is more often light than dark, but it is a mystery so there is a murder. The setting on St Agnes, the smallest of the Isles of Scilly, during a night when a storm paralyzes the island adds to the suspense. It really is a dark and stormy night.

THE SECRET AUDIENCE

A historical mystery, THE SECRET AUDIENCE is set in the US Homeland during World War II. The heroine, a wise-beyond-her-years fifteen-year-old Philadelphian, is sent to live with extended family she doesn't know in a small town in Alabama where a camp for German POWs has been built. The events of 1944 serve as a backdrop for a murder mystery that unmasks not only the killer, but the societal barriers that divide us as well as the common humanity that unites us all.

All the novels can be read by young adult readers, but young readers might find THE SECRET AUDIENCE of most interest. 

© Jane Kelly 2026

Book Club Questions - A Death in Scilly

 1. Are you familiar with the Scilly Isles? If so, are any of your favorite spots mentioned? What other experiences do you think Fiona should experience in a follow-up book? 

2. Given the description of St Agnes, would you enjoy spending time there? How would you spend your day?

3. Modern technology has made living on an island a very different experience. Can you imagine what it was like pre-Internet? 

4. Living on an island offers many benefits. Can you see any downsides?

5. Did you spot any details that remind you of the book's setting i.e. Cornwall, England.

Being an Introvert

My latest Meg Daniels Mystery Weekender, LOST WEEKEND, was within days of being finished when I tripped myself and broke my dominant wrist. Thank heavens. Well, thank heavens only from the viewpoint that it put the novella on the shelf since I couldn't write. Literally--I couldn't type. By the time I could go back to typing, I had a new perspective on my amateur sleuth Meg Daniels's behavior. I realized I was holding her back.

Years ago when I took the Meyers Briggs personality test, my results were INTP. The "I" meant that I was an introvert. On the extrovert borderline but an introvert. Clearly, that was wrong. I was an extrovert. Anyone could see that. 

Okay, I didn't like to call attention to myself, but I was perfectly fine if I found myself the center of attention. I might not seek to dominate a conversation, but there were times I did. I worked as a trainer. An extroverted trainer. I came to understand that if I was the designated center of attention, I was comfortable. If I wasn't put in charge, I found it hard to speak. And, if I did? I worried, second-guessed what I said. Mulled it over. Brooded. Perhaps, I was more of an "I" than I thought.

That didn't mean my amateur sleuth had to be an introvert as well. I was once on a panel with thriller writer, Brad Parks. The theme of the panel was how we differed from our characters. We were encouraged to respond as our characters.  Brad had told a very funny story at the banquet the night before about singing a speech. As Meg, I sang (to the tune of "Maria") "Brad Parks. I'm sharing a stage with Brad Parks." I added that the difference between Meg and me was that I would never do that, but she would.

In LOST WEEKEND, Meg's fiancé, Andy, goes missing. It is perfectly reasonable for a thought to flit through her mind that, if there is a simple explanation for his absence, he might not be happy that his name and face are plastered all over town. Flit is the key word. Meg wouldn't let that stop her.

You learn a lot about your characters from readers. One told me what she liked about Meg was she never gave up. She wouldn't let introvert tendencies stop her. He's missing. Of course, she wants to call attention to her search for him. 

It took a broken wrist for me to figure that out. The search begins in January! Make that February!