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Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you? Are these not impossible days?
Repeating this note for those who may have missed it, as I am not so popular on the algorithm…
Say what you want about Gen X, but our bands are rad in ways that go well beyond Esprit stirrup pants and John Hughes films.
Friday night, 80s pop legends Duran Duran stopped their show to pay tribute to Renee Nicole Good, a mother and poet whose life was tragically cut short in a confrontation with ICE earlier this week. Frontman Simon Le Bon dedicated their 1993 song “Ordinary World” to her memory—a powerful nod to the simple longing for peace and normalcy in a world that’s felt anything but. 💔
When I think of Renee Nicole Good’s last moments of life, she and her wife were doing exactly what Heather and I do in our moments of de-escalating strife—we defuse with humor—i.e., I smile brightly and say, “I’m not mad atch’a, dude…” And Heather usually recommends Chick-fil-A and a baby Coke to help with low blood sugar. It’s meant as levity, people! It’s not something you shoot a person over???
It always comes back to the old idea:
Men are afraid we'll laugh at them… We’re afraid they’ll kill us for it.
Hey, nation? Maybe let’s all say the word “disproportionate” together one hundred times fast, so that it makes its way back into the algorithm via Alexa and Siri—who are, no doubt, listening? Just a thought…
Anyway, as I crash around, trying to finish my book, I’ve been reviewing what I know about comedy for a series of essays I’m hoping one day will evolve into something more substantial—a seminar or a masterclass for retreats.
There is a persistent lie in life and in comedy that women are somehow “less funny.”
This is adorable (but also hazardous), because women are doing comedy all day long—we just call it staying alive.
Women notice everything.
Not always in a mystical way.
In a systems-are-on-fire way.
We notice:
Who’s trying not to fart in a meeting
Who’s pretending not to be upset
Who took the last biscuit
Who’s about to cry
Who forgot the cupcakes
And who is emotionally freeloading off the group
We are not nosy.
We are running the invisible operations department of the world.
And that is where comedy lives.
Men, generally, move through rooms like Roombas: bump, pivot, continue.
Women move through rooms like stage managers in a farce: tracking entrances, exits, props, timing, subtext, and whether anyone is about to have a nervous breakdown behind the coat rack.
Because comedy is simply:
“I see what’s actually happening here.”
And women are very, very good at that.
She was being forensic.
Watch Carol Burnett sometime, and you’ll see it:
The stumble.
The too-tight smile.
The way she adjusts a sleeve or blinks just a hair too long.
That’s not clowning.
That’s human behavior under pressure.
Carol’s body comedy worked because she was doing what women do in real life:
She was registering the emotional weather of the room and letting it leak out through her knees.
Men tell jokes.
Women show you the weather system.
When a woman makes you laugh, she’s usually pointing at:
an unfair workload
a hidden rule
a power imbalance
or a quiet absurdity everyone is politely ignoring
“Oh, sure,” she’s saying, “I’ll bring the salad, watch the kids, manage the feelings, and be chill about it.”
That’s not a line.
That’s a punchline in disguise.
Women’s humor isn’t smaller.
It’s deeper.
It’s built on:
emotional labor
domestic choreography
deep social expectation
and the ancient art of noticing who’s getting away with what
That’s not niche.
That’s material.
If you want to write funny, stop trying to invent jokes and start paying attention to what you are already tracking.
The thing that makes you think:
“Is anyone else seeing this?”
That’s it.
That’s the joke.
Men might miss it.
Women never do.
Which is why women have been quietly running the funniest comedy writers’ room in history.
The studios just forgot to put our names on the door.
It’s why romantic comedies work best when women are at the center of them—on the page, on the screen, and behind the scenes.
A great rom-com isn’t actually about love.
It’s about what’s really happening in the room when two people say they love each other.
Who’s doing the emotional labor?
Who’s pretending not to care?
Who’s noticed the silence?
Who brought the cupcakes, and who forgot?
Women write the best rom-coms because women see the entire social ecosystem around a relationship. They see the invisible contracts. The unsaid rules. The ways people negotiate power, safety, desire, and dignity inside what’s supposed to be a “meet-cute.”
That’s why the best romantic comedy scenes are never just banter.
They’re whole systems colliding.
A prime example from my own life: the time I was accidentally inducted into a random group text chain of Silicon Valley Tech Bros—and at first, I played along with it, but then, they wouldn’t let it (or me) go! They kept insisting I was their friend, “Chad,” who needed to come on Ayahuasca retreats, the campouts, join them at Burning Man, and pen eulogies for “our friend” Ryan’s memorial fishing trip. Meanwhile, I’m telling them, look, you chuckleheads, this is me—
I’m just a midlife lady in publishing who lives with a bunch of nerds in Cambridge, and my Ayahuasca days are WAY behind me. My brain is already Ayahuasca-enough on its own—if you know anything at all about me. 😂
But THIS setup has all the markings of a great rom-com, where the girl shows up as Chad (Victor/Victoria), which I’m now writing—because it’s WHOLE WEATHER SYSTEMS colliding, complete with—
A raised eyebrow.
A swallowed feeling.
A joke that lands a beat too late.
A laugh that means yes and no at the same time.
That’s not fluff. That’s story.
Which is why when people say rom-coms are “light,” what they really mean is:
They are noticing things we’ve been trained not to take seriously.
And that’s actually always been the most radical kind of comedy.
So if you’re writing romance and it feels funny, observant, awkward, tender, and a little feral—GOOD.
You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just paying attention because underneath… you’re searching for meaning.
Meanwhile, over in the Empress Editions Universe, we have been asked to present our entire 2026 List at the London Book Fair, so it’s a mad dash to get everything ready! We’re beyond excited to be working with our new rights team—they are a fount of wisdom, positivity, and ferocity—everything you want!
In other fun news, one of our best books about female friendship arrived in our warehouse on Friday, and it’s a Publishers Weekly Editor’s Pick, getting rave reviews—just in time for Galentine’s 2026 (Feb 13th)! The endpapers are so Mad Men-gorgeous, I can’t wait for you to read it! The author Margie Zable Fisher worked with our editor, who also happens to be bestselling author Grant Ginder’s editor (People We Hate at the Wedding), and together, they gave the manuscript a marvelous comedic punch-up—so this edition is absolutely worth owning!
I think we might need another song for Renee, Duran Duran, and Carol…
Stay safe out there - xoxo - gotham girl
PS - I am a human typo. Amnesty appreciated.
*An earlier version of this letter erroneously used Renee’s middle name.
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