The Funny Thing About Death

A love letter to my morbid, hilarious, and deeply loyal family

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At my Uncle Al’s wake—“uncle” is a formality; technically he was my first cousin twice removed by marriage, but it’s easier to conceptualize him as the husband of my grandfather’s cousin—a keg was rolled into the funeral home. It was promptly rolled back out again, since drinking was prohibited on the premises. Probably something to do with the sanctity of death and drinking being, you know, a bit irreverent.

So, naturally, the keg was set up in the parking lot. A tailgate of sorts. A toast to Uncle Al. When it was empty, it was brought back inside, where it sat beside his casket like a final offering. (These are my memories, of course, and as my family would be quick to point out, they’re fallible. But I stand by them.)

It wasn’t irreverent. It was perfect. It was exactly what he would have wanted: his family and friends and old firehouse crew, gathered close, laughing, crying, telling stories. It was a death party—but also a big old FU to death itself.

My extended family has always been enthralled by death. Doom, gloom, morbidity—you name it. And honestly? I find it hysterical. There’s such deep fascination with misery, but it’s always paired with laughter. Because if you can laugh at a thing, you can’t fear it. Not really.

Last night, at a Bedford Books’¹ author event, John Kenney was talking about his new book, I See You’ve Called in Dead. The moderator, Margaret Ables from What Fresh Hell, noted that his humor felt very Irish in the way he talked about death. My ears perked up.

Could it be… this isn’t just my family? Could this be cultural?

The Irish (perhaps more correct to say Irish Americans?) treat death like a recurring character in a long-running sitcom. The obituaries are the sports pages:

“He was older than me? No, couldn’t be.”
“Died doing what? Roller skates?”
“He’s just trying to get out of paying his bar tab.”
And my personal favorite: “Don’t spread my ashes in the ocean—I don’t know how to swim.”

There’s a kind of sacred gallows humor baked in.

“Can I have that chair when you’re gone?”
“Too late, already promised it to your mother.”

It’s not morbid—it’s muscle memory. It’s the instinct to reach for a joke like a life raft.

I believe humor is a coping mechanism, yes—but in writing, it’s more than that. It’s confrontation. It’s catharsis. It’s saying, “I see you, Death. Pull up a chair. But I’m still going to make fun of your shoes.”

So when I started writing McMurder—a modern family-meets-Knives Out mystery where someone (okay, several someones) end up dead—I’m noting writing it as a critique. I’m writing it as a love letter to my family. They’re loud, inappropriate, deeply loyal. Our dinners and holidays are full of laughter and singing and games, and if someone brings up funeral plots or whether they’d rather be cremated or embalmed, it doesn’t mar the joy—it amplifies it. It reminds us how good we have it, how close we all are, how alive we all really feel.

If you ask me, that’s the most reverent thing in the world.

A wee look at McMurder

I warned him.

The McFaddens are obsessed with the macabre. Always have been. While other kids grew up on bedtime stories, I was raised on dinner-table discussions about dismemberment. Aunt Robin once gleefully described an arm found in a Long Island parking lot—near her house, no less, which she considered a thrilling neighborhood development. Aunt Karen still talks about the bodies they found buried in the dunes, complete with dramatic pauses for effect. And Uncle Charles, never one to be left out, regularly reminds us about the perils of drinking and boating by recounting the time a local family crashed into a buoy in the dark. One of the children is still missing.

We don’t even own a boat.

Now, don’t get me wrong. They don’t love gore. Far from it. They’re devoted Catholics who would never miss a chance to pray for the dearly departed. They just happen to enjoy their tragedies with a side of flair.

The point is—I warned him.

Meeting the McFaddens is akin to being thrown into a true crime podcast you didn’t sign up for. At first, it’s a lot. But eventually, you stop fighting it. You pour yourself a drink, nod along, and accept that in this family, every gathering comes with a body count.

Book and wine pairing

An Irish American author writing about an obituary writer? Gee, I wonder what I should pair this with.

In I See You’ve Called in Dead, Bud writes—and accidentally publishes—his own obituary. In the fallout, he finally learns what it means to really live. It’s darkly funny, heartfelt, and introspective. And honestly, it’s too good to pair with something predictable like Guinness or Scotch.

Sorry. This girl’s a celiac. If we’re raising a glass to this book, I want in on the fun.

Since John Kenney’s book (and his author talk) reminded me so much of my own family, I’m going rogue. I’m pairing it with something straight from one of our holiday gatherings: a bottle of Yellow Tail or another questionably cheap grocery store wine for the masses, and a hidden bottle of the good stuff—something like Chateau Montelena, Stag’s Leap, or Caymus—tucked in the pantry for the wine snobs.

Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Uncle Jon. I always drank from the secret stash.

If having two bottles of booze during this read doesn’t suit your fancy, you’re not Irish. I’ll let it slide, but for the love of God, at least pick up a Guinness or whiskey.

Writing Update

I handed in my romantasy manuscript yesterday! Not to an agent—yet—but to a freelance editor² who will hopefully help me see the forest through the trees.

This book and I go way back. I first wrote the bones of it during NaNoWriMo in 2012 or 2013 (don’t do the math, I beg you). I was working full-time at a bank back then, so the manuscript only received my attention in fits and starts—sometimes I wouldn’t touch it for months. Maybe even years.

When my husband and I moved to France in 2021 for his MBA, I told myself it would be the year I got my act together and truly fixed the book. And I tried. But it still wasn’t quite there. It died quietly in the querying trenches, and after nearly a decade of loving those characters, I put it away—for what I thought was forever.

Fast forward to this year. While querying Susie Sweetheart and desperately needing something to do besides panic-refresh my inbox, I pulled out the fantasy manuscript again. McMurder wasn’t flowing, but this old story whispered, Remember me?

I dove in. For six intense weeks, I tore through it—changed the characters, aged them up, rewrote the premise, added romantasy elements, sprinkled in some more visceral violence (as one does). I still don’t know if it’ll ever be a published book. It doesn’t have to be. I just… love it. It’s mine.

But after all this time with it, I know I’ve lost perspective. I can’t tell what’s working anymore. That’s where the editor comes in—fresh eyes, tough love, and hopefully a flashlight to guide me through the dense bits.

It’s not flashy. It’s not especially high concept. But it’s mine. And I’m proud I brought it back to life.

Now—back to McMurder.

What I’ve been enjoying recently

The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett - a fantasy mystery. This was so fun and imaginative. There were a few plot holes… maybe... but I’m hopeful the sequel will fill all my questions in for me!

I See You’ve Called in Dead by John Kenney - please see above. So fun.

100 Poems to Break Your Heart by Edward Hirsch - You know me, I love melodrama. I’ve been trying to read more and learn more from poetry. This is a gorgeous compilation that I’ve been annotating the hell out of. Hirsch’s breakdown of the poems is especially touching (and helpful for noobs like me).

How Facism Works: The Politics of Us and Them By Jason Stanley - for no specific reason, whatsoever.

Who Will Run the Frog Hospital by Lorrie Moore - I can’t remember where I found this one… a list? a Bookstagram post? Does it matter? So far, I’m enjoying it.

Oathbound by Tracey Deonn - Read and LOVED the first two. Can’t wait to dive in. I think I need some fantasy in my life again.

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xx,
bb

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Fran Hauser

, Bedford Books is the FIRST bookstore to ever exist in Bedford. If you’re local, GOGOGO!

2. Thanks

Alyssa Matesic

&

Chapter Break

:)