Article written by Rory Hawkins.
Think on it for a second – have you ever laughed at something intentionally in a book, a book that wasn’t explicitly geared towards being funny? Odds are that’s a no. Now everyone, for better or worse, has a sense of humour. So why is it that?
Well it’s not the reader’s fault. Subtly writing comedy into a story is hard. When it comes to telling a narrative, something I’ve made up from scratch, I almost make a point of not doing it. One: jokes in real life can fall flat on the page. Even if it was intended to sound cheesy, or just banter between characters, it can muddle whatever tone you were trying to set beforehand.
That leads to two: writing something for comedic effect can and will completely change the tone of whatever you’re writing. Sure, you can use it like I mentioned before – building up or displaying rapport between two characters – but losing any kind of tension between them mightn’t fit the rest of the story’s flow.
Comedy itself is a weird genre for books. And I don’t mean joke books. I feel like for comedy to be successful, there always needs to be some kind of stimulus that’s more than just words to be present. Stand-up comedians, movies and TV shows provide the experience of personally being there, watching a joke follow its course. Even radio or podcasts can still bring this effect – being parlay to the shenanigans between groups of friends.
Maybe that’s it; it’s the personality behind the jokes, being someone that people warm up to just from tone of voice, nuances or behaviour. Being out there and personable is a must-have for any would-be comic. So what’s that like for a writer?
Showing individuality in your own writing is a lot harder to discern. Because you’re proofreading and editing, there’s a lot more of a conscious effort put into the style of writing. But that amount of effort backfires on how spontaneous it can seem. Equally, whilst the style you’re writing might fit a drier narrative, it won’t leave room for being playful.
Two of my favourite “comedy” authors are actually both sci-fi authors as well. They’re also both dead. Like romance, I think comedy needs to go hand-in-hand with another genre. It’s a facet of human personality – it’s hard to have it stand on its own two feet without setting it up with a scenario. There’s also a lot of weirder and surreal antics to done when the world can be whatever he writer needs it to be, outside of realistic constraints.
Douglas Adams is author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (a trilogy of five) and Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. Though his books may seem small, the intricacy he puts into how character threads affect one another is like no other. But his sense of humour is the most outrageous weird thing, and it put his work on the map as all-time comedy and sci-fi gold. It hurts a little to say this but think Rick and Morty, minus the shock factor, triple the alien weirdness and existential panic.
Adams’ grasp of comedy in writing is the first I’d like to talk about. It’s the sheer out-there weirdness that nothing is outside the bounds of description. Possibly missiles turn spaceships into potted plants and blue whales (spirit brothers, of course). AI doors practically climax at the thought of opening for their human masters. An electronic monk rides his horse companion on pilgrimage from the distant future. And of course, the infamous 42: the true answer to the question of Life, The Universe And Everything.
It’s a sense of humour so unique that it’s worked into the heart of sci-fi pop culture. But what makes it work so well? Because it breaks all expectations. As soon as you’ve settled into “yes, okay, we’re in space now, he’s got to escape the crew of this ship” as readers we’re asked to imagine fishes being put in ears, and towels sucked for nourishment. I’m breaking my own expectations by just writing that.
This approach only works so well because Adams’ used his imagined world as a starting point – you’ve been put there so what could possibly happen? Comedy writing is about the stranger possibilities. Unfortunately, such extremes aren’t always viable. Still, comedy writing involves subverting a reader’s expectations towards the hilariously baffling.
And subverting those expectations is a staple. Another of my favourite authors, Terry Pratchett, does so well to turn the tables on how we thought fantasy/sci-fi worked. Listen to any D&D player or fantasy gamer talk about how fantasy worlds are constructed, and then read about a flat earth balanced on the back of four elephants, standing on a giant turtle swimming through the vacuum of space.
Pratchett’s Discworld holds a mirror up to all the everyday hilarities in our own world, and it’s quite a reflection. From stupid superstitions (*ahem* flat earth) to bureaucracy wrapped in its own red tape (how is the post office business so ruthless?), Discworld is still surprisingly subtle in its use of parody. In a life’s worth of books, there isn’t a nuance topic that isn’t touched on. It’s Pratchett’s use of parody in Discworld that makes his books so funny and uncanny.
Parody is perhaps an easier way of working humour into a book, but unless you’re devoting all of it, meta jokes might sound off against everything else. For every well-established archetype or acclaimed novel, there’s a parody to be found squatting in its shadow. Real life wizards, for example, wouldn’t really be all fire and lightning, would they? No, closer to academics or scientists in pointy hats.
It’s showing readers why these tropes are so dumbfounding, crossing them with what would really come to pass that makes us think more on it all. What’s funnier than a joke fully realised?
Writing comedy into a novel is so hard because you have to make the decision on what tone you want it to take, what more than a few jokes are going to do to a narrative. It’s a useful tool when sharpened and put to use in the right way, but when it comes to writing, the spontaneity we expect from watching comedy skits just isn’t the same. If you’re considering writing comedy into a book, no matter the prior subject, that if it goes badly then the joke’s on you.
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