Then, whenever I was watching a show that wasn’t quite to my liking, I’d start thinking of that same word.

Then, whenever I sat down to work on something of my own—yup, here came that word again.

The word was “SHARP,” but it doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Lemme back up.

It might be helpful to know that, back in those playwriting days, I was specifically a horror playwright. I point this out because the mechanics of a horror play are a little different than your garden variety stage drama or comedy. Sure, the principles are the same—you’re trying to tell a good, satisfying story just like any other playwright—but there are a few additional expectations that make writing a horror play just a little bit harder. After all, you’re also looking to conjure up suspense, dread, and fear in your audience, and those are really challenging emotions to evoke without the benefit of a forced camera perspective or a narrow frame or post-production special effects or one of those soundtracks where everything gets really quiet AND THEN GETS REALLY LOUD.

When writing suspenseful, speculative stories for the stage, where you mostly only have the benefit of some props, a set, and whatever the human body and/or voice can do, you have to learn a few additional tricks. You have to learn how to fashion suspense and instill dread and fear using only your two dramatic fundamentals: characters and circumstances.

That’s where “SHARP” came in. Not only was it a short and pithy descriptor for that feeling a good, dynamic story gives you, it was also a handy acronym for a few key ingredients to keep in mind. Things that were present in the plays I was enjoying. Things that were absent in the ones I was not. Things I wanted to make sure my own work contained.

Lemme back up again, though.

What About the Nonsense Word?

I can hear you asking, “Wait, but the title of this article says it’s a ‘nonsense’ word! WE WERE PROMISED A NONSENSE WORD!”

The thing is, I’ve always been bad at leaving well enough alone; it wasn’t long before I started thinking of other letters to add to my pithy catchall. “SHARP” quickly expanded into the far more unwieldy “SHARPAWIDUS,” which I’ll admit, isn’t quite as snappy and sounds more like either an obscure dinosaur or a dubstep DJ (but perhaps I repeat myself).

Still. It gets the job done for me. “SHARP”—later “SHARPAWIDUS”—became a sort of checklist. Not a prescriptive formula or anything so crass; more like, an Aristotelian collation of elements I’ve observed are particularly satisfying, and which I can consult whenever I feel like I’m stuck in the writing or revising trenches.

I’m not a playwright anymore (at least in any dedicated way; you can’t ever truly leave the theater behind). Now I spend my energy and time writing books, my first and truest love. And despite the fact that every novelist has an unlimited budget when it comes to elaborate set pieces and special effects, as well as an ability to direct the audience’s eye to specific things no matter how small, I find I still constantly refer back to the lessons I learned as a playwright to help craft a style of suspense that’s necessarily rooted in character and circumstance.

In fact, my newest book, When the Wolf Comes Home (wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025), was written in an explicit attempt to marry both approaches. I wanted to embrace the novel’s ability to create elaborate set pieces of action and chaos and external threat, but also ensure that as much of the breathless, seat-gripping, palm-besweattening suspense came as much from the characters and their circumstances as any no-budget play I’ve ever written. (So far, early response seems to indicate that I did my job—Stephen King even called it “a classic”—for which I’m exceedingly grateful and gratified.)

When Writer’s Digest asked me to write a little about creating suspense, then, I figured I could trot out the old classic tricks like “short sentences,” “onomatopoeia,” “escalating action,” “show the bomb under the table” (all of which are classics for a reason; they are definitely effective tricks you should use) . . . or I could introduce you to my friend, SHARPAWIDUS, in the hopes that, at the very least, it’s ridiculous enough to help you unlock your own nonsense word to describe the things you think should be in a good, suspenseful story.

I should probably tell you what the hell this all means, though, so lemme back up a bit more.

SHARPAWIDUS

Stands for:

Stakes
Humor
Anticipation
Resistance
Plots
Animosity
Withholding
Interruptions
Decisions
Unsustainability
Stichomythia

Some of these might need some elaboration, so, you know the drill by now. Lemme back up one more time.

Stakes

This one’s obvious, I know, but it’s amazing how often remembering stakes is the key to everything. Think they’re high enough? Raise ’em. Is it the next chapter? Raise ’em again. But what does it mean to raise the stakes?

It means you’ve gotta give your character(s) something they clearly don’t want to lose, and then make it more and more likely they’ll lose it. Better yet, make them lose it and see what else they stand to lose now. Whether it’s their safety or their innocence or their understanding of the world—or whether it’s an arm or a head or a loved one.

As soon as we really feel what matters to your character(s), the more we’ll begin dreading the idea that we might have to get it taken away. That’s where the suspense comes in . . . and then rises as we watch the character(s) try to deal with / prevent their losses in hopefully unpredictable ways.

Humor

This one might be the hardest to calibrate. Too much humor and your suspense deflates. Not enough humor and the experience becomes a slog. The trick, I find, is to make sure the humor is grounded—or, to put it another way, that it’s coming from the inside, not the outside.

One way I like to think of it is to remember that no character wants to be in tension . . . but you as the author don’t have to give your characters what they want. If the tension is still there after the joke fails to dispel it? Oooh, that can make for some exquisite suspense.

Anticipation

Another obvious one, almost to the point of redundancy, but it can be helpful to remember that when we talk about “suspense,” we really mean a feeling of anticipation. When we know something is going to happen next and we want to know how it plays out.

You can help facilitate this feeling by putting approaching landmarks on the story timeline. Give the characters things to anticipate, whether they’re big events (the prom is next week!) or tiny reactions (she’s going to be so mad at me!). Mix this ingredient with a little bit of Interruptions (see below) and you’ve got some combustible suspense fuel.

Resistance

Not in the Star Wars Rebel Alliance sense, but rather something more internal. In fact, this idea actually comes from acting training. Some of the best notes I’ve ever received as an actor were reminders to resist the story you’re trying to perform.

A few examples: The most compelling way to play drunk is to try to act as sober as possible; the most realistic-looking way to perform a fall is to try to remain standing while your body goes down; the most effective way to elicit sobs from the audience is have your character desperately try not to sob.

Taking the premise of this idea into the writing realm, then: If there’s an emotional state you hope to create, or a payoff you hope to reach, the more your characters can actively resist it—until the absolute breaking point—the more engaged and invested your reader will become. Note that this doesn’t mean avoiding or ignoring the situation; I like the word Resistance because it very much implies an active fight against what may or may not be inevitable.

Plots

Note that it’s “plots,” not “plot” (nor “plotz,” bubbeleh). I don’t mean this in a “Good books have a story” way. You already have a story; why else would you be writing? Rather, to activate that story, make sure your characters are plotting things. It doesn’t have to be George R. R. Martin-level schemery, but it’s often not enough to say every character needs a “want”—try giving them each a private plan they’re actively following, too.

The suspense comes from wondering which plots, if any, will succeed, and watching them ricochet in unexpected ways. To quote William Shakespeare (another playwright of some note): “O, ’tis most sweet, when in one line two crafts directly meet.”

Animosity

It’s great when someone central to your story dislikes something—or someone—so much that it propels them. The thing I like about this word is it implies an activating, animating force. It feels more dynamic than just plain old hate.

Also, hate is hard to hide; animosity can be tucked away for later. It can create false pretenses, betrayals, uncomfortable alliances, etc. All the stuff of good, suspenseful drama—particularly if the reader knows about this animosity but other characters don’t. (I find this is a particularly useful element to keep in mind when juggling an ensemble.)

Withholding

Here’s a technical one. Whether it’s depicting a character’s reaction before revealing what they’re reacting to, or ending a chapter on a cliffhanger, or having someone remember something important but not revealing the memory until a choicer moment, withholding bits of information from the reader is a great way to keep them on the hook for more.

The tricky part is to not overdo it, because then it can start to feel like a cheat. Or worse, we can forget what we were supposed to be waiting for in the first place.

Click to continue.

Interruptions

This is a big one, and it’s kind of like the external version of Resistance. If you want to keep people on their toes, don’t let your scenes end the way they’re supposed to. There’s probably an ending or a button that feels *correct* to you, which means chances are the reader feels that way, too.

That’s a great opportunity to knock people off balance a little. Interrupt that *correct* ending with something that forces the characters to make another, messier decision, big or small (We love Decisions!). I like to use Interruptions as a rule for dialogue, too.

In life, the opportunities to monologue are few and far between. One of the best acting observations I ever got (from director Anne Bogart) is something I’ve carried over into my writing: Almost always, the person you’re talking to knows what you’re saying before you finish your sentence. Choose the moments where a character can speak uninterrupted very, very wisely. (See also “Stichomythia” below.)

Decisions

If I can be grossly reductive for a moment, I think the main reason we love stories is because we’re creatures who learn by example. We’re fundamentally compelled to see how hypothetical situations and/or conundrums might play out. (That’s why stories where the reactions seem arbitrary or ungrounded can feel almost like a betrayal.)

As such, the more Decisions you can force your character(s) to make, the better. As long as those Decisions feel believable, or at least intriguing, we’ll keep leaning in to see what happens next. There’s such delicious suspense to be found in waiting to see what a character will do . . . and also then whether or not they did the right thing.

Unsustainability

The worst things in life are the best things for stories, aren’t they? If there’s a situational element or a relationship or a character trait in your story that we just know is going to fall apart, we’re gonna be watching with glee and/or horror for the moment we’re proven right.

Stichomythia

One more technical one. This is a dramaturgical term describing when two characters trade alternating lines of dialogue in what would otherwise be a single verse speech. What it really means, though, is that great, tennis-match-feeling of characters trading short, snappy reports until the exchange builds to a climax. This is a wonderful technique for dialogue writing (see Interruptions) above, but the concept of stichomythia can carry into the structure of a good suspense scene, as well.

Rather than play a rising event through one character’s POV, try breaking it up into alternating character perspectives, so we get a more panoramic sense of a situation that’s bigger than one person can take in. This helps things move faster and also allows you for all sorts of mini-cliffhangers that ratchet up the tension even further.

(I think, as far as text layout goes, Stichomythia might also be another word for “skimmability,” too. This might be controversial, or even heretical, to say but in a good action scene, skimmability can be an asset. You want your reader to feel a certain rush trying to find out what happens next, and short lines that alternate information make for a great way to build a breathless momentum.)

***

And there you have it! “SHARPAWIDUS.” What do you think? Too unwieldy? Too general? Too obvious? Hopefully I backed up enough to give you enough runway to—

Oh wait! I totally forgot one more letter! One more essential ingredient to suspense. Maybe even the most important one. Namely:

WEREWOLVES

I mean, what is a werewolf but a ticking time bomb? A character who knows a bad thing is going to happen at a predictable, but unstoppable, time—and also a character who can’t always be themselves. A shapeshifter. Every good suspense story needs a shapeshifter, right? 

Take, for instance, When the Wolf Comes Home. It’s a story of a young woman named Jess, who’s a frustrated actress living out in LA, working the graveyard shift at a depressing 24-hour diner. One night, after a particularly dreadful shift, she stumbles home, only to find a scared little boy hiding in the bushes. Before she can figure out what to do with him, a horrifying wolf-like monster attacks her apartment complex, and Jess winds up running for her life with the little boy in tow. She quickly realizes this monster is the boy’s father and, unfortunately for her, he’ll stop at nothing to get his son back. Jess is about to learn that when the wolf comes home . . . no one will be spared . . .

Did I mention it’s available wherever books are sold, April 22, 2025?

Thanks for reading.

Check out Nat Cassidy’s When the Wolf Comes Home here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post How One Nonsense Word Helps Me Craft Better Character-Based Suspense appeared first on Writer's Digest.

A lot of stories have been told over the millennia. There is no shortage of repeats and overlaps. But voice can be unique. Voice can distinguish a work from the pack. And voice can lead to writing that only works because it comes from that specific voice. That’s the gold standard.

(Tips for Creating Voice in Your Writing.)

My favorite comics and shows all have it. Dave Chapelle, Maria Bamford, Nate Bargatze. The original (British) version of The Office, Atlanta, Succession. Those stories, those points of view, that dialogue, and those characters only work when presented in their specific, unique voice.

#2. Character counts.

Character is a subset of voice, specific facets of a singular vision. If you cluster enough shining facets together you create a gemstone. Story doesn’t matter if we’re not invested in the characters. It’s the characters we root for, root against, and remember. Much more than story.

The examples are plenty in stand-up and narrative storytelling. Dana Carvey delivers an entire cast of characters in a single stand-up set. You can probably name a few. The famous characters depicted on Saturday Night Live stay with us even when we can’t remember what they said. Roseanne Rosannadanna, Stephan, Darnell Hayes, Linda Richmond. Make them specific, and they will be unforgettable.

#3. Story services voice and character, not the other way around.

If you have a glass of wine, voice and character are the wine. Story is the glass. It holds everything together. You need it. It has to be sound. But what you enjoy, what you feel, is the wine. Story, in and of itself, is rarely what’s most important. Or memorable. The importance of a story-first approach is shouted in how-to books and writing seminars and especially by film and TV executives. But if you create three-dimensional, consistently behaving characters, and set them on conflicting paths, story should take care of itself.

If you ever hear a character say, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this but…” it’s because they’re acting out of character to fit into a pre-ordained template. And often when that happens, the viewer or reader feels the inconsistency and loses interest.

#4. Brevity.

This is paramount in stand-up. Comics refine and hone to deliver their material with not only the fewest words, but the fewest syllables. Television comedy is the same. So is writing novels. Get to the point. Get to the joke. Get to the emotional moment. And in general, start your story as late as possible and end it as quickly as possible.

In working on sit-com scripts, the first scene we all thought was necessary often was cut during production. Or in editing. The audience is smarter than you think. Start the story in motion—they’ll know what’s going on.

#5. Be kind to yourself.

Writing is making mistakes and fixing them. We all write garbage. All first drafts need work. Sometimes a lot of work. Sometimes a toss in the garbage. Don’t beat yourself up when you write something that doesn’t work. Don’t get down when you figure out that you should have gone another way. Those realizations are something to celebrate. Yes, it means you have more work ahead but that’s okay. You’re making it better. The real value in writing is the writing.

I’ve heard of writers who don’t like writing. I don’t understand why they do it. If you don’t like writing, there are other ways to express yourself. Other jobs. Know that it’s a process. Accept that it’s a process. Once in a while something brilliant just flows seemingly out of nowhere. But that’s not the norm. The norm is making mistakes and fixing them.  

#6. Relatability is key.

A character’s wants and needs must ring universal. Seinfeld is a perfect example. Everyone likes to say it’s a show about nothing, but that’s far from true. Seinfeld is a show about selfishness. Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer are the most selfish characters on the planet. That’s why the show has such universal appeal. We understand the selfish impulses those characters feel.

Whether it’s lying to a prospective love interest to make ourselves look better or regretting a hastily made decision like quitting a job. Most of us have the good sense not to act on those selfish impulses. In Seinfeld they do act on them, which is what makes the show so funny. And don’t confuse likability with entertaining. George Costanza is not likable. Kendall Roy is far from lovable. But their behavior is lovely to watch.

Click to continue.

#7. Everyone has an opinion.

When you put voice and character first, it’s sometimes hard for readers or viewers to “get it.” We’re hardwired to be wary of something new. Out of the ordinary. Sometimes something new is loved right away. Often it takes time.

So be careful when soliciting others’ opinions. Any one opinion may or may not have value. But one of my favorite sayings from TV writing is: If you’re at a party with 12 people, and 12 people tell you you’re drunk, then you’re drunk. If everyone gives you the same note, it’s probably correct.

#8. Structure is bullshit.

The idea that a certain signpost in your story has to happen on a certain page number is absurd. As a young writer, I read all the story-structure books and, after 40 years of working as a professional writer, I can tell you this: All those books are written by people who can’t write narrative fiction. Or they can and they’re just trying to pad their bank accounts.

What’s worse, is some non-writing people with authority (film and TV execs, publishers, editors) read those story structure books and try to apply the books’ professed wisdom to the work they’re overseeing. The result is rarely good. Story should be developed from the inside out. It can be a messy process, but that’s okay. Characters need to behave consistently. If you hammer them into place to fit a story template, their integrity will shatter. And your viewers will disengage.

#9. Show don’t tell is overblown.

Another outsider’s note. Something people learn from a book or in a writing class. It’s only true some of the time. Sometimes viewers or readers want to be told, especially to move things along. Sometimes it’s better to show. Showing can evoke more emotion. But neither show nor tell is best for all situations.

It’s human nature to like having stories told to us. That gets back to voice. We love when someone can take us to a new place in an interesting, moving way.

#10. Work ethic.

I began my professional writing career writing stand-up material for myself. I then wrote television. I’ve written stage plays and screenplays. Now I write novels. One thing is true for all mediums—it’s a job. Or as I like to say, “It’s a butt-in-a-chair job.” Treat it like one. Write when you’re inspired and, more importantly, write when you’re not inspired.

We all have bad days. We all get off track. We all have doubts. But you won’t have anything if you don’t write. Some people set goals by time. I do it by word count. Power through, day after day, whether it takes one hour or 14. No shortcuts. No formulas. No antenna-like receiving from the universe. Just write.

Check out Matt Goldman’s The Murder Show here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post 10 Things I’ve Learned About Writing From Being a Stand-Up Comic and in the Writer’s Room of Emmy Award-Winning TV Shows appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(How to Mix Humor With Horror in Fiction.)

Whether it’s satire, dark comedy, or absurdist fiction, such work uses humor as the means of making a larger point, as a means of seduction, as a beguiling and subversive way of addressing disturbing subject matter. (Calvino speaks of how “everything in life that we choose and value for its lightness quickly reveals its own unbearable heaviness.”)

When we think of high school reading lists and long-winded classics, we don’t often think of humorous writing. But humor’s roots in fiction are deep. Don Quixote is a rollicking, laugh-out-loud picaresque, a metafictional spoof of chivalric antecedents. Tristram Shandy involves, among other things, an episode of self-circumcision via a strangulating window treatment. The master prose stylist, Nabokov, wrote of deranged professional jealousy and proscribed love affairs, using humor as the honey trap. We laugh at Humbert Humbert; we think him ridiculous; but in the end, we weep at the denuded tragedy of the object of his obsession.

Write a Complaint Letter

My first attempt at dark comedy involved writing complaints from the point-of-view of a curmudgeonly neighbor. Complaint letters, letters to the editor, epistolary writing generally, are all good ways of experimenting with a humorous tone. 

Imagine a ridiculous personage like Akaky Akakievich, the bureaucrat in Gogol’s The Overcoat, or Ignatius J. Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces—for me, assuming such guises has always yielded rich fodder. Invent an affected voice, verbal tics for the character, and begin writing a complaint letter!

Pay Attention to the Voice and the Tone of Your Narrator

Humor is driven by and depends so much on tone. More than plot-heavy types of writing, humor depends on character and voice to express a particular viewpoint. Find a model. Choose a paragraph from a humorist/absurdist writer as a jumping off point. Think about what is driving the humor—the voice, the syntax, the juxtaposition of thoughts (humor will often rely on absurd deflation, an undercut). Imagine a similar set-up. 

I remember a passage from Infinite Jest where one of the characters, an addict, is staring at a cockroach on the wall of his apartment. Not exactly thrilling subject matter. But it’s not (as in plot-driven fiction) the situation that’s luring the reader in, but the voice. I worked on creating a similar, obsessive voice with a singular fixation. That exercise gave rise to my law firm stories—all from the obsessive, singular point of view of an overworked character trapped in the life they’ve chosen, viz. the tragic aspect. 

The more absurd the situation—in one, a woman is trying to clean out the attachments of her breast pumping apparatus, the absurdly named Pump-and-Go, in the office pantry, reflecting on the dilemma of satisfying neither her child or her bosses, who in the end will likely pass her over for partnership because she is perceived as insufficiently committed—the better. It’s the absurdity and proliferation of detail, the obsessive ruminations, the pile-up of clauses that make the work funny.

Choose Absurd Character and Brand Names

Speaking of details, absurd names add to the humor. Think of George Saunders’ capitalized corporate speak; of “Catch-22,” a term denoting an impossible situation or double bind, which of course has entered the lexicon. Or the names of Pynchon characters like Oedipa Maas or Saäre Bummer. 

I’ve named several psychologists Dr. Fein, capitalizing on the pun. I also like coming up with absurd drug names like Soliloquil and Somnambulis—the names of real pharmaceuticals themselves being ridiculous.

Revel in (More) Absurdity

Reflect on inherently absurd situations. Medical billing and abstruse codes. Bureaucratic snafus. Lawsuits and the law give rise to absurdity almost by definition. The never-ending trial in Bleak House; or the schoolboy savant in JR who amasses a fortune in penny stock holdings, a send-up of the American capitalist dream. Think of the trial of Josef K.; the very title is ironic.

Focus on the Inverse Relationship Between the Tragic and the Comic

Consider the tension between the situation (tragic) and the voice (comic). The inverse relationship between the two gives rise to the humor and the pathos. My first novel, Someday Everything Will All Make Sense, involves a bumbling professor of medieval music whose mother chokes to death on a wonton. But he rivals Ignatius J. Reilly in terms of appearance and peculiar affectations, and he ends up prosecuting an absurd lawsuit against the Chinese take-out for what is essentially an accident—the humor that leavens the tragic aspect.

The voice of the narrator in my latest novel, The Vixen Amber Halloway, is hyperliterate and over-the-top, in the manner of Humbert Humbert; from the opening we sense a screw is loose somewhere in the psychic apparatus. We learn Ophelia’s husband has been sleeping with his mistress at a motel called the Minnie Ha-Ha. The juxtaposition of the high and the low, of an affected voice and the ridiculous detail, adds to the comic effect.

Enchant the Reader

Remember Nabokov’s first precept: All great writing shares the quality of enchantment. Like a fairytale, it casts a spell; it is incantatory, mesmerizing the reader, making them want to continue to turn the pages.

Check out Carol LaHines’ The Vixen Amber Halloway here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post 6 Tips for Writing a Dark Comedy appeared first on Writer's Digest.

What is humor? In my view, it’s just a way of communicating (other ways include dictation, criticism, and bloviating). According to The Mosaic Project, a youth organization that teaches kids effective communication, all communication breaks down to three things: your body language, what you say, and how you say it. 

In children’s books, this triumvirate works in both words and pictures, and is supported by a funny story. So, if you want to make kids laugh, make sure you’re using all the tools.

Body language:

1. Facial expressions. Whether it’s the epic feeling of despair, a conniving look of mischief, begging Bambi eyes, or a suspicious side eye, hilarious facial expressions are key. Bill Watterson, the creator of Calvin and Hobbes, is the undisputed master, so study him closely.

2. Body expressions. The body says just as much as the face, through slumped shoulders, hanging upside down off a chair with all-consuming boredom, or funky dance moves. In the Cosmic Adventures of Astrid and Stella, best frenemies Astrid and Stella use their bodies in all these ways and more to humorously communicate how they’re feeling.

What you say:

3. Creative contrasts. One of our readers’ favorite lines is from Bananas for You!: “I love you more than undies love butts!” This makes kids laugh for a few reasons. First, it’s surprising. We often hear love compared to sweet things like candy or the moon (and back), but butts? Speaking of butts, this phrase anthropomorphizes both rumps and underwear, asking the reader to imagine: “What if undies and butts could talk?” (well, butts do talk, sort of . . .) Finally, it brings in hyperbole and a funny metaphor—the conceit that undies really, really do love butts, which makes surprising logical sense, because without them they’d have no reason to exist—no ifs, ands, or butts! (See what I did there? I threw in a pun for good measure!).

4. Kid logic. Kids have their own logic and universal feelings that are wholly relatable to other kids but make no sense to adults. For example, in The Cosmic Adventures of Astrid and Stella, Stella dramatically declares “I hate naps!”—which is funny because what kid has not experienced that feeling before? In My Dad is Amazing!, the narrator declares: “My dad is smarter than a super smartypants!” This is funny because “super smartypants” is both fun to say (alliterative, and uses the word “pants” which is just inherently amusing) and captures how kids think about intelligence, which has nothing to do with the adult world of IQ tests, education, or advanced degrees.

How you say it:

5. Word play. All kids love a good play on words, whether it be a pun, a joke, alliteration, an onomatopoeia, or a funny metaphor. For example, in The Cosmic Adventures of Astrid and Stella, Stella, a flying squirrel, exhorts: “No, no, no with a double topping of NO!” describing a familiar feeling with a highly relatable ice cream metaphor that makes kids laugh out loud. Many of our books, including Sloth and Smell the Roses and Super Pooper and Whizz Kid: Potty Power!, have funny, punny titles, which signals right away to the reader that they’re in for a treat.

6. Word choice. Some words are just innately funny to say, like “bananas,” “squirm,” or “toot.” Since children’s books are meant to be read aloud, picking words that are delightful to speak out loud is a great way to entertain. Bonus points if the funny words also rhyme.

7. Hyperbole. Several of our books are built around hyberbole, including My Mom is Magical!, My Dad is Amazing!, and You are Fantastic! Kids are small, so it’s both empowering and fun to talk about huge, enormous things, especially comparisons like “a ton of puppies!” or “a pile of pancakes!”

8. Visual puns. A visual pun can augment a verbal pun or be a joke unto itself. For example, in The Cosmic Adventures of Astrid and Stella, Bobo the robot delivers a straight-faced robotic aside that “Someone’s in a fowl mood,” while holding up a rubber chicken (deadpan humor is sometimes the best, because it sets up the contrast between funny/not funny). In Sloth and Smell the Roses, the reader is invited to “feel their anger boil and steam,” which is illustrated by a hugely enraged but physically tiny teapot (many kids can relate!).

Finally, the following elements can add to humor:

9. Situation. Everyone’s familiar with TV “sit-coms” which draw humor from funny, relatable situations. In Thanks a Ton!, we set up a fundamentally humorous situation: A little elephant is SO grateful that words just aren’t enough, so it tries to thank the reader with a growing pile of grateful STUFF—including a hilarious assortment of totally random things like a crocodile, a St. Bernard, a “holy moly cow,” and even a kitchen sink!

10. Crossing boundaries. Have you noticed that humans laugh when they’re nervous? Laughter releases anxiety, especially fear of social isolation incurred by breaking rules. Kids are natural boundary-testers so they LOVE laughing about things that make grown-ups mad or squirm, but that are normal and natural, like farts. In Goodnight Baboon!, a cheeky baby baboon repeatedly goes AWOL at bedtime, streaking, playing the electric guitar, snorkeling in the tub (while farting underwater), and using his toothbrush as a microphone. This is funny because it tests real-life boundaries in a situation that makes a lot of parents exhausted and furious. However all’s well that ends well: The baby baboon falls asleep and he and his caregiver exchange one big hug—and everyone gets to laugh along with the baby baboon and their caregiver at the ridiculous futility of bedtime power-struggles.

11. Engaging the reader. Bringing the reader in on the joke is a great way get a giggle. For example, at the end of ABC Dance! after a parade of animals dance through the alphabet in witty rhyming couplets, the reader is spontaneously invited to join the fun: “Hey, is that YOUR toe tapping? Well c’mon, strut your stuff!”

There are three more things that I want to underscore about making kids laugh out loud:

12. Respect the reader. Have you ever had an author, teacher, or person of any description talk down to you or tell you what to do? Not funny, right? Nope. Moving on…

13. Respect yourself. Great humor requires confidence. Laugh at yourself in a kind-hearted way, and the reader will laugh with you.

14. Have a heart. There’s a huge difference between laughing WITH and laughing AT, especially with sensitive, earnest, and vulnerable kids (and adults). Laughing WITH characters empowers them, because humor helps us gain control of an awkward situation. Laughing AT a character takes power away. So, rather than showing a banana peel landing on a child’s head (laughing AT), show them slipping on a banana peel, striking a funny pose in mid-air, and landing on their feet (laughing WITH).

Ultimately, great humor is empowering. It helps us make sense of the world, and find relief from our very human anxiety over the absurdity of our existence. Kids and parents need this more than ever in a world that often feels big, scary, and out of control. 

As a children’s book author, you have the power and privilege to provide a little humorous release (just like a fart!) and comfort to readers. As the narrator sagely opines in our book Hang in There!: “where there is humor, there is hope!”

The post Tickling Funny Bones: 14 Tips for Crafting Humor in Children’s Books appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(5 Things All YA Novels Need to Succeed.)

This put me in quite a pickle when I wanted to write my first book about a protagonist who had bipolar disorder. Nothing about bipolar disorder is inherently funny. I needed to process my own recent diagnosis and find a way to believe that everything was going to be okay. I told my husband, “I’m going to write a book about mental illness, and no one is going to kill themselves in it. There will also be a pug dog in it, and the dog will not be dying either. These are my requirements.”

How to balance humor with emotion wasn’t even something I considered. I just needed to write. So I started writing the book.

In the book, whenever the protagonist, Natalie, was in an emotional situation, she would turn to jokes to relieve the tension. A mentor friend of mine (Katherine Fleet) pointed out to me, “It’s interesting that Natalie likes to hide any deep emotion behind a wall of humor. She needs to be more vulnerable with the reader.”

I felt like responding, “Okay, Katherine. Are we talking about Natalie here, or are we talking about me? Because I can stop emailing you memes, but that’s your loss because my memes are hilarious.”

But she was right. Not only did Natalie need to lower her guard, but her author did too. It can be difficult to sustain emotional scenes. Sad and scary things make me feel, well—sad and scared. But once I realized the importance of these scenes, I got better at entering that brain space. Especially while revising, I looked at my jokes and asked myself what each one’s purpose was. If its purpose was to break tension in an emotional scene, I generally took it out. Katherine helped me write Natalie in a way that didn’t shy away from deeply vulnerable and emotional moments.

The reader needs those scenes to feel what your character is feeling and follow along on their emotional journey. When it came time to draft my newest book, Shooting for Stars, I carried that newfound awareness with me. I’ve learned that, as is true with most things in life, you need a balance of serious and silly.

Check out Christine Webb’s Shooting for Stars here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

Shooting for Stars is about a teenaged astronomer whose mom died (not funny), and she lives with a dad so dedicated to his work that he doesn’t take care of basic needs around the house (also not funny). She has a pet rat named Five (kind of funny), and her scientist dad starts dating a famous make-up vlogger (very funny).

When I try to balance humor and emotion in my books, it feels like I’m snorkeling. I like things to be fun and light, like at the surface where you can, you know, BREATHE. But if you always stay at the surface, you miss out on a lot. Dive deeper, and you see the intricacies of the coral and the brilliant colors of the fish. You can look a fish dead in the eye and marvel at the fact that, for this brief moment, you have a tiny connection with this being who you will in all likelihood never see again. There’s magic under the water.

Perhaps you’re reading this and thinking, Pfft! All of my writing is already deeply emotional. What are you trying to tell me here? Well, I have a friend, Kacey, who was struggling in the opposite direction. Kacey’s writing is deep and thought-provoking and occasionally tragic. Yet the industry kept telling her that her books weren’t “light” enough, and she would say to me, “I’m writing about a debilitating terminal illness. What part of that is supposed to be light?!”

Back to the snorkeling analogy: Kacey can stay underwater way longer than I can, but eventually everyone needs to breathe. When she worked on her next novel, her goal was to add some levity to the gravity, and—voila! A cranky cat named Gibbs appeared. Her characters didn’t have to be hilarious, she didn’t need to make light of a sad situation, and her writing style didn’t need a complete overhaul. She just needed to give us readers some space for air. A socially adverse and sometimes feral ball of fur is great for that.

When starting a new writing project, I recommend asking yourself if your tendency is to swim at the surface or to stay down among the coral. Find ways to balance both in your work, in a way that stays true to your characters and your voice. Over time, you’ll learn to enjoy the benefits of both spaces, and your reader will be more willing to take the dive with you from start to the end.

The post Humor in YA Fiction: A Serious Post appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(5 Things Romance Writers Do to Win Over Readers.)

In my mind, these two practices were absolutely and completely separate. The world of comedy and comedians taught me time and time again that concepts like true love, meet cutes, and happy endings were to be regarded with the heavy-lidded, cynical gaze of a Soviet cigarette vendor. Shame, the ultimate renewable energy source, had been such a potent motivator in so many other facets of my life! But for some reason, when it came to my fixation with kissing scenes and late-night arguments in the rain, I couldn’t keep myself from blurring the lines.

Each time my fingers met the keys to work on one of my private works, I was drawn to ridiculous metaphors, goofy lists, strange side-characters, and phrases like “the oral.” Writing 10,000 words of grounded human interaction and action-packed plot felt like walking barefoot across hot gravel. But dialogue between two women discussing a shared dream of hiring whoever did Kim K’s laser hair removal to do their lower backs? That would fly right out of me.

Meanwhile, Comedian Betty would, as an ongoing bit, read sex scenes she’d written on stage—featuring aliens and blond men and ridiculous descriptions of orgasms and high school history teachers (real and fake). I once opened for a Riverdale podcast where I read my own (crafted specifically for the show, I swear!) Riverdale fan fiction.

I think writers universally feel an unimaginable pressure to Say Something when they write a book; to Speak Truth; to win awards and mold minds and bring about some sort of change for the better through the power of their prose. Books are Serious because they’re made out of ink and paper, unlike TV shows which are made out of magnets and Liberal Propaganda. My writing needed to be serious, no? And if it wasn’t serious that was a personal failing, right?

Similarly, there’s an erroneous belief that sexy and funny are opposites—and that goofy and sexy are mortal enemies. That the comedic scope of a rom-com is limited to peripheral characters who speak in catch-phrases and have poor personal hygiene. But it was becoming clear to me as I wrote more and more that funniness—as a character trait and a way of communicating information—would always take center stage for me.

And with that belief, I began to (bravely, so bravely) posit: Is sexiness not also the art of surprise, as comedy is so often called?

Megan Thee Stallion, poet laureate of the decade in my humble opinion, is the queen of blending the ridiculous and sexy into a swirling, decadent treat that’ll make you laugh out loud and blush—as any good romantic comedy should! Meg leverages classic comedic writing tools to surprise, delight, and keep listeners on their (curled) toes: the rule of three, misdirections, absurdity, simile. I’ve listened to “WAP” more times than I can count, and it still makes me laugh out loud. It’s a deeply funny song, and like a lot of really good jokes, there’s a whole swathe of people who just did not get it.

Megan’s writing works because her wit is sharp and direct; she sticks the landing every time. She uses very few words, and yet says so much.

I took note. Then, I started writing Summertime Punchline.

Check out Betty Corrello’s Summertime Punchline here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

I too wanted to create a tone and voice that was consistent and, sorry to use such a sexual word, taut. A well-crafted romance skates a razor-thin line between farce and fantasy, not unlike Meg’s music. Maybe I wasn’t going to write something Serious. But I would take what I was writing seriously. I was ready to stick the landing. I sharpened my pencil like it was a katana.

Quick note on that metaphor: I did not use a pencil to write this book. I used a laptop.

A good romance writer never wants their heroine, hero, or love interests to be the butt of the joke—they’re maybe just the center of the joke. The joke nucleus. Del serves as my joke nucleus by narrating the story with her distinctly comedic voice. 

Maybe your joke nucleus is a dysfunctional family, a cast of whacky side characters, or a particularly juicy Fish Out Of Water situation. But ultimately, the allure of a good comedy and a good romance are the same: voyeurism. Hearing, seeing, and naming things that we aren’t supposed to.

In hindsight, it’s easy to piece this all together so nicely. But allowing myself to reframe joke writing as a sexy endeavor—and to reframe sexy writing as inherently subversive and a comedy gold rush—took a lot of unpacking.

I was completely misguided to think that these parts of myself needed to be separate, and I will forever challenge the idea that sexy and funny are opposites. It was an outdated, limiting personal belief that I can only blame on ignorance and youth. Which is crazy, because I just turned 16 and I still have so much to learn!!!

The post Funny Isn’t the Opposite of Sexy appeared first on Writer's Digest.

What makes you laugh?

What made you laugh when you were little?

Jot those down. The following are some things to be aware of and some techniques, tips, and tricks to try when writing humor for children. 

Pre-Writing Mindset

Originality

This is one of the most important elements of comedy. If you are not afraid to express your weird (I hope) and wonderful (surely) sense of humor, you are ahead of the game. Trust that what you think is funny, other people will find funny too. What makes you laugh is your North Star.

Photo Op!

Find a photo of yourself as a kid. Frame it and put it on your desk. Framing it gives a sort of permanence to it. It’s like the kid in you is sitting there saying: “Yeah, I’m on the playground! Let’s do this!”

I’ve had mine on my desk since I started writing for animation years ago. Age three, in a two-sizes-too-big velvet dress, circled by cats, on cinder-block steps in front of our trailer, grinning. There’s something about this photo that constantly reminds me of a few things: simplicity, don’t try to be too fancy, the joy of animals. Also: find a good tailor.

Eileen Robinson, editor and owner of the Charlesbridge imprint Charlesbridge Moves, shared in a workshop that she does this and encouraged us to do the same. I can’t overstate the importance of this step. It supports not just finding the funny, but connecting with an important kid—you!

Types of Humor

Is Body Humor for You?

Kids won’t usually laugh at sophisticated things or get wry, sarcastic, dry humor. In exchange, they do love body humor. Remember, they are just understanding their bodies and they are literally growing as they read. So, it makes sense. It makes them giggle, or downright burst with bubbly laughter. And part of that is seeing our reactions when we read it to them. That can be funny to them.

As Tarō Gomi asks in the classic Everyone Poops: “Which end is the snake’s behind?” It’s not for everyone, but nearly every kid is ready to laugh at this. Don’t force it, and don’t pander. But, if you write something along these lines and think, This is fun-nee, keep it.

Consider Slapstick

Another way to get extra jokes is extra slapstick. Cartoons and silent films contain plenty, which are globally translatable.

Physical Humor and Action Can Crack ’em Up!

If you have a knack for describing physical action, it plays well to younger readers. They light up when they imagine the ridiculous images you’ve created. Adam Rex does this throughout The True Meaning of Smekday which is one reason kids love it:

When they passed and were only feet from our restroom, I grabbed an empty milk bottle and hurled it across the street. It crashed and spread glass all over the floor of one of those stores that sells electric nose hair trimmers and solar-powered vacuum cleaners. The noise or the motion or both set off two Dancin’ Santas and a robot dog. The Gorg turned around and went to investigate where all that barking and Feliz Navidad was coming from.

This is partly why cartoons are so popular with kids and have been since their invention. Viewership declines as kids get older, and it’s no wonder: young kids in particular love watching the physical gaffs and gags.

The rise of graphic novels in every age group includes an array of humorous tomes. A great thing about graphic stories is you can sometimes get more jokes on a page.

First Drafts

Be Quick

Making kids laugh requires brevity and clarity. Their attention span is shorter, we know this. But it bears repeating and hitting hard with a wet noodle. It’s also good practice for making anyone laugh.

Tone

Tone varies wildly and can be subtle. “The Epic Tales of Captain Underpants,” Minions, “Angie Tribeca,” and “Seinfeld” are all comedies, but the tone of each is different. From the characters’ personalities to the way they appear to the way the characters are shot and lit, the tone is set and the rest follows. Write everything within the set tone. This is like reading the room. Feeling the vibe. Are we writing ridiculous shenanigans or gentle sloping humor? Tone trickles throughout the story, the characters, their relationships, and individual jokes. So, we might have a fantastic joke but need to cut it—it’s out of character or doesn’t fit the project.

Joke Structures

Lists: things on the list get funnier as the list goes on.

Set-up/punch one liners: the first part is serious, has emotion and a strong viewpoint behind it, then the punch twists the idea, possibly making the first part mean something completely different.

Stories: a character with a goal gets into more and more ridiculous situations, says hilarious things, meets funny friends and frenemies along the way, gets into loads of trouble, then weasels their way out of it.

Exaggerate

It’s common for a comic to get one laugh on a bit and move on—whoa! No! There’s more meal to be chewed, there’s some fat on that! Grab that grub! Take the joke further.

Make a Big Mistake

There are two reasons I support mistake-making. First, we know that failure means we tried. It also means if the mistake is wrong enough, we can make someone laugh. Kids will engage with this endlessly until they’re certain we’re all idiots. Even then, they’ll try to help us. (So kind.) Haven’t you met a kid who is having their fifth birthday and said:

YOU: Well, how did the test go?

BDAY KID: What test?

YOU: Your driver’s license test. You’re driving right?

BDAY KID (laughing, confused, pleased): NO!!! That’s silly!

Roll Around in Wordplay Like a Muddy Puppy

Do a deep dive on the following and see which ones come more naturally. If you pick one to work on each week, in a month you’ll have quite the arsenal.

• Alliteration: The same consonant occurs two words or more in a row. E.g., pudgy puppy.
• Assonance: Same, but with vowel sounds. E.g., a fleck of heck.
• Consonance: A variation of alliteration except the consonants repeat in the middle and end instead. E.g., Elle was at the mall with all of her elves.
• Onomatopoeia: My favorite. Sounds coming alive! Whoosh!
• Similes: Compare two ideas. The thing and the idea of something the thing could be like. Like is often a tip-off that similes are in the vicinity. Similes plus imagination allow for very fun images. E.g., Mrs. Flanners’ footsteps could be heard tromping down the hall like a stegosaurus looking for its next meal—and I was the plant it was going to chew on.
• Metaphors: Connect two things and suggest they are similar in some way. The funny/clever happens if you can surprise us when doing so. E.g., The cop barked orders at the dog.

Puns Are Number One

To us, they can be annoying, groan making, and don’t always translate with a global audience. But, do kids love ’em, or do they just put up with them like we adults do? No matter, I have prepared a pun primer for the punniest among us!

• Similar sounds: Olive juice. I Love you.
• Spellings: When his parents drove off from the sundae shop, Kai was desserted.
• Double Meanings: Did you have French fries in France? No, I could only get ’em in Greece.
• Two in One: The firetrucks are the best part of the parade; the Dalmatians are easily spotted.

Rhyme

Rhyme is a great way to connect with kid readers. It’s the perfect place to sneak in surprise because the rhyme scheme ABAB sets up an expectation of what the rhyme might be, then offering something different. Some stand-up comics use short poems as a joke format to great success.

Write Evocative Sounds, Smells, Feels

This is yet another way to capture hilarity. Bring the funny into the five senses and what we imagine hearing or smelling can be as powerful as what we visualize. In The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex he describes: “Her voice had changed from birdsong to something like the sound of windshield wipers on dry glass.”

Build, Build … Build!

Escalate situations building on what’s working. Think of your comedy like a fireworks show. It starts with something intriguing, bright, shiny, a pop. Then more wild color. Then the big finale; blasting off. All the trouble the character can get into is multiplied until belly laughs are undeniable.

REVISING

Punch-Up Pass

Do a pass just for jokes. Take your goggles, put in the “punch-up lens,” and look for places to up the antics and add wordplay.

Read it aloud!

This is so important. You will catch typos, think of new bits, add, take away, realize it is drooping like a sad-sack-sicle in the middle. Read it aloud to a very funny friend and before you get started, tell them you are looking for ways to escalate what’s already there. Tell them it means you trust them, and you think they’re either as funny as you or funnier.

Start Strong, End Strong

Go over the beginning and ending to tighten them up. Can you start stronger? Can you escalate those fireworks and crackling bits at the end? Can you raise the stakes again with one more (funnier) bit?

Some Things to Avoid

• Kids don’t laugh at the same things as adults do. Concepts that might be funny to an adult might not ring true to a kid because they don’t have that experience, including jokes about adult relationships. Kids don’t often relate to marital/partner/office/co-worker/boss jokes. (The Boss Baby has that whole baby part, so it gets a pass.) Kids relate to and find humor in jokes involving other kids, parents, teachers, caregivers, and so on, the main characters they see in their world. Someone like a loud-burping librarian who can’t help herself and over-apologizes. It’s got physical comedy, but it’s not offensive and although librarians, to me, are near perfect, some might occasionally have to burp!
• Don’t be afraid to get silly yourself. Kids love seeing adults be silly because it’s out of the ordinary. A kid walking into a room to discover their parents acting like their pets, chasing each other, rolling around on the ground, barking or mewing would be funny because it would be unexpected and yet still familiar to the kid.
• Don’t forget about their world and what is important in it and to them.
• Let negativity drizzle down the drain. Writing for kids is helped by getting into a fun headspace. Not always easy to do, it’s true, but any effort to find playful positivity is a step in the right direction.
• But don’t ignore the negativity. Just because you’re writing for children doesn’t mean you have to always be in a fun headspace. The things that drive us nuts or make us mad are fodder for comedy. They need to be molded into hilarity (and to fit the tone of the piece).
• Skip the cynicism and the sarcasm. We don’t have to write for the parents reading the story. If we write genuine, fun, and funny stories that connect with their child, they will love it and will read it again and again. Because they have to.
• When you do repeated passes on a humorous piece, be cautious about changing original jokes from the first draft. Just because it doesn’t feel as funny doesn’t mean it needs to be changed. Remember, we need surprise, and you know what’s in there. Someone who reads that bit for the first time will love it and laugh!
• Don’t write big kid jokes for little kids, and vice-versa. Different aged kids laugh at different things.
• Don’t only watch shows meant for you. Watch shows and read books for all ages, especially the ones you want to write for. It is a requirement for the job. Really. If you’re not interested, you might not be ready to get into the sandbox.

Most Important

Have fun, crack yourself up, and joy will ooze onto the page, likely resulting in your best work. Give yourself permission to get into the mindset of play at every stage, from brainstorming to outline, draft, revision, and second revision. Even when notes are stripping the fun, return to that which makes you laugh. North Star.

BONUS GAME: ABSURD BIRD

• Choose a character from your WIP. If you can’t think of one, choose an unusual bird (one that makes you laugh with their antics!).
• Name them if they don’t have one yet and write it at the top of a blank page.
• Put them in a setting that would be awkward for them. Fish (or bird, as the case may be) out of water style.
• Set the timer for three minutes.
• Release expectations, set aside judgment, prepare for ridiculosity. Remember there are no mistakes with this kind of game—permission to get absurd granted!
• Jot down absurd things that could happen to this bird (or other character) in this place.
• The only rule to follow is to keep the pen going, keep the fingers type-tap-typing.

For example, I am working on a story about a female drummer. Her whole world is her apartment building and school. And her drumkit. I put her on a field trip to the aquarium and set the timer. My absurd findings:

She drums on the glass, gets thrown in aquarium “jail.”

She counts each clown fish to a 2/3 beat; they gather around her and dance to it.

She gets the octopus to drum alongside her in a drummer-duet.

She taps her toes, and an alligator sings a little Dua Lipa back to her.

She gets lost and the janitor asks her to stay put, but she can’t sit still, so she wiggles all the way to a tank of electric eels. They put on a rock show together!

*****

I feel like I have a second story just from playing around, but it makes me want to go back to the last draft and make bold choices.

For more on games and using improv to create comedy writing (or any writing), check out my previous article “Laugh Track” in the July/August 2018 issue of Writer’s Digest.

Click to continue.

The post The First Laugh appeared first on Writer's Digest.

[Scroll to the bottom to see footnotes.]

In other words, humor is delicate stuff, and it’s easy to go wrong. Whether you’re trying to write a humorous story or just inject some levity into a dramatic narrative,^[3] there are many, many more ways to go wrong than right. Humor is subjective, so figuring out why no one’s laughing at your jokes can be a maddening and frustrating process. But a good place to start is to ask yourself: Do you like the things you’re making fun of?

The Mel Brooks Arc

The big mistake people who are actually not very good at being funny make is to assume that humor derives from disdain—that we make fun of the things we despise. This is understandable, because a lot of humor is kind of mean-spirited or predicated on someone else’s misfortune.^[4] The old cliché of someone slipping on a banana peel is the ur-example here: We laugh, at least in part, because someone else has suffered in a ridiculous way. From late-night talk show hosts mocking politicians to your old high school friends making fun of every single thing you do,^[5] humor can be and very often is dark and even cruel.

But that’s really a question of execution—tone and style. The reason your old friends laugh when they see your new haircut is because they have affection for you.^[6] This is because of one simple fact: Humor works better when you know your subject intimately, and that kind of knowledge requires time and dedication—in other words, affection. You have to know your subject really, really well in order to effectively make fun of it, and we usually don’t get too close to things we don’t like and enjoy on some level. That’s why self-deprecating humor works so well: We rarely know a subject better than ourselves.

To demonstrate this, let’s look at the output of a legendary comedian: Mel Brooks. It’s not a stretch to say that Brooks invented the modern film parody with films like Young Frankenstein (a parody of classic Universal horror films from the 1930s) and Blazing Saddles (a parody of classic Westerns), which respectively rock a 94 percent and 90 percent score on Rotten Tomatoes.^[7] Both of those films are still highly regarded and served as the template for later films like Airplane! and even the more recent Scary Movie films. Part of what makes these two films work so well is Brooks’ clear love of the material he’s poking fun at. He clearly knows old horror movies and old westerns, and as a result he has the knowledge to make fun of them effectively. He can find the tiny little details and the common tropes and exploit them for humor.

By contrast, Brooks’ later parodies like Spaceballs (57 percent on Rotten Tomatoes) or Robin Hood: Men in Tights (41 percent) aren’t nearly as successful or as highly regarded, and the reason is clear: He was making fun of things (the Star Wars films, for example) that he didn’t understand or love.^[8] It’s not that his humor turned mean or mocking—mean and mocking can be very funny. It’s that he was no longer making fun of things he knew intimately.

The Inside Track

Effective humor has everything to do with your knowledge of the subject—in order to make fun of something effectively, you have to understand it on a fairly deep level. But the other aspect of effective humor is shared knowledge—your audience has to know as much about your subject as you do, or the jokes will fall flat.^[9]

You can see this in operation with “inside” jokes, those shared jokes you pass back and forth with friends and family and co-workers. Often these jokes are of the “you had to be there” variety, but the point is that “being there” involves intimate knowledge of each other. These jokes are often hilarious to those in the know and completely, bizarrely not funny in any way to anyone on the outside looking in.^[10] The reason they’re funny to you is because you have all the necessary information to see the humor.

If you poke fun at something in your writing that potential readers won’t be familiar with, the jokes simply won’t work. That means you have to put in a bit of side effort to ensure your humor will be effective:

• Education. If the humor will be derived from a universal or widely-shared experience—say, working in an office—you can probably safely assume a large portion of your audience will at least be basically familiar with the aspects you’ll be leveraging for the funny stuff. If you’re going to make fun of something your readers might not be familiar with, though, you’ll need to lace the early going with a crash course so they can get the jokes. For example, in his classic postmodernist novel Infinite Jest,^[11] David Foster Wallace gets a lot of humor out of the main setting of a tennis academy—but he takes care to give the reader a lot of information about what it’s like to play tennis at a high level and attend a program like that, to help them “get” the relatively subtle humor he uses.
• Escalation. Working with humor derived from a subject or circumstance that won’t be immediately familiar to your reader, like an invented organization or maybe even an entire culture in a fantasy novel, you need to warm them up a bit by starting off small and subtle.^[12] This not only gives you time to familiarize your reader with the subject of your jokes, it also eases them into an instinctual understanding of your sense of humor and the aspects of the subject you’ll be poking fun at. Jumping in with a deep, complex meta-joke about a subject you introduced one paragraph ago is not going to work out the way you think it will.
• Permission. It’s often necessary to give your readers permission to laugh at something, to indicate clearly that some aspect of the story is, in fact, a joke. Depending on the overall tone of your book (especially in the early going) and the subject of your humor, it might not be obvious that you are, in fact, joking, so giving the reader the green light to laugh is a useful and sometimes necessary step. This can be accomplished by having a character laugh or otherwise acknowledge the joke or simply via the tone you use in that section. Once you’ve “broken the seal” on the humorous stuff in your story you probably won’t have to do this again—but you shouldn’t hesitate if you think there’s a good reason to repeat the exercise (say, if you shift the tone or style of humor you’re employing).

As a professional writer, remember that it’s your job to entertain, inform, and/or guide your readers^[13]—not to simply amuse yourself.^[14] Ensuring that your audience has the tools and information necessary to “get” your jokes is an absolute necessity.

[Turning the Page Into a Canvas: Helping Readers Visualize Humor]

In On It

Finally, there’s one last aspect of affection that’s required to make your humor really land when you’re making fun of something: bringing your audience inside the circle of trust. You have to make sure your audience understands that you’re not mocking them, even if you are mocking something they very much love and enjoy. Even if you are actually mocking the very people who have been kind enough to take an interest in (and possibly spend money on) your work, you still want them to feel like they’re in on it, like it’s all in good fun.

Again, this requires intimate knowledge. Humor always requires a subject, a target, and even the mildest jokes can bother people if they feel like they’re being othered or excluded. The only way you’re going to avoid insulting folks is to understand very deeply what it is they love about your target in the first place—or, if you’re going to mock them (gently or otherwise), you need to know what are the legitimate targets about them that deserve some mockery. Most of us know we are ridiculous in some ways^[15]; the dividing line between laughing at ourselves and getting angry is that sense that we’re part of the joke, that we’ve been invited to make fun of ourselves.

This requires more than just an academic, or even an experiential, expertise in whatever it is you’re making fun of—it also requires a perspective shift, because people experience, use, and enjoy things in different ways. You might imagine that making fun of something that seems like an easy target—say, a genre of fiction that you find patently silly or pandering—is a slam dunk on the funny meter, but unless you’re actually a fan of that genre yourself you may be painfully and cluelessly unaware of the source of its tropes or the way its themes resonate with people dealing with trauma or angst in their lives. Suddenly what seemed like lighthearted, anodyne humor gets transmogrified into mean-spirited mockery. Not only are you not funny, but you’re actively harmful to boot.

Humor is hard to pull off. It’s easy to miscalculate and offend, irritate, or simply confuse your reader—especially if you’re turning to humor from a negative place and mocking things you dislike or don’t respect. But that kind of easy humor doesn’t always work, because it’s typically shallow and alienating. If you want your readers to be laughing with you, start from a place of knowledge and affection for your subject.^[16]

[1] And as I can sadly attest that being funny by accident is not the superpower you might think it is.

[2] Something I will no doubt prove beyond a shadow of a doubt as these footnotes progress.

[3] If you ever need an example of the Dunning-Kruger Effect, just look for someone who’s pretty sure they’d kill it as a standup comedian.

[4] See: Every single nickname I’ve ever been given throughout my entire life.

[5] Uh … everyone’s old friends do this, right? Oh, god.

[6] This is an entirely random example and has nothing to do with the fact that I spent six years dealing with a cowlick so legendary it was known as The Fin throughout my social circle.

[7] If you have not heard of these films, please imagine the “Matt Damon ages 50 years in Saving Private Ryan” meme here.

[8] Fun fact: Prior to 1977, no one knew what a Star Wars was.

[9] I can have entire, side-splitting conversations with my old high school friends using nothing but “Simpsons” quotes, for example, but when I try this with younger folks I am cruelly mocked. Well, mocked more.

[10] For example, every time I ask my agent about my most recent royalty statements, she just bursts into laughter until I eventually go away.

[11] Someone recently told me they have been reading this doorstopper since 2007, and I immediately and unreservedly believed them.

[12] As a man who has been hitting the same jokes about pantslessness and incompetence since 1995, I think we can all agree I know subtle humor.

[13] Or, if you’re me, occasionally confuse and alarm.

[14] Even if, like me, you are incredibly easy to amuse.

[15] I know what you’re all thinking, and it’s hurtful.

[16] That’s why I usually just make fun of myself in my writing. I’m the foremost expert on Jeff Somers in the world, and I also like myself a lot. Probably a little too much, if these footnotes are any indication.

The post From the Heart appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(4 Tips for Writing a Modern Retelling.)

Not only is Jane Austen known for her sparkling humor and vividly drawn comedic characters, but in Persuasion, her classic tale of second chance romance with all its delicious angst and heart-rending pining, the comedy is a needed counterpoint to two romantic leads who spend a lot of the novel with their heads in the sand. Readers love Anne and Wentworth trying desperately not to make eye contact across a crowded room, but the book wouldn’t be complete without Austenian characters like Anne’s father, who is fond of telling people how much better he’s aging than everyone else—loudly, and repeatedly.

It’s inescapably funny.

There are so many writing guides and seminars devoted to the question of how to write funny; what makes something funny to begin with? Can the slapstick physical comedy of a film be pressed into the pages of a novel without going flat? Can the zingers of a comedic dialogue be as sharp when read silently and heard only in your head? Is comedy innate, or can it be taught?

Well, when tackling the latter bit, the Second City training centers are happy to step in and school any aspiring writer.

It was my mother who pressed me into enrolling, first into their improv class, and then their sketch writing class. The instructors were kind, the classes were fun, but the assignments, as we were slowly coached through them, were mind bending—a series of building blocks, such as character studies, dialogue exercises, and impossible tasks around timing, that only made sense later on when those exercises finally coalesced into scenes. Think of a soccer player drilled endlessly on their footwork before they can even glimpse starring in a game.

We all failed and failed hard at first. Not a single person in our class produced anything remotely funny in the first week, or the second, or even the third. Learning to write in different styles and types of structure can make you feel as awkward and foolish as putting your left shoe on your right foot and then wearing a tea cozy for a hat. (Well, at least at the Second City you wouldn’t stand out for doing just that.)

Check out Melodie Edwards’ Once Persuaded, Twice Shy here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

So when I went to find my funny for Once Persuaded, Twice Shy, I dug out my old notes on the guidelines for writing sketch comedy. Here’s just a few:

• Use the pattern of three, everything’s funnier in threes.
• Establish setting within the first 30 seconds or less. If you’re explaining the scene, you’re not being funny, and you’re chewing up time that could be funny.
• Establish characters with distinct personalities. All the better if they clash!
• Start with low stakes, then escalate. Escalate again. Keep escalating—hey look, a pattern of three!
• Ensure that you include characters of high value, and low. (Value denotes their self-confidence, assurance, and control of the scene)

While this was intended for a sketch format, I decided to translate some of it to my novel.

Alright, I thought, start with characters with distinct personalities. Better if they clash.

My heroine Anne is professional, diplomatic, restrained, and always polite. She just wants everything to run smoothly. Therefore, her assistant Emmie, a secondary character, is blunt, unfiltered, and rabidly enthusiastic about firing people. Her favorite show is Game of Thrones.

Anne would probably offer you a soothing chamomile tea. Emmie would gladly bring a live dragon to work. Their conversations immediately became funny (at least to me!).

Start with low stakes: In the very first chapter they can’t agree on how to handle a misbehaving diva in their theatre company. Anne calmly negotiates. Emmie gleefully threatens.

Escalate: They disagree on best methods for controlling a rogue animal at an autumnal festival, and whether military-grade equipment is an appropriate aide or is just overdoing it.

Then just keep on escalating: Towards the climax of the book a fist-fight breaks out, in which the fate of their theatre company, Anne’s love life, and the well-being of their entire town is to be decided. Anne hesitates on how/if they should break the fight up. Emmie tries to film it for the company newsletter.

I was gleeful writing that last scene. I unashamedly guffawed at my own writing, while crossing my fingers that my readers would enjoy it just as much. And perhaps that’s the most important thing I had learned at the Second City, though I’d neglected to put it in my notes—comedy writing should be fun. It takes practice, it takes work and finagling and revising, but in the end it should be fun.

Can you make yourself laugh? Then you’ve got a better chance your audience will be laughing too.  

The post How to Bring the Funny: From Second City Classes to Novel Writing appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Humor in poetry dates back millennia. Even Homer’s Iliad includes physical comedy, flippant quips, and sick burns (“You spellbinder! You sack of wind!”). The silliness and whimsy that saturate the verses of Shel Silverstein is a huge part of his appeal, and it’s one reason many young writers gravitate to poetry in the first place. Even the lighthearted levity of a rollicking limerick appeals to people who wouldn’t describe themselves as particularly fond aficionados of formal lyric verse.

(Plotters vs. Pantsers in Poetry.)

While not every poem needs to be funny, it can be helpful to consider opportunities to inject levity, or undercut solemnity, or balance a weighty subject. It can also be useful to think about methods for mimicking the structure of a joke, regardless of tone, style, or substance. As poet and professor Michael Theune describes in his influential textbook, Structure & Surprise: Engaging Poetic Turns, successful poems rely on a variety of “turns,” so that lyrics unfold in ways that are both unexpected, and yet perfectly fitting. In this way, we can think of poems as including a number of “punchlines,” regardless of affective intent.

Jokes and their underlying structures feature prominently in my debut book of poems, Yaguareté White. While I hope readers find some of the poems amusing, I’m also interested in the ways humor can mask underlying pain, deception, discomfort, and secrets. In that spirit, here are five ways to play with humor, whether simply for laughs, or as part of a nuanced approach to broadening your poetic purview.

1. Give it character

Poets are quick to differentiate between the speaker of a poem and the writer who composed the piece. (“The speaker isn’t the poet! Except when she is! But even then…”) And while we often refer to speakers and personae, we don’t always think of the other people in poems as characters, per se. But poets can learn from fiction writers in that regard, by creating a foil or mouthpiece or Mary Sue (a stand-in for the author) who can voice ideas or opinions that might not be quite right for the speaker of a poem.

One example occurs in Deaf Republic, the second book by Ukrainian-born poet Ilya Kaminsky, who invents the town of Vasenka. When a deaf child is killed by enemy soldiers, the townspeople also go deaf, and Kaminsky uses the character of Momma Galya to rile up readers. In the poem, “When Momma Galya First Protested,” we get an immediate sense for the kind of character she is:

Later, Momma Galya cajoles:

Deafness isn’t an illness! It’s a sexual position!

Momma Galya’s outspoken confrontations serve as a stark counterpoint to the book’s predominant tone of careful solemnity and unpredictable timeliness. It would be a different book entirely had Kalinsky chosen to write exclusively from the first-person perspective. Writing a memorable character can add new dimensions to a poem and expand a poet’s repertoire of tools.

2. Call out the small moments

When sketching ideas for a new poem, I can be quick to dismiss small moments or passing interactions that I (wrongly) believe don’t rise to the high standard of lyric. But there’s no occasion too mundane or everyday that poetry can’t liven it up with amusing commentary on the human condition. Certainly, amid the never-ending onslaught of emojis and notifications, poets must be well-equipped to remark on today’s fluid technoscape.

A standout example occurs in Tracy Fuad’s “Body of Water 2,” which finds a speaker trapped in that quintessentially post-COVID conundrum of fumbling Zoom etiquette:

I silenced my phone

I willed myself ill

I unmuted myself on the call, but when the goldenrod box appeared around my face
I found I couldn’t speak

And finally someone else piped in to tell the speaker she was muted

Here, a shrugging sense of bemusement strikes twice: once, in the all too relatable dilemmas so many of us face in navigating technical difficulties, and again with a clever reference to a speaker who is muted. Like Fuad, you should take advantage of minor incidents and silly snafus by highlighting the absurdity (or stupidity! or serendipity!) of otherwise unremarkable events.

Check out Diego Báez’s Yaguareté White here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

3. Go meta

Poets have an especially high tolerance for winks, elbow nudges, and nods to the reader. Some people find that obnoxious. We call it art. Even so, poets should take care when approaching the fourth wall before busting it down, as too much cutesy self-consciousness can exhaust even the most tolerant readers among us.

One way to acknowledge the audience without annoying them is to layer in multiple forms of humor before piercing the proverbial veil. A poem by Benjamín Naka-Hasebe Kingsley, “small talk or in my hand galaxies,” achieves this balance in its opening lines, which depict the aftermath of a vehicle break-in:

it looks like the thief rocketed
their whole self through
the bull’s eye of my driver’s side door
and you’re not wrong to expect
the old joke about there being
nothing in my car worth the thieving
or maybe i’ve caught you eye rolling
please god not another
poem about windows

Here, the humor works in a few ways. First, the image of a vandal throwing themselves entirely through the car door is visually amusing. Secondly, Kingsley evokes the “old joke” about items in the car not worth the effort of stealing, but rather than simply deliver it, he places it in the imagined expectations of the reader, a first nod our way. Lastly, Kingsley playfully accuses the reader of rolling their eyes in anticipation of “another / poem about windows.” The multiple layers of humor amplify the direct address.

Don’t get too cute with meta-commentary, but don’t shy away from it either.

4. Don’t be afraid of the dark

By definition, dark humor makes light of uncomfortable, taboo, and despicable subjects. For that reason, it won’t be for everybody. But when employed with careful intention, dark humor can function as an entry point into topics a poet might be unwilling to write about in other ways. A recent example occurs in Melissa Lozada-Oliva’s “Dreaming of You,” in which the speaker admits:

My biggest fear is getting raped and murdered
then getting ripped
to shreds on the internet

To be clear, the speaker’s fear of sexual assault and death isn’t funny. Nor do I believe the poet intends to make light of such violent threats. Of course not. But by pairing a legitimate fear of horrific violence with an equally legitimate, if arguably less severe, fallout from online bullying, the poem juxtaposes traumas of categorically different magnitudes in a way that undercuts the “insult” added to “injury.” It’s not funny or humorous or really even amusing, but the ironic distance of its darkness lends the poem another dimension for us to consider.

Another well-known example is Patricia Lockwood’s courageous and devastating “Rape Joke,” which processes a sexual assault by ascribing the characteristics of the perpetrator to the joke itself: “the rape joke is that he worshiped The Rock.” It’s unspeakably powerful for a poet to unpack such a heavily freighted experience as this. And it can be liberating to harness the power of humor to re-frame, reclaim, or diffuse traumatic events. And, as Lockwood concluded after her poem went viral online, how you approach seriously painful topics is up to you: “You don’t ever have to write about it. But if you do, you can write about it any way you want.”

5. Tease the sacred, embrace the profane

Ages before English Johns (Milton and Donne) set late Renaissance literature alight with bawdy provocations and metaphysical reconsiderations, poets had long become comfortable pirouetting atop the line that demarcates the sacred and profane. Today, readers of poetry have become accustomed to crossing the line between taboo and off-color topics, to the extent that we’ve almost been conditioned to expect it.

One way to titillate readers is to take an otherwise revered object or “thing” (as in the example below) and desecrate it. A clever, delightfully irreverent instance of this plays out in “The Pope’s Penis” by Sharon Olds, which depicts the papal member as hanging “deep in his robes, a delicate / clapper at the center of a bell.” Olds adds to the apropos imagery by further describing it as “a ghostly fish in a / halo of silver seaweed.” Finally, at night:

while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

It’s an undeniably funny image, one readers perhaps never expected to imagine. And yet, here we are: kindly considering an old man’s erection.

Another way to thread an edge of profanity into your poetry is through well-timed, intentional use of good old-fashioned swear words. These can be terribly effective, whether used in careful measure, as in the singular uses of “fuck” and “bullshit” in Allen Ginsberg’s seminal “Howl” (a poem downright drowning in provocative content), or deployed in copious abundance, as in Ariel Francisco’s “They Built a Margaritaville on Hollywood Beach Which Was Once My Favorite Place in the World and Now I Can’t Go Back Because It’s Unrecognizable So Fuck Jimmy Buffett”: “Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.”

Don’t fear curse words. Recite them! Dance wildly around the cauldron of poetic incantation! Hex your readers with humor!

The post 5 Tips for Incorporating Humor Into Your Poetry appeared first on Writer's Digest.