Writing humor is a challenge. At least for me, it is. Not because jokes are difficult to come up with. My daughter and I have been riffing on LotR humor for months now. My favorite so far: “Why did Samwise prefer Rosie Cotton over Éowyn? Because she’s Shire.”
Well, it works better when spoken. Which is my point.
Humor lives or dies on timing, tone, and context, and those are slippery as eels on the page. In A Scabbard of Swords, I’ve spent more time mapping comedic rhythm than I have on battle choreography.
You see, a joke that lands in Chapter 3 needs a callback in Chapter 9, and that callback needs to feel earned, not recycled. Humor, like prophecy, has its own structure.
I love character-driven humor. Situational irony. Food puns. Running gags that evolve. But I’ve learned that what makes me laugh doesn’t always make readers laugh, especially across generations. My son loves the absurdity. My daughter wants the stakes to stay real. My wife is my Pratchett barometer, so if she chuckles, I know I’m on the right track.
The greatest reward for me is when a reader laughs and feels something. When a pun becomes a plot point. When a goat joke loops back to a moment of triumph, however absurd it may seem. For me, that’s when humor becomes storytelling.
Because in the end, humor—like Samwise—always brings us back home.
What’s the last book that made you laugh and feel something at the same time?