"Just trust me, I'm funny."

Or, the weird feeling of trying to sell yourself as a comedic writer without actually promising that you'll make somebody laugh.

One of my deepest, dearest wishes in life is for people to laugh at things I write. While we’re at it, I want them to laugh at things I say in conversation and things I do onstage, but the focus of this newsletter is my writing, so let’s stick with that for now.

But here’s the thing about comedy: it’s really, really hard to define, and people have trying to do it academically for centuries, putting forward all kinds of theories. Most of these efforts end up being pretty unfunny, my own master’s thesis on gender and comedy from 2011 included.

No matter what philosophy of humor you ascribe to, though, it’s safe to say that being funny is broadly about subverting expectations, mostly in an unthreatening-but-also-threatening-enough kind of way, which is why it’s so fluid, subjective, and context-dependent, and so on*.

This, to me, is a pretty helpful explanation for why I can’t just come out and say that my debut novel is “funny” when I’m trying to pitch it to agents.

Photo credit: Shutterstock. This “funny sock puppet with flower” is the first image that comes up when you search “funny.”

Yes, my protagonist has all sorts of dry observations about the messed-up nature of the world around her in 2009-era Los Angeles, and all the cringe that comes with it. Yes, I gleefully poke fun at both the evangelical megachurch-style Christianity I was around a lot in my youth and the crunchy privileged wellness culture I saw many people embrace in my adult life. And yes, the plot includes what is probably the world’s most awkward heterosexual sex scene.

Despite all of that, I take great pains in my query letter to agents not to describe the novel as “comedic” or promise that it will be funny. I do list my comedy credentials in a tightly-packed paragraph at the end (sketch comedy experience, being on two improv teams, hosting a pun contest, that 13-year-old master’s thesis, etc.). But I can’t just come out and say “hey, this is going to be a funny book!”

Why not? Because based on my experience, the more you hype something as funny or entertaining, especially when it’s new, the more likely your audience is going to sit back, fold their arms, put on a grumpy skeptical face, and say “OK, entertain me!” Then when things fall anywhere below their expectations, they’ll be disappointed and leave negative reviews on Goodreads or send you a form rejection (or both, as relevant). That’s why I don’t call my book a “comedic” book, or even come right out and claim that I’m a “funny” person.

“Can’t you just call it a satire then? I see a lot of books out there that are satires!” Related: “comedic” and “satirical” are not exactly the same thing. To call a work “satirical,” you have to be satirizing something extremely specific and usually political or economic (see: The Onion, the old “Colbert Report,” and Animal Farm). Satire, a form of comedy, is often equal amounts “funny haha” and “funny ‘oh God I’m depressed now’.” Also, because there is so much satire out there, the bar is even higher for something “satirical” to be considered good. There are elements of satire in my novel for sure, especially in my portrayals of people associated with certain industries and institutions, but there is no way in hell I’m going to pitch it as a “satirical” work for that exact reason.

At the same time, though, while I’m querying I can’t be all neurotic and self-deprecating like the late, great Richard Lewis, and say things like “Don’t read this book, it sucks”— at least when I’m trying to convince an agent to represent me. You really do need to believe in yourself to do this, I’m finding, and convey that attitude to others. How else are you going to convince someone to believe enough in you to stake their professional reputation on the quality of your work?

So how do I say I’m funny in my query letters and pitches to agents without actually saying I’m funny? The best thing I can think to do right now, is just deadpan it. What I mean by that is: write and rewrite my one-sentence hook (this also involves plenty of workshopping it with my friends and other writers in conversation), and describe the completely unhinged yet cohesive plot in the most straightforward fashion possible. Make sure the story is compelling and the characters are people you can care about while illustrating in plain language what their faults are. In other words, let the absurdity of the story speak for itself, and then lean on those comedy credentials when I’m talking about myself at the end.

*This was ultimately the groundbreaking conclusion my master’s thesis came to after 70+ pages.