by Geoff Blackwell

So, an orc, a wizard, and a dryad walk into a tavern...

Hang on. Fantasy, that's funny? Surely not. Isn't fantasy all that one-ring-to-bind-them and winter-is-coming and complete-this-mythical-quest-or-the-demon-warlock-king-of-Evilsbane-will-curse-your-firstborn stuff?

Well, yeah. But it's a whole lot more than that. It's rodents-of-unusual-size and it's anthropomorphic biscuits called Gingy and it's "Truth! Freedom! Justice! And a hard-boiled egg!" as well.

Of course, fantasy can be funny. With an author's palette limited by nothing more than their imagination, fantasy can be anything. Look no further than the contents of this guide for evidence of that.

And as with any genre, a story of complete and unrelenting seriousness would make for pretty grim reading. Whether it be as broad as the Silver Sea or darker than dragon glass, there's humour to be found in most fantasy, even if you might need to dig a little to locate it. The RRs (Tolkien and Martin, of course—try to keep up) are hardly known as the genre's premier chuckle-meisters, yet the hobbits of the Shire are usually good for a little comic relief, and Tyrion Lannister is a dab hand with the witty quips.

Which begs the question, where is the line? If there's at least a modicum of humour in almost all fantastic tales, at what point does the comedic content make the story a comedy? When does a funny fantasy become a fantastical funny? Where's the cut-off?

And the answer, of course, is there isn't one. There's no line, with serious on one side and side-splitting on the other, and never the twain shall meet. Instead, there's a spectrum—fluff and fun at one end and despair and darkness at the other, with a glorious, mashed-up, multitudinous gamut betwixt the two.

Up towards the more fun end of things you'll find works by Tom Holt, Ben Aaronovitch (way to get pole position on the bookstore shelf there, Ben), Jasper Fforde (nice try, Jasper, but Fs aren't going to cut it), Neil Gaiman and Robert Rankin, plus a host of others. Far more than I can name here, however encyclopaedic lists to peruse at your leisure are a mere google or Goodreads search away. The range of humorous fantasy is vast and varied—just like fantasy itself.

And within that range, of course, lurks the undisputed master of otherworldly chuckles—the genius (and now sadly deceased) Sir Terry Pratchett.

Tremble in fear, all ye who aspire to write funny fantasy. For we are not worthy.

Pratchett can entertain, amuse and dazzle with the depth and breadth of his imagination—while still managing to say something important. To reveal, even in the unlikeliest situations and characters, fundamental truths about the world and life and what it is to be human.

Which, in my humble opinion, is a key component of humour, whether it be fantastical or otherwise. Funny for funny's sake is fine but tends to get old pretty fast. Funny with stakes, however? That's comedy with staying power. Comedy with layers and consequences and pathos. Comedy with impact.

Rincewind the wizard being rubbish at magic? Yeah, pretty funny. Rincewind the wizard being rubbish at magic and having to save the world? Even funnier. Rincewind the wizard being rubbish at magic and having to save the world while burdened with the jaded, world-weary, self-aware, and cynical eye of the perpetual loser he knows himself to be? Comedy gold.

Read widely if you're a budding writer of humorous fantasy. Check out the authors I mentioned above, and many more. But make sure you read some Pratchett.

I enjoy the freedom of writing fantasy—the removal of the restraints imposed by our everyday world. And the fantasy I write tends toward the humorous because I seem to be constitutionally incapable of writing anything without at least a little absurdity creeping in. I went in a new direction with my most recent book, a dark psychological thriller—and still had readers commenting on how much they enjoyed the humour. But I honestly can't imagine writing a serious fantasy. Not that there's anything wrong with serious fantasy. Just like the rest of us, I'm hanging out in the faint hope George RR Martin will grace us with the next Song of Ice and Fire book sometime in the next decade and/or that Patrick Rothfuss will just release something before either he or I die first.

So, I like to read the serious stuff. But I ain't gonna write it. Creating non-serious fantasy is just too much fun.

Example of Humorous Fantasy on Wattpad:

The Blade by Geoff Blackwell

Synopsis:

Exams, no girlfriend, a cantankerous grandfather—George has it tough. And that's even before the assassins come for him, he discovers the magical sword stashed in the attic, and finds out he's responsible for saving a world he didn't even know existed. Talk about pressure. Fantasy and reality collide, as George battles to save his life, his family, and—well, pretty much everything—from the forces of evil, while hopefully also addressing the no-girlfriend problem. Unless that is, he gets killed to death first.

Extract

"Wuck, what...um, who are those...people?" Although the figures blocking the carriage's passage were clearly humanoid, George's hesitation stemmed from a certain otherness to their appearance—their dimensions, their posture, and even their movements were all somehow just not quite...normal. The purple skin and the fangs were a touch weird, too.

"People?" The gnome had his eyes closed tight. "What people? I don't see no people. Particularly not any that I might have, you know...acquired a carriage off. Nope, no people. So, just you ignore 'em, and I expect they'll probably go away."

"Gnoblins!" From the driver's seat, Lob turned to glare at his younger brother. "What the hell were you thinking, nicking stuff off gnoblins?"

"Gnoblins?" queried George. "What are gnoblins?"

Wuck leapt to his feet. "Nicking? Nicking? I don't nick stuff! I just...re-purpose it under new ownership. And I wouldn't normally requisition gnoblin assets, but you said you was in a hurry. So, I had to adjust my standards a bit." Realising he was now visible to the party blocking the road, he hurriedly slumped back down. "Anyways," he muttered, "they probably can't prove nothing."

Lob took in the assortment of spiked, bladed, studded, and ridged weapons wielded by the dozen or so figures standing before the carriage. "Yeah, I think they might have skipped the 'prove' bit, mate. Looks to me like they've jumped right to the 'blood-soaked payback' bit. In my experience, gnoblins ain't that big on the whole judicial process thing."

Grandpa sighed. "I should have known better than to trust a gnome to do a simple job right. Bloody gnomes. And bloody gnoblins."

"But what is a gnoblin?" repeated George, who had been following the conversation like a dazed spectator at a three-way tennis match. "And what are we going to do about them?"

"Us?" queried Grandpa. "We're not going to do anything about them, because they're not our problem. I expect all they want is their carriage back, and a little chat with Mr. Requisition there, and as far as I'm concerned, they're welcome to them both. It means we'll have to leg it from here, but you never know, we might be able to hitch a ride. C'mon, boy."

George was appalled. "But...but, we can't just let them have Wuck! What will they do to him?"

Grandpa gave the gnoblins an appraising look. "Oh, probably chuck him in the sewer, I should think."

George blinked. While the sewers didn't sound like a great option, he'd been expecting much worse. "Oh. Oh, well, that's not...so bad. I guess. Um."

"Course, they'll probably torture and kill him first," added Grandpa, getting to his feet. "Gnoblins are right bastards, that way. Anyway, after you, Georgie."

Wide-eyed, George remained firmly in his seat. "Kill him? Grandpa, we can't let that happen!"

"Why not?" asked Grandpa, with genuine puzzlement.

"Well, because...because...he's our friend."

"No, he's not. He's just some larcenous gnome you only met about an hour ago. Now, let's get moving."

"But...but..."—desperately, George searched for inspiration—"he's Lob's brother."

"Whose brother?"

"Lob! You know, the Grand High-Keeper."

"Oh, that little sod. So, let me get this straight—you're saying we should waste our time helping the kleptomaniac brother of a lying sock thief, who's been freeloading in my trunk for thirty-seven years? I don't think so, Georgie—we've got bigger fish to fry. Now, can you please move your arse? Our friends outside are getting restless."

"I...but...we can't..." The necessity to help Wuck was so self-evident to George that he couldn't understand why he was finding it so hard to explain. Or even why he needed to explain. "We have to help him."

"No, Georgie, we don't. We have to help your mother. These two can fend for themselves. Now, for the last time, let's go."

Torn, George looked from one face to another—Grandpa's resolute, Wuck's stricken, and Lob's strangely blank. On one level, he knew Grandpa was right. His mother had to be their priority, and he shouldn't even consider risking her safety for the sake of a couple of gnomes he hardly knew. Particularly given that twenty-four hours ago he hadn't even known gnomes were a thing. At least not of the non-garden variety.

But on another level, he didn't care. He may not have known Wuck and Lob for very long but that simply didn't matter. He couldn't leave them to the gnoblins. He just couldn't. Even if he still didn't actually know what one was.

"No, Grandpa." Resolutely, he crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere. At least, not without Wuck and Lob. After all, if I'm the Blade now, aren't I supposed to help people?"

"People?" Grandpa ran a hand through his meager hair. "Georgie, they're gnomes! Bloody gnomes! Kind of like if you shaved a moderately smart rat and taught it to walk on its hind legs. Lying, thieving little so-and-sos, every one. Trust me, two more of 'em in the sewer just means two less to nick your socks. So, shut your gob, get on your feet, and bloody well move!"

George swallowed but otherwise didn't move. "No."

"Aaaarrgghhh!" Grandpa tugged despairingly at his hair. "Bloody gnomes, bloody gnoblins, and bloody teenagers. Fine, have it your way. But don't come crying to me when you're strung up on a rack with some gnoblin sticking a hot poker where the sun don't shine."

George grinned in relief. "I won't. So, what do we do?"

"What do we do? We probably kiss our sorry arses goodbye, that's what," muttered Grandpa. "But until then, we push our luck and hope for the best. Oi, Mr. Grand-Keeper?"

"Still here," replied Lob, staring fixedly at the largest of the group blocking their path, a particularly vicious-faced figure, who was now making his way towards the carriage.

Grandpa pointed at the gnoblin. "Run that big bugger down."

"Now, there's a plan I can get behind." With a savage grin, the gnome reached for the requisite lever—and then froze as the gnoblin raised a crossbow and pointed it directly at his face. "Although, if you've got a plan B, I'd be pretty keen to hear it."

With a disgusted snort, Grandpa flopped back down into his seat. "I dunno, it's never bloody easy, is it? Stupid gnoblins."

"Yeah," agreed George, who, having gotten his way, felt a bit of moral support was probably in order. "Stupid gnoblins. Only, can somebody please, please tell me—what the hell is a gnoblin?"

The two gnomes exchanged awkward looks but refrained from answering, while Grandpa grinned mirthlessly.

"Georgie, think about it. If a labradoodle is what you get when you combine a labrador with a poodle, and a spork is what you get when you combine a spoon with a fork, then just what exactly do you think a gnoblin might be? Hmm?"

George processed. "Well, I guess, it's what you'd get if you combined a goblin with a..." Trailing off, he looked from one diminutive gnome to the other, and then out to the more-or-less human-sized figures in the street. "But they're...and you're...how the...?"

"Look, Volandan winters get pretty cold, alright?" Lob shifted awkwardly in his seat and gave George a defensive look. "Particularly the nights. Sometimes a gnome can't be too choosy about how's they keep warm. Besides—"

He was interrupted by a heavy pounding on the carriage's door, followed by a guttural voice. "Hello, in there. Come on out, and we can get properly acquainted."

Grandpa got back to his feet. "Never mind the mechanics of how gnoblins came to be, Georgie. That's a rabbit hole you don't want to go down, trust me. But as you're so keen to find out about them, you can come with me while I try to dig us out this mess. Introduction to Gnoblins, coming right up."