5 Steps to Write Funny Nonfiction (On Humor)
Humor columnist Karim Shamsi-Basha reveals five steps to write funny nonfiction, including the importance of tension, revision, and more.
Writing funny nonfiction is like trying to whisper, “I’m just an honest person telling a story,” while simultaneously telling someone they are sitting in a chair made of whoopee cushions.
If it were easy, every column would be a non-stop, beer-out-of-your-nose absurdity rant. Instead, most of us settle for a wry smile and hope the editor doesn’t notice the take that didn’t quite land. But there is a method, a set of steps rooted in observation, honesty, and surprise, that turns the vague notion of “be funny” into something you can actually do.
Step 1: See the world as a comedian sees it.
Not by trying to be funny on command, but by paying fierce, curious attention to ordinary life. Most humor springs from simple truths: the weirdness of everyday moments, the oddities of human behavior, the small dissonances between expectation and reality. Other guides encourage treating any subject, even installing an air conditioner, as fair game for humor, if you can find the angle that’s both true and unexpected.
Step 2: Let the tension build before you twist it.
Good humor isn’t just punch line after punch line. It’s pattern, familiarity, and then surprise. Lay down the recognizable first: “We all know what it’s like to…” Then bend that expectation in a direction the reader didn’t see coming. In comedy theory, this is often referred to as subverting the expected. In real life, it’s that moment when you think you’re reading a sentence one way, but wait, nope, curveball. That’s where the laugh lives.
Step 3: Don’t try to be funny; try to be honest and clever.
Humor is a byproduct of sharp writing, not a forced trick. Humor arises naturally from authenticity: precise details, candid reflections, and the willingness to poke at your own preconceptions. Force isn’t funny; surprise and relatability are. In other words, be yourself. And if “yourself” is a little on the serious side, read columns from me and other hilarious writers, and this “yourself” will be cracking people up in no time.
Step 4: Build trust with the reader.
Your reader should feel like you’re sharing a laugh, not sneering at them. That means clear, accessible prose that respects their time and intelligence, and puts your best material up front. Like a stand-up comic, you want to win them over early, because once they trust you, they’re more willing to go with you on your comedic, or interplanetary, journey. (Those two journeys should be the same, in your mind that is.)
Step 5: Revise for comedy.
Funny writing isn’t just written; it’s rewritten. In editing, look for tighter phrasing, unexpected verbs, vivid sensory detail, and moments where you can let the absurdity linger a heartbeat longer. Read lines out loud. If you flinch or stumble, that’s often where the humor is trying to hide.
The unglamorous truth is this: Humor is craft first, laughter second. Treat it like a skill to hone. Observe relentlessly, write honestly, and revise ruthlessly. If you do all that with hearty intention, along with the maturity of a 14-year-old (something I’m accused of often), the funny will happen. Combine that with your voice; no matter what that voice is, embrace it. Mine tends to be wry, self-aware, and pleasantly offbeat. Soon you’ll have columns that read less like “Is this supposed to be funny?” and more like “Damn, that was hilarious.”
That’s when the reader laughs with you, not at the whoopee cushions. And just to say, whoopee cushion, again, I’ll close with a whoopee cushion joke.
I once brought a whoopee cushion to the Writer’s Digest conference. It was the first time my agent said, “Now that was a strong voice.”
