Using Cringe for Humorous Effect in Fiction

I have been requested to write something about using cringe for humorous effect in fiction, which came as somewhat of a surprise to me.

(6 Serious Tips for Writing a Comic Novel.)

However, I will not rally against this presumption that my work contains elements of cringe and that I am therefore fit to discuss this topic with you all; upon reflection, it is likely that my debut novel Hello, Limerence is pretty cringe, at least in parts. As such, I will do my best to deliver actionable insights to fellow writers who are seeking to incorporate cringe into their own work in the forthcoming paragraphs.

The correct amount of cringe is like baking; a tablespoon too much and it is a disaster, an unsalvageable wreck, and you’ll have to scrape the whole goopy thing into the trash. This is no surprise, since second-hand embarrassment is the worst kind there is; it evokes all sorts of nasty emotions ranging from pity to disgust, potentially even prompting a highlight reel of your own worst memories to race through your head in parallel, totally unbidden.

Schadenfreude is a wonderful word that perfectly describes the feeling of witnessing the receding shores of an ex-boyfriend’s hairline, or perhaps even that gentle tickle of amusement at seeing a skateboarder fall off his board in spectacular fashion, but it doesn’t apply to that toe-curling discomfort of being in the front row as a stand-up comedian bombs hard or watching TV shows about zitty high schoolers or in our case, reading books that feature main characters who careen through the plot while making one disastrous decision after another, but without the cushion of wit nor charm.

Done right, the cringe will act like an expert squeeze of lemon over pasta or karaage—bright, tangy delight that lets you, the reader, in on the joke as you laugh at the character’s folly or appreciate the nod and wink of the self-aware character as they wade through the cringe. Don’t throw the whole damn lemon in there; cringe is a heavy emotion and must be used sparingly. And if you add something, then you must also subtract, thereby attaining the perfect philosophy of plus minus zero. Tony Tulathimutte does this masterfully in Rejection, for example—it’s extremely cringe, to the point where I had to take several days, if not weeks, in between reading it, but it’s also very fucking funny.

If your goal is to deploy this tool in your own writing, you must first embrace your inner cringe. If you were hot in your adolescence and you are still hot now, this is probably not the literary technique for you, unless you have heightened observational skills honed from years of social ostracization by jealous lesser beings and thus possess some degree of humility and awkwardness. Remember the days of various food particles in your braces and chalky blue Bonne Bell eyeshadow that did not suit your skin tone! Tap into those feelings and distill them into your writing. This is not to say that your writing must be confessional or autofictional, although the latter unfairly gets a bad rep, “wan little husks” and whatnot, but that you can squeeze the essence of those feelings, those lived experiences, into your characters and invented situations to dress them up in new clothes.

The relative likability of a character is often mentioned as factoring into the average reviewer’s rating, although personally, this is a very boring critique. The more unlikable, the better, I say. But if you do not agree with me, and wish for your characters to be likable, then cringe is very useful for mellowing out a villain or an otherwise unlikable character. It gives them dimension and humanity, a pinch of pathos. I mean, nothing is more boring than a villain who has no other hobbies outside of murdering people. Why not make him cringe by allowing him other pursuits, like being a devoted fan of an aging B-list celebrity? Or to be quite self-conscious, wearing ski masks and all black because it’s slimming and he doesn’t like the way he looks on security camera footage? Cringe is fun! Cringe is great.

Lastly, lean into your own cringe. Revel in your own bad taste; wear the leopard print, the rhinestones, and crew socks with sandals, watch your favorite TV shows that were canceled after one season! Let it seep through you and into your writing. Not to get all live-laugh-love on you all, but write as if no-one else will read your writing. Don’t self-edit and kill off your own darlings before someone else has the chance to. Never underestimate the power of cringe.