So I read How to Lose A Goblin in Ten Days

Jessie Sylva's "How to Lose a Goblin in Ten Days" is a delightful gem that captures the whimsical spirit of The Princess Bride while carving out its own charming space in the cozy fantasy genre. This is a book that understands the magic isn't always in grand quests or epic battles—sometimes it's in the quiet moments of two unlikely people learning to share a space and, eventually, their lives.

The setup is deceptively simple: Pansy, a halfling who has just inherited a cottage from her ailing grandmother, arrives to find it already occupied by Ren, an orc who has lovingly maintained the property for decades. The use of "halfling" immediately situates the story in Tolkien's world without explicitly stating so—a clever nod to Lord of the Rings fanfiction tradition that longtime fantasy readers will appreciate. The inheritance comes at a vulnerable time—Pansy is grieving, displaced, and clinging to this last connection to her grandmother. Meanwhile, Ren has poured years of care into every stone and garden bed, making this cottage their home in all but legal name. The collision of these two claims, both emotionally valid, creates an immediate tension that drives the story forward.

What's refreshing is how Sylva takes the familiar framework of Middle-earth and uses it to tell an intimate, domestic story. This isn't about the fate of kingdoms or the destruction of dark lords—it's about two ordinary people from different cultures trying to figure out how to live together. By grounding the story in LOTR's established world-building, Sylva gives readers familiar touchstones while subverting expectations about what stories can be told in that universe. It's the kind of approach that makes fanfiction so compelling: taking a beloved world and asking, "What about the everyday lives happening in the margins?"

The title is obviously a playful nod to the rom-com How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, but Sylva does more than just borrow the premise—she transforms it. Where the film gave us two people actively trying to sabotage a relationship for their own gains, this book gives us two people desperately trying to hold onto what they've lost, only to find something new together. It's less about manufactured conflict and more about genuine emotional stakes. The ten-day timeline becomes not a gimmick but a pressure cooker that forces both characters to confront what home truly means to them.

Sylva's greatest strength lies in her quirky voice and world-building. Like The Princess Bride, the narrative is peppered with clever observations and wry humor that never undercuts the emotional stakes. The cottage itself feels like a character—every creaky floorboard and herb garden tells a story. You can practically smell the tea brewing and feel the warmth of the hearth. The author has crafted a setting so vivid and inviting that you'll find yourself wishing you could visit. This is the kind of book you want to read curled up under a blanket on a rainy afternoon.

The relationship between Pansy and Ren initially reads like a fantasy Romeo and Juliet—two people from different worlds, different species even, thrust together by circumstance and seemingly destined for conflict. There's an inherent tension in their situation that could easily have devolved into melodrama. But Sylva subverts expectations beautifully, letting their connection develop with both humor and heartache. The romance is bittersweet in the best way, acknowledging real obstacles—cultural differences, grief, the complexities of home and belonging—while celebrating small moments of connection and understanding.

What makes the characters truly memorable is how fully realized they are. Pansy isn't just a sweet halfling; she's grieving, stubborn, and trying to figure out who she is outside of her grandmother's shadow. Ren isn't just a gentle giant orc; they're someone who has built a life of quiet dignity and is terrified of losing the only home they've ever truly had. Their individual journeys are as compelling as their romance, and watching them navigate not just each other but their own personal growth makes the story resonate on multiple levels.

The pacing strikes a perfect balance between cozy slice-of-life moments and genuine narrative momentum. There's conflict here—both internal and external—but it never feels forced or overly dramatic. Instead, Sylva lets the story unfold naturally, trusting her readers to be invested in these characters' everyday challenges as much as any magical threat.

If you're looking for a homey, character-driven fantasy with wit and warmth, this book delivers in spades. It's a reminder that the best adventures sometimes happen right at home, and that family isn't always about blood—sometimes it's about who shows up, who stays, and who's willing to share the last of the honey cake.