Stepping on an open mic stage for the first time felt like a first kiss. Exhilarating. Terrifying. Impossible to replicate.
Filled with ideas, and energy, and false confidence, I left my comedy class and ran, literally, to Fergie’s pub on a Wednesday night last April. The bouncer at the door said sign-ups had closed. A young guy with long hair came to block off the upstairs with a velvet rope. I channeled my best Cassie impression from “A Chorus Line,” (“Please! Let me dance…I mean…tell jokes for you!”), and he put me on the list. I promised to be the best audience member the room had ever seen. I cackled. I tipped. I clapped. I fist-bumped. I didn’t even open my notebook to stare at the set I had scribbled down earlier in permanent marker.
Two hours later, the room had mostly cleared. The host finally called out, “Lauren In-jen…gah…Lauren?”
My hands trembled as I ungracefully twisted the mic from the stand. I told jokes. People laughed? People laughed!
“That Delco bit was funny,” someone said to me on the way out. “What’s your name again?”
Funny. Someone thought I was funny. This was bliss!
The high was short-lived.
The thing no one told me about stand-up is that it is one grueling, never-ending writing project. The other thing no one told me is that going to open mics — two, three, four times per week — will slowly destroy your liver, your sleep schedule, and your self-confidence. I didn’t realize comedy lineups are 90 percent male (duh), and to get booked on any shows, you have to post your half-baked jokes to Instagram and put yourself at the mercy of an algorithm. (I’ve started using hashtags. Humiliating.)
I’m not complaining, necessarily. No one’s forcing me to tell jokes in sticky bars on weeknights. But I find myself hitting the same roadblock that pops up whenever I take on any new creative endeavor: that small voice whispering in the back of my head, “Why are you doing this?”
Is the goal to get better? (What if I never do?) To build a following? To make money? There’s only a finite amount of time in a week. Will focusing on one thing (comedy) mean abandoning everything else (fiction, journalism, this newsletter)?
I don’t believe in making art for art’s sake. Art needs an audience — it’s meant to be consumed, shared, discussed. Writing chapters for a novel that might never get published, researching a story idea that a news editor may never greenlight, or telling jokes to a half-empty room are all my personal versions of hell.
I guess that’s why they say, “Stop seeking external validation,” or “Only do it if you love it.” But how can you love something that won’t love you back?
I’ve tried searching for the answer to that question by listening to interviews with other comedians, authors, and journalists — all of which have left me feeling envious and inadequate.
Craving content that had no relation to the art I’ve been trying to make, I started listening instead to “Song Exploder.” Each episode, a musical artist or band tells the story of how they made a single song. From a technical perspective, it’s fascinating. Song writing has always struck me as a magical and mystifying form of genius, like performing a biochemistry experiment or learning Mandarin.
But what’s been even more interesting about listening to the podcast is that the origin story of any song could be boiled down to one of two statements: “This thing happened to me, and I had to make something about it,” and/or “I just wanted to make something cool with my friends.”
The way musicians talk about making music reminds me of an Anthony Bourdain quote: “Writing is a privilege and a luxury. Anybody who whines about writer's block should be forced to clean squid all day.”
On my lowest days — when I’m feeling unfunny, uninspired, or unproductive — I think it’s worth remembering that making shit, especially among friends, is pretty fucking cool. And a creative life, no matter how many terrible open mics it’s filled with, is one worth living.
This post was a very long-winded introduction to a shameless sales pitch: If you’re in Philly this Thursday, I’ll be telling jokes at the Cigar Code at 7. See you there?
Love this! You're amazing!
Great post, Lauren. Keep going!