In Five Years Time

Five years in comedy doesn’t make me a professional or a veteran, but I’m no longer a fledgling comic either.  Like anything else, it has it highs and lows.  But those highs and lows can be pretty extreme.  Getting a writing job seems even more out of reach to me than it did five years ago.  Leading a “normal” life is not only undesirable, but not even remotely possible.

I go through phases where I hate comedy.  Where I just want to quit, leave New York, and never mention that I ever did comedy and cut ties with all people related to comedy.  Like I could just erase it from myself.  If there’s an opportunity for me to flee something and start anew, I’m interested.  I’m a quitter.  Easily bored.  Ready to run.

For the record, comedy didn’t make me crazy.  I was always daft.  I think you have to be to pursue comedy.  Because it’s fucking hard.  And depressing.  You have to be batshit insane to do comedy open mics every night for years.  They are a necessary evil, and at times can be fun, but they can be brutal.  The stage is your drug, and you need a taste, even if it’s shitty.  If you’re here, you’re already addicted.  It’s too late.

Comedy is an abusive lover.  The industry and the art itself has a way of making you feel like you are not desired or not funny.  When you are doing open mics, night after night, in front of four people who could care less if  you lived or died, let alone remotely care about the words you’ve written in your notebook, it’s hard not to ask yourself, “what the fuck am I doing with my life?”  You persist because you think you have talent.  But talent isn’t enough.  You’ve got to work hard.  You’ve got to be hungry.  You’ve got to sacrifice what everyone else does in their twenties. You cut out night’s out with friends.  Forget what it’s like to be bored.  You cut out dating.  No time for that when you want to be great.  You sacrifice good paying jobs for ones that will allow you to have the freedom you need.  You’re exhausted from lack of sleep.  Good sleep is what I miss most.

And you put yourself through this all just to be in the game.  Because when it’s good, it’s really fucking good.  The creative satisfaction you get when a new bit is working;  The feeling you get when you realize you’re more comfortable, and more yourself… not just on stage but in life.  The joy that comes with not only meeting and working with people you admire, but becoming friends with them.  A smart comedy audience that laughs… I mean really fucking laughs.  Because laughter is an involuntary reaction.  You elicited.  Which is awesome.  And it feels really fucking awesome.

I’ve been an adrenaline junky for a long time.  Surfing, cliff jumping, sky diving, rock climbing, mountain biking, sex, drugs, alcohol–all great highs, but it doesn’t quite compare to the rush from the stage.  I think it’s because it’s not purely physical adrenaline, it’s also intellectual.  I’m an addict.  I’m chasing a high.

One of the greatest things about comedy is the people that have become huge parts of my life.  There are some shitty, vindictive, assholes in this business.  They are insecure, and jealous, and likely to never succeed, wallowing in their own self pity and bitterness.  But I don’t want to talk about them.  The toxic people are to be ignored.

There’s no way, and I mean no way, I would’ve continued the path I’m taking without the tremendous amount of support I’ve received from fellow comics.  I started doing comedy by doing bringers in the city.  I met a group of new comics who had been doing it a couple years already, some of whom dropped out, some who are still doing it and I’m glad to call them my friends.

It’s the Long Island comedy scene where I really got my chops.  Despite my age, my gender, my brand new status to comedy, I was treated like a peer.  Just another comic working the circuit.  I liked that.  But I was aware that I was that I was the weakest link on the shows, so I busted my ass, writing and doing open mics, going into the city, because I even though I was treated like one of them, I wanted to earn that status.  I didn’t think I was entitled to it.

The first couple years I did comedy, I was just so happy to be around comedy and comics.  I didn’t really think of having a career or getting TV, I just wanted to write jokes, and be around creative people.  I was having a blast, making new friends, and exercising my own creativity, not allowing my fears to control my actions.

In the third year I was doing comedy, I had the opportunity to collaborate with Jim Breuer on an animated sitcom pilot.  Basically, with the help of friends, I adapted Breuer’s stand-up into a pilot.  Breuer would later tell me that he was reluctant about reading it, but after he did, he was stoked, and he loved the pilot.  We did a read through, and Jim’s energy and excitement was contagious.  Nothing came of it.  But it was such a great experience.  Even though I’m the most cynical person I know, and I remained realistic about the possibility of it becoming a television show, I was stoked, feeling like maybe my dreams weren’t so impossible.

While my comedy career seemed to be on a steady rise, I was about to hit a plateau.  I was still doing shows all the time, doing festivals, and auditions, but mentally I checked out.  This wasn’t directly comedy related, but I remained in funk for a while and really lost my passion for comedy and wasn’t sure if I was going to get it back.  Anxiety and depression have a way of making you believe you don’t love things and people that you actually do care for tremendously.

As I said before, I’ve always been a bit of head case, so I managed to convince myself to forge ahead.  I did eventually overcome this mental state that arrested my creative growth.  I think what did it was I didn’t stop working even though I wanted to.  I just wanted to lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling all day… but I didn’t.  I worked, I wrote, I was a miserable prick about it, but I still did it away.

After that hiccup, I refocused.  Went to Ireland for a comedy tour.  Wrote and produced “Honest Living.”  Moved to Astoria.  Got a new job.  It doesn’t get any easier.  It gets harder, actually.  But you adapt.  Despite my daily exhaustion, I have to push myself to do more shitty open mics, write more, stay disciplined and focused.

I see myself as sort of a fuck-up.  And in five years time, maybe I’ll be sitting in a writers room, laughing at how ridiculously harsh I’ve been to myself, but glad nonetheless, as being a harsh prick to myself lead to my success.

I guess there’s an equal chance, if not more so, that in five years time, I will have a different day job I don’t care for, still broke, grinding it out in comedy, if I haven’t given up at that point.  I think it’s better to have dropped out than become bitter.  I don’t want to be bitter.

I think the most logical thing for me to do is look at myself objectively, which is really almost impossible.  But, I try to remove myself from… well, myself.  I try to imagine what it would be like to watch me, not knowing anything about my background, my internal monologue.  Just a twenty-five year old, with five years writing and performing comedy, and I think… Yeah, she’s good.  With hard work, she might just get exactly what she wants.