Just do the thing

Or: the perils of genius master plans

The worst I’ve ever bombed was at The Stand in Glasgow.

It was my first time doing the opening spot, and I had performed the first eleven minutes — of a 15-minute set — to pin-drop silence. (If you’re not familiar with the world of stand-up comedy, this is generally considered ‘not good’.) 

But then, in the twelfth minute, a notably drunk lady got up from her seat and started walking towards the stage. Uh-oh. Time slowed down as she got closer and closer — or maybe she was just moving more slowly because of the pinot grigio. Either way, I braced myself for the brutal heckle that was surely coming my way… 

At which point, she burst into tears. 

One slightly awkward conversation later: it turned out she was feeling sorry for me, because of how badly my set was going.¹ In fairness, so was I.

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I’d often heard other comics describe the feeling of ‘not being able to wait’ to get back on stage — but that never really resonated with me at the best of times, let alone that fateful Saturday night. I wanted so badly to love what they loved — writing new material, gigging regularly, watching lots of stand-up — but it all felt like such a slog.

Still, I had to keep going, because I had a plan: 

1. Become ridiculously good

2. Perform in front of a producer

3. ???

4. Be a professional sitcom writer (the real goal)

And so I continued performing for another seven years. 

It wasn’t all bad. It’s hard to beat the delight (and relief) of an audience laughing at your jokes. And there was plenty of food for the Ego Monster: I got to the final of two competitions, performed live on the radio, and even hosted a webseries on the now-defunct BBC Brit YouTube channel. (Fun fact: it was actually the last webseries before it became defunct, but I’m hoping that was just a coincidence.) 

But I never shook that gnawing sense that stand-up wasn’t really my thing. And so, after I finished my Edinburgh Fringe run in 2019, I thought: screw it. I want to be a sitcom writer, so maybe I should invest my energy into… writing sitcoms? 

And reader, I loved it. 

I love thinking about plot lines. I love toying with characters until they magically come to life. I love pausing sitcoms I’m watching until I’ve figured out why a joke worked so well. (Most recent example: “There are only two things I love in this world: everybody and television!”²) Sure, it’s not always rainbows and butterflies, but it rarely feels a slog in the way that stand-up almost always did.

And I thought: why didn’t I do this sooner?

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I’m an ambitious person, which means I like the feeling of progress. 

Unfortunately, I’ll chase that progress in any direction – even if it’s not really where I want to go – and then convince myself it’s all part of some genius master plan.

The classic example — as depicted in almost every Hallmark Christmas movie — is when I spent six months pursuing a promotion at my day job. It had nothing to do with comedy, but I genuinely justified it to myself as ‘getting leadership experience’ and even thought it’d help me retire early or something? (I didn’t get it.)³

But I fell into the exact same trap with stand-up.

It took me longer to figure it out, because it felt closer. And it was closer. But the truth is: it’s easier to tell someone I’m a comedian and point to a list of gigs, than tell them I’m a sitcom writer and have zero credits to show for it. It’s easier to make progress in the wrong direction, than feel like I’m making no progress in the right one.

To be fair, it’s not like those plans were completely useless. Pushing forward with the day job meant I could eventually switch to freelancing and spend more time writing. Pushing forward with stand-up taught me how to write jokes (or how not to, in the case of that gig at The Stand). The problem is that I went all in, with the limited time and energy I had available, when they were never going to get me all the way. 

The only way to do the thing, is to just do the thing. 

In other words: if you choose to ignore what your internal compass is telling you, at least listen to the very nice drunk lady literally crying in your face. 

1. In a way, this was the kindest heckle I’ve ever received.

2. That said, I still have no idea why that works so well. The usual theory suggests that you should put the surprise word at the end, and ‘everybody’ is a surprising item on a list of what is supposedly two things. But “television and everybody!” is nowhere near as funny. Once again, I find myself in awe of the writers of 30 Rock. (See also…)

3. I’ve since found a healthier balance with work, and conceded that I’ll just have to lie to my dad whenever he asks how my career is going.