Here’s a problem I didn’t expect to encounter when I started doing comedy: after coming up with a good idea for a joke, trying it onstage over and over, and tweaking the syntax until the bit is really starting to sing, I begin to abandon it. What is wrong with me? I take a joke right to the top of the mountain and then let it roll down the other side. Why am I doing this?
Because each joke I write feels like a game, and once I’ve beaten it I don’t like playing it as much anymore. And herein lies the problem. While I was working on the joke, crafting my premise and substituting out words, I was engaged, focused, in the moment on stage. And in the end, it was that combination of my improving material and my total presence in the moment that really sold the joke, that finally got it to the level I had been working towards for so long.
But then, right as I finally solve the puzzle, I shunt it off into my file of solid, bankable material. And when I dust it off two weeks later, it gets a totally acceptable response. But I didn’t work on a bit for two months so it could get acceptable results. I wrote that joke to kill, and it’s not killing. Why?
I’ve moved on to the next joke. My mind is elsewhere. I’m reciting the bit while I mentally debate how to segue into my newer, more exciting jokes. But I end up shortsheeting myself. I don’t focus on my great material, the audience doesn’t fully trust me, and then I lose them as I shuffle through my new stuff.
The trick of stand-up is to constantly reproduce a sense of novelty1 with each set. You have to sell your tightest, best joke just as hard as you do for your rough new jokes.
1 Novelty meaning newness, not silliness.
