Everyone has a “what I’m doing in Alaska” story: I got a job; I met someone; I watched too much Discovery Channel; I crossed a land bridge from Asia some time between 60,000 and 50,000 BCE.
But nobody moves up here to become a comedy writer. Nobody, except me.
You see, I spent most of my 20s almost but not quite making it in the New York comedy scene. Back around the turn of the millennium, for instance, I was shortlisted for a staff-writing position on a major late-night news satire program. Once, I even auditioned to host a cable network reality series (guess how my screen test went).
After a while, I grew tired of taking that particular beating. Having just finished a Master of Fine Arts degree in fiction — despite my questionable mastery of the discipline — I thought I might enjoy getting rejected by literary agencies for a change. Plus, my fiancé was starting an internship in Palmer, Alaska (of all places) and I really didn’t feel like getting married over Skype.
And so, like our brave pioneer forebears we packed a Subaru and headed north, to the future. Not that the Mat-Su Valley was particularly futuristic. I mean, the first rental properties we saw didn’t have heat, running water or electricity.
Eventually, we found a slightly more modern place, in that it had utilities but no street address—just “behind the barn near mile 1.5.” Also included: a spare room for a home office with a breathtaking view of Matanuska Peak. Back in Brooklyn, by contrast, my workspace doubled as a clothes closet; my desk looked out on an airshaft.
Inspired by these new Alaskan digs, I decided against looking for gainful employment. No, I was going to write my first novel.
Well, you know what they say: the road to hell is paved with plans to write your first novel. Ten years later, and now with a different though no less breathtaking view of Mt. Roberts, I’m still re-working the opening sentence.
But of course there’s a silver lining (actually, due to recent budget cuts, all linings are now silver laminate). While my fiction career has sputtered since relocating to Alaska, in the meantime I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words of comedy. Maybe a million. Maybe more—and some of them were even funny.
What began as a means to procrastinate—stupid one-liners like “Bill Withers is the John Denver of funk” and “Mecca is the mecca of meccas”— quickly became my primary avocation. Not only is comedy more fun to write; absent the emotional, psychological and dramatic elements of fiction, it can be a lot easier.
Plus, I had no choice. During a dry spell in magazine and PR/communications work—two other types of writing I do for what some people might call a living—I started picking up table scraps from friends who stuck it out in NYC. These were often tricky assignments, for discerning clients, on tight deadlines. That’s why no one else wanted them.
As a freelance comedy writer—actually, as a freelance anything writer — you can’t decline any opportunities and you can’t fail, or you risk never working again. And that means having to get a real job. You know, one that requires wearing shoes.
Case in point: several years ago, out of the blue, a publishing house asked me to step in and write a page-a-day calendar counting down to the predicted 2012 apocalypse (spoiler alert: this apocalypse didn’t actually happen). A writer for Conan O’Brien pitched the idea when Conan went off the air. Except Conan went back on the air—after the publisher not only greenlit the project, but featured it prominently in advance marketing materials. The editor called me in early November; she needed the manuscript right after New Year’s. Oh, and my wife just gave birth to our second baby.
So there I was, suddenly facing down a 60,000-word, 365-joke project—all needing to sound as if they sprang forth from the MacBook of an Emmy-winning humorist, as opposed to some slob in stained Carhartts.
I won’t say it wasn’t difficult. I gave myself carpal tunnel and nearly got divorced in the process, but I finished. Of course, I had to pull out every trick I knew, from suggested iPod playlists — e.g. “Closing Time” by Semisonic, “Pop Goes the World” by Men Without Hats—to doomsday-themed ice cream flavors — e.g. “Almondgeddon,” “Four Horse-mint of the Achocolatechypse.”
If the experience taught me anything, aside from asking for more free copies next time, it’s this: while fiction writing is an art, comedy writing is a craft. It’s the literary equivalent of pottery. Once you learn proper technique — and then refine it through endless practice (say, 60,000 words in six weeks) — you can crank out as many jokes as you like, about anything you like. Even the apocalypse.
So, yes, I did move to Alaska to become a comedy writer. All this rugged, natural beauty just makes me want to spend hours on end tinkering with ice cream flavor puns.
Join me for as many tips, tricks, exercises and vaguely coherent anecdotes as I can cram into three hours (minus bathroom breaks) in my aptly-named upcoming workshop, “Everything I Can Teach You About Comedy Writing in 3 Hours,” presented by 49 Writers from 6-9 p.m. Feb. 4. Info and registration at 49writingcenter.org/Instruction/classes.php.
Not to brag, but I hear I give good class.
