I once told a joke I thought was absolutely hilarious. The setup was tight. The structure was solid. The cultural reference was on point. But…I got zero laughs. Someone in the audience literally went, “Womp! Womp!” That for real happened! True story!
The joke was about Kailua, Hawai’i, a predominantly white part of the island of O’ahu. I was, in fact, performing in Kailua for that white audience. I said a joke about the new high school being built and how, to keep the Kailua residents and donors happy, the school’s colors were going to be white… and very white. The room went silent. A week later, I told the same joke on the other side of the island. A predominantly non-white crowd. It killed.
Here’s the thing: when you watch a comedian destroy on stage with a joke or a polished set, you’re seeing the result. What you’re not seeing: all their hidden chapters. You don’t see the minutes spent writing premises and putting notes in a book or phone app. The hours watching and studying other comedians. The struggle to learn joke structure. The stage time that bombed. The conversations with bookers. The social media grind. The networking. The figuring out your persona. All of it.
Put differently, what you see is their Chapter 20. But you may be living in your Chapter 1. I saw a piece of advice somewhere recently that prompted that thought: “Don’t Compare Your Chapter 1 to Someone Else’s Chapter 20.” Honestly, comparison feels natural. But, as C.S. Lewis once said (I paraphrase), “Comparison is the thief of joy.” It’s precisely why you shouldn’t measure your beginning against someone else’s middle or end. Put frankly: I don’t think comparison should ever happen.
Why? Because each comedian comes with different life experiences. Different talents. Different personas. Different strengths and weaknesses. When I bombed in Kailua, my first thought was defensive: “What a bunch of easily-offended _____.” Deep down, I knew the joke was good. I knew for sure that the structure was there. I knew the cultural reference was on point. So, I tried it again a few weeks later.
And that, my friends, is the difference between knowing your craft and just hoping for laughs. My academic side, as frequent readers here likely know, gets into the mechanics of joke writing pretty easily. It’s actually what allows me to recognize that a joke won’t work or just needs to be tweaked for the audience. For comedians without that framework, a bomb like that can feel overwhelming. They can give up on the joke. Sometimes they can even give up on themselves. Even worse, they can get envious.
Comedians, as I’ve talked about here before, often have a famine mindset. It’s competitive. People think there’s not enough to go around. That mindset starts with envy: wanting what someone else has and seeking their downfall so you can get it. It eats away at you. But in the end, that often hurts you worse than the other person who’s got what you want. I’ve seen talented comedians sabotage themselves this way. It sucks the humor out of doing stand-up. It sucks the joy out of doing stand-up. It creates a bad reputation in stand-up.
Here’s what I do instead: I strive to be genuinely happy for others. I see it this way: I have what I’ve worked for and grinded for. So it goes with others. If they’ve worked hard for what they have, why should I hate? I celebrate them and their successes. I celebrate the opportunity they got, the journey they took, and if I’m able, I’ll try to help them with the failures they have along the way.
When I started comedy, I thought I was better than the others in my first showcase. That comparison motivated me to get better. But I wasn’t wanting their downfall. I wouldn’t be mad at their success. And that’s the line: comparison as a measurement versus comparison as resentment.
When I’m teaching comedy and I see a student comparing themselves to someone further along, I can tell immediately. But there should really never be comparison. Each person is on their own journey with their own experiences, their own talents, their own strengths, and their own weaknesses.
So, focus on your own Chapter 1 or whatever chapter you’re in. Write your own premises. Learn joke structure. Get stage time. Bomb. Learn from it. Try again. The journey is yours. The timeline is yours. The failures are yours to learn from. And when someone else succeeds, celebrate them. They’ve been through their own hidden chapters, and maybe even a few “Womp! Womps!” too.