Why Great Comedians Often Write Backwards

Stories, Surprises, & Spontaneity in Stand-Up Comedy (Comedy Mindhacks #31)

You may not know this, but professional comedians, quite like magicians, are master engineers disguised as spontaneous entertainers. It’s true! I remember hearing Seth Meyers, I think it was on Mike Birbiglia’s documentary “Good One,” talking about how stand-up comedy is the one profession where you put in all the work to make it look like everything’s just spontaneous, thought up in that moment. Thus, what looks like natural comedic wit on stage is actually and often deep precision in one’s comedic craft.

The truth of the matter is: comedians often follow systematic methods that would surprise most audiences. But unlike magicians who are never supposed to show their secrets, I love pulling back the curtain on joke writing. And all of us comedians, we have our favorite ways of doing things, our routines for mining material, writing, memorizing, and performing. For instance, a lot of great jokes aren’t written by starting with the setup; instead, many times comedians start with the punch. That might seem counterintuitive, but it works.

Here’s a peek into how. For me, in many instances, the joke writing process begins when I notice something absurd or unexpected, something unfamiliar or unusual. That becomes the punchline, what we might also call “Story 2.” Then I backfill the joke to create a setup, that is, I engineer “Story 1” to create an opposite assumption or set of assumptions. It’s like, if Story 2 was “bad,” then then I’m going to make Story 1 lead to assumptions about “good.”

Take this actual example: Some time ago, I was thinking about the fact that my dad was never around, that he was an absentee father, that he basically took the last 40 years off of parenting. And that unusual thing, taking 40 years off parenting, that idea of my dad being irresponsible became my punch (Story 2). Once I had that, I started working backwards and backfilling. I crafted the setup/Story 1 in such a way as to make my dad sound responsible, which was the opposite. Here’s what I came up with: “When I was young, my dad had one rule he wanted to ingrain in me. He called it his 30/40 Rule.”

Writing it and wording it precisely that way leads the audience to assume wise parenting advice is coming. They want to hear the rule, especially because it might be advice they can pass on. It also leads them to assume my dad was engaging in good parenting. Then comes the punch, which punches and shatters those assumptions: “After 30 minutes of hard work, take the next… 40 years off of parenting.”

The whole joke: When I was young, my dad had one rule he wanted to ingrain in me. He called it his 30/40 Rule. After 30 minutes of hard work, take the next… 40 years off of parenting.

That joke pretty much always works on stage. The beauty of this backward type of construction technique is that it often leads to maximum misdirection. By starting with the surprising truth in Story 2 then working backward, I can precisely engineer the false assumption needed in Story 1 to make Story 2’s truth land.

What’s interesting is that sometimes I know instantly when that engineering of a joke will work on stage. I don’t need to test it with anyone. I just know it’ll land. It’s kinda like a basketball player who knows their shot is good the moment it leaves their hand. Experienced performers develop an intuitive feel, in other words, for successful misdirection.

Now, that’s not to say that my intuition never gets backed up by systematic testing. It does. I test jokes on everyone: family, friends, strangers, students, barbers, and writing groups with other comedians. And more often than not, I’ve noticed that their initial reaction reveals everything. If people have to think, the joke fails. A chuckle means it’ll probably get a laugh on stage. An immediate laugh almost always guarantees that it’ll work and get more than a chuckle.

It’s really all about a crafted surprise. And, as I’ve noted many times on this site and in my comedy podcasts, one of the elements that triggers human laughter is surprise. And many times great surprises are the fruit of employing trusted structures and devices. Even behind successful crowd work, there’s often structures and devices to fall back on. This is also the case when one bombs.

Many times, when jokes fail, comedians deploy “savers,” that is, self-deprecating remarks that acknowledge the failure and release tension from the bombed joke. At times, when I’ve bombed, I’ve said something like, “Alright, well, my plan was to come here and suck tonight... seems to be working.” That comment “appears” spontaneous but, of course, isn’t. Many professional comedians keep several savers ready, just in case. A saver can definitely save, but it also keeps up the illusion of spontaneity and surprise, which is huge.

All this reveals something fundamental about professional comedy: what appears spontaneous often isn’t. But that’s the fun of it, the magic, so to speak. If it’s not planned in detail beforehand, there’s often a systematic method for handling unexpected, real-time interactions. So, it’s not always the case that one comedian’s naturally funnier than another, just that they’re better engineers of expectation, surprise, and recovery, that they’re masters of precision in their craft.