Success Story

“The making of art is not a competitive act. Our work is representative of the self.”
― Rick Rubin

I’ve had a lot of career-oriented dreams lately. I don’t usually remember my dreams, but this more recent slate – all involving me performing, doing well, and people you might call “gatekeepers” saying I’m giving them exactly what they’re looking for – feels more hashtag hustle grindset than I’ve ever experienced.

I think part of it is because, right now, there is more public chatter about success in comedy than I’ve seen in a long while. It’s certainly a coincidence that the same week Matt Rife caused a gigantic stir with his topless tour announcement, the LA Times published an article delving into how stand-up comics mostly live in financial precarity:

“I absolutely do not make a living doing comedy,” [Megan Koester] said. “Occasionally I’ll get paid for a college gig, or a part in a SAG ultra-low budget production, but you couldn’t even buy a 2001 Toyota Tercel with the amount of money I generate yearly from comedy.”

I knew I was going to be a part of this article – Jake interviewed me for it a while back – but I didn’t expect to get digitally patted on the back in the wake of its release. I guess that’s because there’s still a part of me that sees a gulf between “success” and “living the dream.”

Success is a funny thing. For a guy whose entire decision to move to L.A. hinged on the plan "do stand-up and see what happens," I've been fortunate that a lot of cool stuff has happened. I make my living doing things I love: writing and comedy. More importantly, I can afford to live in this city, even during the slow months, when my employment is irregular but the bills come all the same. But despite the gratitude I feel to have my needs met, basic and beyond, at times I find myself struggling to feel successful. “Do stand-up” has become a lifeboat on the “see what happens” ship.

I’m 23 and sitting in a commercial acting class that I can’t really afford, because I’ve been told its an investment in my career. The teacher immediately reminds me of one of my least favorite college professors; the kind of guy who would make an amazing real estate agent if he wasn’t trying so hard to be a tanned arbiter of talent.

I am still not entirely sold on the commercial thing, because it goes directly against one of my favorite bits from one of my favorite comedians: Bill Hicks’ “Artistic Roll Call.”

“You do a commercial, you're off the artistic roll call - forever. End of story. Okay? You're another corporate fucking shill. You're another whore at the capitalist gangbang. And if you do a commercial, there's a price on your head. Everything you say is suspect and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink.”

But in the first few hours after class begins, he clears the air.

“How many of you want to be commercial actors?”

Nobody raises their hands. He asks who wants to have other, more artistically-sound careers – actors, dancers, musicians, comedians – and everyone raises their hands when they feel seen. Then, he flips the switch for all of us.

“You have to subsidize your artistic life. You have to give yourself room to create.”

In this moment, Hicks leaves my head and is replaced with a gentler suggestion: use help getting over the finish line until your art can carry you the entire way.

I’m hanging with comics in a parking lot outside of a show in Orange County, discussing the Matt Rife backlash. The general consensus here is confusion. No one really understands the hate he’s getting, outside of maybe because he does so much crowd work.

"I don't think a lot of people who are doing stand-up comedy want to be successful," I find myself saying. "They just want to hang out with their friends." The other comics nod. I’m overgeneralizing, but it’s purposeful: aside from the handful of lucky sociopaths who are preternaturally great at networking, cold-emailing, and not worrying about losing oxygen on their climb to the top, I find it hard to believe that most comics really think about what actual success looks like. I know I didn’t.

What scares me about success is that it’s not a straight line. It's barely even a line at all. Success is a map. Uncharted territory. It's what gets revealed to you along the way. It's taking a route for a while and realizing too late that maybe that route is full of brambles and sycophants. No one’s path is the same. My success is not your success, is not his success, is not her success, is not their success. It is mine alone, and I do not know where I’m going.

I still have a goal point in mind, a dream that serves as a beacon, but I am deep inside that dream, watching it unfold like a character in Inception. (Obviously, not Leo – I’m more like one of his marks.) And I still spend time convincing myself, you're doing the right thing, you're putting in sweat equity and miring yourself in credit card debt for the right reasons, as I attempt to chart a path. Luckily, I can afford to take the journey a little slower, meandering instead of speed-walking. I might still trip and fall flat on my face, but at least I don’t have to rush through the jungle of my uncertainty.

This line of work – once you start to think about it as work, anyway – requires an appetite for risk. Pursuing a career in the arts is an inherently risky endeavor. Even before the moment when you can go “oh shit, I’m making a living doing this,” just being an artist means you're probably going to live a life on the margins.

No matter how "successful" I get, shit happens. The universe does not discriminate, and, in fact, frequently shows me that most things are out of my control. Like comedy promoters reducing spot pay rates out of nowhere, or people not responding to your emails, or getting shitty comments online, or any other number of metaphorical rocks in my shoes that are, at the end of the day, none of my business.

This is all normal. This is just how it has to go down sometimes. Despite being someone who hears Bill Hicks in his head every single time I find myself auditioning for a commercial, I still do them. Because I don't have the luxury of being able to turn stuff down. I still need the money to buy myself the time.

“Not having money is time consuming. There are hours spent at laundromats, hours at bus stops, hours at free clinics, hours at thrift stores, hours on the phone with the bank or the credit card company or the phone company over some fee, some little charge, some mistake.”
― Eula Biss

What it took me a really long time to understand was that comics are not in competition with each other in any real sense. Looking at comedy from a competitive standpoint is a recipe for resentment. How to really find happiness and creative joy is to try and only beat yourself. (And not to beat yourself up, which is also an easy thing for a comic to do.)

We are not here to fight for a spot at the table. We are here to enjoy the meal. We are here to sling jokes and joy. Maybe make a few friends along the way. And sure, because we live in a capitalist society, we eventually have to be cognizant of things like "how much money am I making doing this," and "which clubs will book me and pay me," and "why do so few shows in Los Angeles pay," but these are all questions that don’t need to be priority number one.

Figuring out what will subsidize me doesn’t fulfill me. Figuring out how to approach what subsidizes me does. The little shift feels like everything right now. It’s what keeps me from dwelling on not selling merch after a headlining gig in San Diego, because the voice I hear on the drive home is not mine. It’s the voice of the person who came up to me after the show, told me how much they loved my set, that comics like me are the reason they do comedy. I didn't sell any koozies or albums, but I did earn that.