I didn’t set out to become a novelist.
I set out to give a speech on “Breeding Before Forty.”
As one does.
It was part of a presentation skills course I took for work. The kind designed to teach you how to stand up, project your voice, and not visibly perspire while discussing quarterly targets. Instead, I chose fertility timelines.
I’ve always been deeply committed to making things unnecessarily awkward.
The speech got laughs. Real ones. Not polite, HR-safe titters. Actual laughter.
And because the universe has a warped sense of humor, someone suggested I try rookies’ comedy night. Perhaps ‘suggested’ is over-selling it?
~ I was strong-armed.
~ I went.
~ I didn’t die.
In fact, I got enough laughs that they asked me back, and even paid me when I showed up. And that is how a sensible working adult accidentally ends up on the professional comedy circuit. Unfortunatley, it didn’t pay me enough to retire from the day job.
The next three years saw me crafting stand-up sets to within an inch of their lives and learning so much in the process. Comedy is engineering. Every word earns its place. Every pause is deliberate.
You can feel when a joke is half a beat too long. The audience lets you know immediately. Publicly. Sometimes, with silence so loud you can hear your ancestors reconsidering your genetic line.
I loved writing my material. I loved the precision of it. The sharpness. The ability to take something mildly unhinged and polish it until it gleamed. And if I could make someone snort beer out of their nose with a follow-up punchline? So much the better.
I retired from comedy after my mom passed away. Grief doesn’t respond well to punchlines. Nor does consoling your dad. And while both left me feeling anything but funny, I still had stories. And I still had the itch to write.
Back in my misspent youth, I’d escaped New Zealand and spent four years traveling the world in what is locally known as the Big OE (overseas experience). It occurred to me, somewhat naively, that I should write a book about my adventures.
I mean, how hard could it be?
