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Something strange happened to me during this year's Melbourne International Comedy Festival.
At some point during the poorly attended, badly reviewed, but I like to think energetically performed run of my show, I found myself pondering the myriad disappointments that this year's festival had brought me, and vowing to myself, "Next year, it's going to be different".
Why would I think that? Up to that point my festival-related thoughts had mostly oscillated between mulling the possibility of giving up comedy forever, and mulling the possibility of walking into the sea.
Between the aforementioned critical savaging and minuscule audiences, the universe had been sending me nothing but signs that I'd be doing the world and myself a favour by walking away from the stage permanently.
Of course, many comedians — including some of the world's most successful — have confessed to feelings of self-doubt: imposter syndrome is rife in comedy, as it tends to be in most artistic fields.
A great example is found in the memoirs of Stephen Fry, who writes at length of how inadequate and uncertain of himself he feels, even after a hugely successful career in television, movies, and stage.
On the other hand, the most successful comedians have one easily accessible source of consolation: they're successful comedians.
Possibly if I were selling out every night, being nominated for festival awards, or had my own TV show, I would still feel like a failure, but at least evidence to the contrary would be easy to find.
But although in the worlds of op-ed writing and publishing I've carved out a nice little niche, in the world of stand-up and comedy performing I am unquestionably at the bottom of the heap.
My current show hasn't once even managed to half-fill the little room I'm playing in; calls from TV producers are non-existent, and I'm about as likely to be nominated for an award as I am to appear on the cover of Playboy.
Yet despite all this, at my lowest ebb, somehow I was looking forward to my next Quixotic attempt to break into a world that had repeatedly told me I wasn't welcome.
There was only one conclusion to come to, and it was a disturbing one: I must actually want to do this.
And I'm not the only one. Plenty of others want to defy the signs of the universe and have a crack at this ridiculous pursuit.
And for them, there's a lot to be learned from those of us who haven't yet found success, as well as those who've hit the big time.
To these adorable deluded souls, I offer this advice.
1. You're on your own
It's quite exciting to think about joining the comedy scene, hanging out with wonderful, funny, interesting people, maybe even meeting your idols.
And it's true you can make great friends in comedy — just don't expect them to be of much help in actually getting you anywhere.
It's a competitive world out there, and even those of your fellow comics who aren't actively wishing failure on you have their own problems to worry about without wasting precious time giving you a helping hand.
Look to your peers for moral support, commiserations and drinking companionship: when it comes to climbing the greasy pole, no one's going to give you a boost.
2. Ignore reviewers
If you are foolhardy enough to put on a festival show, there's a chance you might get reviewed. Stick at it and sooner or later you'll get a bad review.
My first festival show got a couple of savage slap-downs. So did my second.
This year I put on my sixth show and got the worst review of my life — from a UK-based reviewer who you'd think travelled around the world specifically to destroy my self-esteem, such was the obvious relish he took in doing so.
But every one of those shows has had good reviews too, which just goes to illustrate the profound truth of comedy criticism — or any kind of arts criticism: a reviewer is just one person.
No comedian — or for that matter, writer or musician, from Dickens and the Beatles on down — has ever pleased everyone, and if one of the people you happen to rub the wrong way happens to be a reviewer, that's just bad luck.
But the beauty of comedy is that you don't have to depend on critics to tell you whether your show's any good: the noise the audience makes is a foolproof guide.
If they're laughing, you're doing it right.
3. But don't IGNORE reviewers
Plenty of feedback you get will be worthless, but occasionally you can make use of it.
A couple of reviews I've had have helped me make my show better: whether it's coming from a professional critic or just an ordinary punter, keep an eye out for that rare bit of criticism that is actually constructive.
A positive review I got this year suggested that an interpretive dance section in my show was damaging the momentum, and it was right: since cutting the dance the show's had a lot more energy and zing to it.
4. Abandon all sense of shame
I don't know how to force people to come see you perform — all the shows I see selling out seem to be operating with the benefit of some dark modern alchemy — but I do know that you won't better your odds by being coy.
As someone who regularly self-sabotages due to the crushing guilt I feel for ruining people's evenings by waving a flyer in their face, I say pull every trick, use every gimmick, stage every publicity stunt and call in every favour you can.
It can be embarrassing to hawk yourself in a public market, but beggars can't be choosers, and to be clear: if you've taken up a comedy career, you're a beggar.
5. Sleep long. Sleep often
How much sleep you're able to get will depend on personal circumstances: we all have jobs and families and other annoying intrusions to deal with.
But you should take every opportunity your lifestyle allows to lay your head down, because a comedy festival is an exhausting ordeal and it will grind you down to the point that, when it's over, you'll either be a haggard walking ghost or have put on 20 kilos.
So when you're not on stage, harassing passers-by with flyers, or debauching at the Festival Club, snatch a nap whenever you can.
It'll give you more energy for performing, and improve your mood — you can't feel depressed when you're asleep.
6. Watch other comics
This is a worthwhile exercise for three reasons: first, because it'd be a shame to deprive yourself of the fun side of the festival (having a good laugh) just because you're mainly concerned with the awful side (making people laugh).
Second, because it's a nice thing to do for other comics who need audiences (I know Point One said we're all on our own, but wouldn't it be nice to prove that wrong occasionally?).
And third, because the festival is a fantastic opportunity to do what comedians need to be doing all the time — learn.
You can take classes from Steve Martin, but the best education you'll get is watching other comics, and at festival time there's a whole battalion of great ones gathered in one spot.
I'll forever be grateful to my own wise teachers, like Ross Noble, who helped me get a grasp of improvisation; Paul F Tompkins, whose work helped me work out my own sense of timing and narrative; and the great Martin himself, whose work I always return to as a reminder to not let myself be constricted by the imaginary boundaries of structure or convention.
7. Remember why you're there
There is only one really good reason to do comedy, and it's the same one really good reason there is to write, paint, or pursue any art form: that you believe you have something to give the world that nobody else can.
Every artist will suffer rejection and hardship and moments of terrifying despair.
To push through those times, to keep chasing that dream, to defy setbacks and criticism and even rationality on a quest where failure has a sizeable weight advantage over its underdog opponent ... you need to know it's worth it.
You need to know the consequences of giving up will be catastrophic, not just for you, but for the world.
Maybe you've got a message to bring us, maybe you've got a unique voice, maybe you've got a take on the art-form that will turn comedy upside down.
Whatever it is, if you know that what you have needs to be shared, you've got your reason for doing it.
And no matter how stupid and frustrating and futile it all seems, as long as that reason remains, quitting will simply never be an option.
And if, for you, quitting is an option, then I can only say I envy you, and beg you to tell me your secret.
Topics: comedy-humour, popular-culture, offbeat, australia