Every so often, a strange idea appears in my brain, seemingly out of nowhere. For example, earlier this year, I had an odd, fleeting thought that I’d like to try stand-up comedy. But just as quickly, my brain turned on itself with its usual auto-response: “Um, hi, Tina. You’re 57. Who exactly do you think you are? Stick to what you know.” 

And so, I stick to what I know, or at least what I think I know, which is generally writing, teaching, and handling all sorts of domestic duties. But then, one night, I had insomnia, so I got up at 1 am and wrote a story to enter into this year’s CringeFest, Project Write Now’s annual fundraiser. It’s a lively event where writers get up on stage and tell an embarrassing story. It’s memoir meets humiliation—the cringier, the better.

Now, writing as a way to cure insomnia is not new for me, but performing in CringeFest was new. I expected stage fright and rattled nerves, and I got plenty of those, but I also got something surprising out of the experience. I got schooled in the very concepts I had been teaching for decades: audience, purpose, and finding your voice. 

That I didn’t consider the audience or purpose became clear when I attended the first informal rehearsal a week before the event. I hadn’t yet committed my piece to memory, so I read my story verbatim from the too many pages I had prepared. After the first few lines, I knew most of it had to go. Too much backstory, too many words, too much formality. In short, it may have been a solid piece of writing, but it wasn’t suited for the audience or the purpose. Worse, my voice was smothered in all of the clever turns of phrase and heavy prose. When it comes to comedy, of course, voice is much more important than proper grammar and impressive vocabulary. 

So, I knew I had to “kill my darlings,” and I had lots of support. Project Write Now team members were encouraging as they took out their red pens, crossed out entire paragraphs, drew arrows and notes: keep this, lose this, let the story tell itself. I nodded in agreement thinking of all the times I did the same for my students. I worked diligently over the next week, taking their advice and also remembering to trust my experience. By the next rehearsal, I had pared my story down considerably, committed it to memory and let my personality show through. I also instinctually broke up my story into three separate but connected parts, which I later learned was an ideal comedic format. Who knew? 

There may be something trite in this experience about old dogs, new tricks and practicing what you preach, but there’s also an important reminder that learning is a life-long process. Maybe dreaming and honoring those odd, fleeting thoughts are life-long endeavors, too. After all, two of my dreams collided for a brief ten minutes on the CringeFest stage: I was a writer and a stand-up comedian all at once. But I wasn’t alone up there. I was guided by my old friends, audience, purpose, and voice. They were my time-tested stagehands, and while I don’t like to brag, together, we killed it. Now, all I need is an agent. 😉