Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Nope, it’s just me recalling how comedian Victor Borge bore a striking resemblance to my grandfather—both are European Jews with faces seemingly carved from history. But let’s be honest, my grandfather’s legacy was humorless hard work, while Borge had audiences in stitches. Clearly, one of them mastered the art of not taking life too seriously, and spoiler alert: it wasn’t Grandpa.
Picture this: eleven-year-old me, home alone, discovering a VHS tape of Borge’s act. My parents were off somewhere earning a living, and I was blissfully wrapped up in the revelation that comedy could be edible—like, I don’t know, a five-star meal of laughter sprinkled with punctuation. Borge wobbled on stage, book in hand, and suddenly “reading aloud” became the trendy new sport. Who knew commas and periods could be represented by tongue-in-cheek sound effects? Forget basketball; I wanted to be the first poet who could uncork a “whizz” with his words.
Sure, I was shy, the kind of kid who’d rather wrestle with a plot in my journal than read aloud from the textbook—classic writer material. Meanwhile, Borge stood there, a Holocaust survivor launching a zinger about semicolons like it was second nature. I couldn’t help but think if he could pop out punchlines, maybe I could pop out poems. Sure, I still trembled like a leaf at the thought of public performance, but I started infusing humor into my scribbles, turning sketches that resonated with my friends into comedy-infused masterpieces.
Fast forward to my twenties—where rejection became my invisible friend and my art school days resembled a social experiment gone wrong. I gleefully ventured off into the thrilling world of 9-to-5, trading in existential crises for fluorescent lighting and coworker gossip. Add cliché and sprinkle with irony—thank you, adulthood, for the lack of inspiration.
The miracle of creative kinship didn’t entirely die, though. Enter comedy podcasts—my ticket back into the world of imaginative camaraderie. Before I dared to yell “I am a writer!” into the void, I found solace in comedians cracking jokes during mundane commutes. Who knew you could feel so connected while stuck in traffic, listening to the melodious harmony of laughter over Zoom backgrounds? It was the comedy greenroom I never knew I needed.
My favorite podcasts offered a backstage pass—giving me a front-row seat to what sounded like creative chaos and communal acceptance on a rollercoaster disguised as a talk show. They tossed around punchlines like it was confetti at a comedy wedding where everyone was invited to share that upside-down life because, who cares if you collapse under the pressure of expectations? It’s all about the collective giggle that shoots through the awkward air like a well-placed punchline.
Yet, amid this laughter, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that creativity is often a solitary endeavor—like baking a cake in solitude, only to discover you forgot to turn the oven on. Perhaps it’s comforting to know even literary giants like James Baldwin struggled to find a community, but honestly, where was the support when I was hiding my drafts in a digital closet? Thank you, podcasts, for stepping in like a superhero at the last moment; your warmth enveloped me amidst my scattered thoughts.
From Pete Holmes, through the winding avenues of humor, to Mike Birbiglia’s “Working It Out,” each episode turned my scribbles into something tangible, allowing me to soak in humor during yet another mental block. The emotional rollercoaster of hearing the greats risk rejection and embrace feedback became my motivational coffee, spicing up even the dullest writing sessions. And you know what? I might still be a work-in-progress, but if laughter can be harnessed, then surely I can sprinkle it into my writing like confetti, right?
So, here’s the takeaway for aspiring writers who tremble at the daunting task of sharing their creativity: if Borge could turn a concert hall into a comedy club while mentally navigating his own dark tunnel, perhaps we can all find lightness in our own struggles. Besides, if my awkwardness could transfer into humor while drafting this piece, I’ll take my chances with the world cherishing the punchline that follows.
