Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Stand-up

Christmas – Things can only get better … surely?

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Five Gold Rings by Mo Fanning - Christmas short stories

It’s Christmas! Remember 2019? The worst year ever. Putting politics to one side, it was one of those years that took away too many beloved famous faces. On 31 December 2019, many breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to something better.

2020 can’t be any worse, we said.

And then it was.

Even if this has been a tough year, I’m trying to focus on the good stuff to come out of it, and about to spend my first Christmas with stairs. I grew up in a bungalow (yet another thing that made me different and subject to name calling at school – kids are so good at finding cracks in our foundation through which to drip poison). I scarpered to my own life aged 19 and ever since, have lived in flats (although I often call them apartments, the word sounds fancier). After losing my mother earlier this year, we’re trapped by lockdown in the house we occupied for the summer. After six months, the place looks less like it belongs to an old lady with a hefty QVC habit, but there are still enough loose covers and silk flowers to sink any kind of post-Brexit fishing trawler.

Christmas is getting out of hand

Mr Fanning commented on how I appeared to be ‘more into Christmas than usual’ this time around. I gave it some thought. I suppose I want to grab any aspect of normal going. If that means turning back the clock to a time when the cold, damp closing weeks of the year featured a decorated tree and a tin of Cadbury’s Roses, so be it. I fear I’ve gone overboard on the presents. Somehow it got out of hand. I started with small things, then bought more small things, one big thing and then another, then a load of medium-sized bits of fabulosity. Stashed at the back of cupboards in a three-bedroom house, it didn’t look much. Entombed in wrapping paper and gathered under said tree, there’s an Imelda Marcos shoe fetish vibe.

Actual writing happened this year. Admittedly, on and off, as I found new ways to distract myself from the job in hand. I’m ending the year with a fifteenth draft of ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ – the first where the story feels true to what I wanted to say. It needs a final check before sending it to the outside world for another mauling and publication. I’ve also revamped ‘Five Gold Rings’ (adding a lockdown story) and seen the collection appear in paperback for the first time. My back catalogue almost all got new covers and new editions. ‘The Armchair Bride’ snuck back into the few bookstores open and back onto websites. I’m ready to resume my stint of story telling.

Stand back

Comedy took a natural backseat, though thanks to a couple of wonderful online workshops – notably one run by the ever brilliant Logan Murray – I connected with some brilliant comics and writers. I’m hoping 2021 sees me forge stronger ties with these new faces. The experience made me think long and hard about standup. Comedy takes so much time to write – even a short ten-minute set. With clubs and pubs shuttered, there’s little chance to work on material. Without audience feedback, standup dies, the words become a bunch of ideas waiting to be tested. Better comics are already waiting to retake their spots on stage. If I take this back up, my stage return won’t be next year.

So… on to 2021.

Rebuilding Alexandra Small will be published in 2021. The Armchair Bride is now available now from all good websites and bookstores. If you’d like to support my work, consider using Patreon.

Writing: it’s my job to point things out

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Writing for writers

A frequently quoted ‘rule’ for writing is to write something every day. No matter if it’s good. No matter if it’s bad. Set yourself a window – anything from ten minutes to every waking moment – and sit in front of a screen or an empty piece of paper and write. The idea being if you do this each day, a habit forms and something good will come. As advice goes, it sits up there with ‘sometimes, even a blind squirrel finds a nut’.

Writing isn’t a natural thing for us as a species. For most of evolution, nobody wrote anything – fair enough there’s the odd cave drawing that historians insist are early attempts at storytelling. On that basis, bus-seat sharpie-penned pledges of Kazza luvs Jez carry equal value.

Writing for many years was the preserve of the elite. Even now, it remains a strange way to communicate.

When I stand on a stage and tell jokes, I see faces. The feedback is instant and I sense when an audience needs me to clarify or drop planned patter and jump to another topic. When I write a story, my words vanish into a void. Short of the occasional Amazon review, I don’t know who reads my books or how much they understand of the worlds I create.

Writing short set-ups

I try to find something interesting and point it out. I’ll ask you to look at someone or something and understand the flaws and persuade you that what I see is of interest. When learning the language of stand-up comedy, I picked up on how the shortest set-up works best. If a comic needs to explain the premise, chances are it’s unfamiliar.

It’s not the job of a writer or comedian to ram information into the brains of an audience.

The worst writing (and comedy) happens when those in charge abandon ‘joint attention‘ in favour of trying to sell their audience into an idea or world. It’s incredibly hard to do surreal comedy or writing and do it well.

Some of the worst writing advice is to create words for yourself and never consider the audience. For me, the audience comes first. I am part of the audience, but I’m also aware when what I find funny might be too personal. I’m not here to impress with clever plot twists or elaborate language and don’t care what you think about me. I’m not in the book. When I’m on stage telling jokes, you see a version of me.

What I aim to do is point out what’s there … if you look in the right places.

This is how we function as humans. Side-by-side we scan those around us, our landscape, the absurdity and improbability.

It’s my job to point things out.

The art of doing two things at once

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If I could choose a superpower, it would be multitasking. I can do two (or even three) things at roughly the same time, but I won’t pretend I’m doing anything other than dividing my focus. Each task gets a slice of my brain, nothing gets the whole twisted deal.

When I tried my hand at stand-up, I set goals. I would see if I had it in me to tell jokes in front of two hundred people and make them laugh. I’d also find new ways to sharpen my writing.

I performed in front of 200 people last December.

Since then, I’ve continued the quest to write better material, and believe I’ve made headway. But it’s come at a price. My next novel stalled.

Back to the edit

This week, I blew the digital dust off my latest draft and set to work editing. After an enjoyable hour or two of writing new life into the opening scenes, I sat back satisfied and rediscovered the happy vibe of an author who’s totally nailed his story.

With comedy class a day or two away, I put my story to one side and set about writing something new to try out in front of fellow comics. Once more, things went well and the words flowed.

I was multitasking.

The next day, I tried to edit my story some more, except I wasn’t feeling it.

Fair enough, it’s been a while.

I switched back into stand-up mode. An hour brainstorming ideas that would become jokes that might make it through the ruthless edit of class is still time well spent.

Except I wasn’t feeling it.

Multitasking fail

My novel needs my full attention. There are threads to juggle, characters to shape, dialogue to shave, elaborately familiar pictures to write. Stand-up demands choppy delivery. Sketches drawn in five words or fewer. Specific personal attitude. These two different styles of writing don’t fit with multitasking.

I spent a day back in my Amsterdam home town this week. Along the way, I talked to old friends about writing, and what I heard was me admitting something has to change.

I’ve enjoyed the comedy classes. They’ve taught me how to write sharper jokes, but right now, I need to tell stories. And that’s forbidden in the style of comedy advocated by my current mentor.

In July, I’ll take my final stand-up bow (for the time being) and return all focus to writing ‘The Toast of Brighton’. When the nights grow long and I’m itching for validation once more, who can say. Perhaps I’ll find some other comedy class with a different focus. Perhaps I’ll find a different distraction.

Until then, here comes the summer.

Getting choppy with standup

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It’s been a while since I updated readers on my bizarre bid to become a standup comedian. With nearly two terms under my belt, I’m well on the way to being an absolute beginner.

As with anything new, there are times when I despair at the lack of progress. I emerge often from the class with every word I thought hilarious crossed out, and my fledgling comedy brain mired in confusion.

The thing is when it comes to writing a story, I’m on solid ground. When I read back over new chapters, I see at once what works and what doesn’t. And – importantly – I know how to fix what’s broken. With standup, I’m nowhere near that perfect state. I know the theory, but putting it into practice isn’t as easy as it looks. So much depends on the writing.

Standup comedy demands a different skill set. The language is different. Any audience must be able to read my act as standup. I can’t shuffle into the spotlight, grab the microphone and tell a story. That’s been the hardest thing to accept.

This weekend, my ego gave itself a boost … and if you happen to be struggling to make progress with your latest writing project, I may offer help.

Standup comedy – experiment 1

This applies to standup, but you’ll easily adapt this exercise in self-flagellation to any writing project.

Just so long as you’ve read or seen enough of what you’re trying to write.

For this experiment, you’ll need

  • 1 willing partner/friend
  • 1 sample of your writing
  • A safe space (optional)

Hand your willing partner/friend a copy of your work in progress. Ask them to perform or read your work out loud.

That’s it really.

It’s all in the edit

Mr Fanning picked up my set and put on his ‘let me show you how it’s done‘ face. He started to read and within seconds I was shouting out. He was adding words here and there. Doing the thing my comedy teacher warned against.

Standup calls for choppy, very short sentences. It takes forever to edit six words into four and have it still make sense. And work as a gag.

It really helped to put myself in the shoes of my long-suffering standup comedy teacher. To hear what she hears each time I get up on the stage and try something new.

It made me think I might have learned something.

I reckon this would work for any creative project. As the writer, you know how it should sound and what will work. Get someone else to bring it to life. And you’ll see how easy it is to kill.

One word of warning, this experiment will drive a wedge of resentment between you and whoever you choose to support your quest to become a better writer.

Buy them nice flowers. It works.

A new addiction

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Jill Edwards Course Mates
Jill Edwards Course Mates

I’ve a new addiction. In its purest form, it’s a need for attention.

That stand-up comedy course I did … I want to do more. On Tuesday evening, along with 11 other terrified first-time comics, I waited backstage at the Komedia in Brighton, as nearly 300 people took their seats.

Our ‘New Act Night’ marked the end of a twelve-week course where I put myself in the very capable hands of Jill Edwards.

She doesn’t suffer fools gladly. On occasions, she scared me. Her rules didn’t always make sense … at first. But she made a solemn promise in that first lesson – “If you follow my instruction, listen to feedback, take on board what I’m telling you, I’ll put you on stage and people will laugh.”

She didn’t break her promise.

Every one of those twelve weeks were – as they say on every tired talent show – a journey. My emotions veered from sheer frustration through to the joy of nailing a performance. When the audience laughed (and at one point applauded one of my jokes), I was stunned.

And more than that, I’ve made new friends. People I care about deeply.

So … how to deal with this addiction?

For weeks, I couldn’t decide whether to bite the bullet and join Jill’s advanced comedy workshop. At one point, it looked like that decision was taken for me when I wasn’t invited. But that turned out to be a technology glitch. Of course, the second my money cleared, I changed my mind.

But after Tuesday evening, I changed it back.

Now I can’t wait!

If you fancy giving stand-up comedy a go, visit Jill’s website.