Friday, 24 February 2006 | New

On Wednesday night I performed at my favorite comedy reading series in New York. I didn't read a long piece (it was a special show, designed like a funeral, and I was there to fake-eulogize), but it was a pretty big deal for me nonetheless.

For one thing, I was in good company -- the other performers are not only friends of mine, but are writers and comedians whom I really admire, who I've watched from the audience for more than a year. For another thing, I almost never perform. I don't think the others quite understood that when I said I was nervous, I meant something entirely different than they did when they said they were nervous.

Half an hour before the show started, my chest felt tight and my head hurt. Dan gave me the advice that I should simply pretend I felt confident, and that I could trick my body into believing it. I took his suggestion, along with a single gin and tonic and a fair amount of distraction.

Being on stage wasn't so bad this time. The stage lights graciously gave the audience a celestial glow, which made them seem friendly and pleasantly inhuman. I was pretty prepared (if I were to tell you how much time I spent preparing versus how much time I stood on stage, it would make you cry), and the audience laughed in all the places they were supposed to laugh, which surprised me, because I didn't expect it to actually work.

A big part of my performance involved showing photos and video, and while I certainly wanted that to go smoothly, I was much more concerned with the part in which my voice was amplified by a microphone while everyone stared expectantly in my direction. I have no gauge for that sort of thing, and it's quite different than the creative things I normally do: most of my projects are completed before they're ever seen, and there's little chance of an unexpected element to mess up their presentation. A performance, on the other hand, is completely uncertain, and not anything I can hope to perfect.

I'm also used to some level of permanence with the things I produce. Wednesday's show instead felt like a meal you scarf down in five minutes, after spending all day in the kitchen. I wish my memory of it didn't already feel so fuzzy.