Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life

by Steve Martin

Having cut myself off from him, and by association the rest of the family, I was incurring psychological debts that would come due years later in the guise of romantic misconnections and a wrong-headed quest for solitude. I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know I am qualified to be a comedian.

In spite of the gloom, I had a premonition of success, and in January 1975 I started a short-lived diary. It surprises me that a diary meant to chronicle an important year in my life could contain so many negative passages. My entry for the Hub Pub Club started this way: “This town smells like a cigarette.” Then I sank a bit lower: “My material seems so old. The audience indulged me during the second show.” Then I really started wallowing in it: “My act might have well been in a foreign language…my act has no ending.” Next I degenerated into my version of Kurtz’s lament, “The horror, the horror,” from Heart of Darkness: “My new material is hopelessly poor. My act is simply not good enough—it’s not even bad.”