I thought, OK. A couple of things.

Number 1. How did hibernating bears get hold of this information?

Number 2. That seems pretty important ... maybe we should wake them up.

This was the first stand-alone joke I ever wrote that I thought was actually funny - that is, not just funny enough to amuse me and my long-suffering partner, but potentially a group of complete strangers.

I'm not so confident it works in print.

My hibernating bears joke sat solo for a little while, in a document called "Jokes". Plural. With that gauntlet having been thrown down, it had to be joined by others.

I wrote bits about 3G conspiracy theories (I believe the phone companies are building those towers out in the suburbs to send us messages), Stuart Macgill's kidnapping (He found the only group of kidnappers that offered a drop-off service), and the Gimp from Pulp Fiction (Here's a man who loves his job, and has managed to get ahead in LA's notoriously expensive rental market).

I wrote more bits, about suddenly feathered dinosaurs (Scientists have gone mad with power), minimum security prisons (That's just daring the people inside to have a crack, isn't it?) and equestrian (Dancing is bad enough already. I don't know who thought it would be improved by filtering it through a horse).

For a long time, the Jokes list itself was the project. It barely occurred to me to seriously think about getting on a stage and saying these things out loud.

I was a journalist and a newspaper producer. The purity of the written word suited me just fine, thank you very much - unspoiled by a botched delivery or a sudden memory lapse or an inexplicable dead silence from the audience where you just know there should be laughs.

The problem with taking this approach, even if it feels safest, is that if you do anything for long enough, you might start to get better at it.

And as anyone who's ever seriously put fingers to keyboard knows, you write to be read.

After a while, it became apparent these jokes had been sheltered for too long. They needed to breathe. They needed to be put to the test in the proper arena, and be given the chance to become who they were meant to be - or die in the process.

Besides, after a few beers they had a knack for getting themselves told anyway.

That's how I found myself at my first open mic, one Sunday night in July at Smith's Alternative (Sounds like an experimental potato chip) on Alinga Street in Civic.

After watching a few people have a go, there was something about the live-or-die nature of the situation - even in a very supportive room - that made it impossible to resist.

Here's a microphone. Stand here. I'm going to shine this light in your face. Righto.

Here are 50 people you've never met before. You don't know anything about them - their likes or dislikes, their personal stories, their cultural background, their hot-button topics. Nothing.

Now make them laugh. Go. And no matter what, stay up there for five minutes.

Want to know if you're any good? They'll tell you.

With COVID restrictions largely eased in the ACT, and Canberra's vaccination rate set to eclipse 100 per cent - apparently something that can legitimately happen - arts and cultural events are starting to spring up again across the capital.

Canberra's open mic scene, while not on the scale of Sydney or Melbourne's, is thriving. A committed aspiring comic can land themselves a couple of five-minute slots more weeks than not.

Go to just a few nights and you'll begin to recognise the regular talent. There are well-known names like Chris Ryan, who's selling out shows at major city festivals.

There are local legends like Marky Worthington, Taylor Coughtrie, Sam Silla, Nick Schuller, and too many others to list here.

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There's Chris Marlton - is he in character or isn't he? Are we all in character? - who jokes he started doing stand-up so he'd do less acting up at work, but it didn't work.

There's Sarah Stewart, a nurse turned contact tracer who started stand-up at 58 and says everyone should have a go. And Ethan Kirk, who was taking to the stage at 17, making jokes about high school life.

Jeffrey Charles runs the open mic at Smith's, the longest-running room in Canberra. A teacher who does musical comedy, he sings about the struggles of being a white, decidedly middle-class young father and composting enthusiast in a world that tells you it's cooler to be anything but.

He says starting stand-up is about finding your comedy voice, and through that, exploring who you are - and a strong open mic scene is key to surfacing those new voices.

"Canberra's a very thoughtful and reflective city. It's important to have events that people can get out and go to - there's really great people here," he says.

"It's all about opening doors for the arts ... we've got to keep that flame burning."

I'd love to help out, Jeff, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to give this comedy thing a miss.

You see, my friend says I should quit both journalism and comedy and take a job at his pen factory.

And he makes a fine point.