Last summer, the day my husband drove my daughter to sleepaway camp, I moved into my parents’ apartment building. Neighbors who had known me since childhood saw me in the elevator and asked what I was doing there. “House-sitting,” I said. In truth I was getting divorced, and crashing to save money until I found a new place for my daughter, 14, and me. When I told friends my situation, they said, “You’re the real-life Mrs. Maisel.” Minus the costuming and time period, there were striking similarities: difficult split, close Jewish family, prying neighbors.

But unlike the main character in “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” I had never done stand-up and had no desire to. I’d had lots of stage experience, as a former child actor and, later, an author and journalist giving public readings, but stand-up had always seemed terrifying. My self-esteem was at a record low. Why would I want to tell jokes to a bunch of strangers? What if I got heckled off the stage? I never thought to imagine what would happen if they laughed.

Over the next few months my life unraveled, but I found myself with a surfeit of material: moving to an affordable but remote neighborhood in Brooklyn; dating men who swallowed Viagra in front of me; getting the HPV vaccine three months before the age cutoff of 46.

One day a college professor friend, also separated, told me he performed at open mics under an assumed first name. He said it had helped him in the early months of his split . He told me about a club in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, called EastVille. I thought, If he can do it, why can’t I?