I started comedy six years ago when I was 29, a lot later than most of the comedians I find myself on bills with. 

In that short time, which included a year of our industry on lockdown, I’ve gotten my face on the telly, written three Edinburgh shows and ended up in The Times Best Jokes of the Fringe list twice.

I’m about to do my fourth hour at the Fringe this year and rather than this being the most put together, spectacular show to date I’ve decided to strip it right back to basics. Why? Because I’m not ready yet.

Let me give you an idea of how quickly I tried to run before I could walk: I performed a 50-minute show for a full run of the Edinburgh Fringe three months after I did my first gig.  I do not look back on this proud of my bravery, rather I cringe internally at how reckless, inexperienced and naive I was. I had, unbeknownst to me, done my debut hour! Also instantly making myself ineligible from a string of new act competitions I didn’t even know existed, let alone realise how important they could be.

But I’d arrived, I guess, and I’d written something that people would sit through, which is shocking considering. 

Some people break time records in video games, some try to eat as many hotdogs as they can in five minutes… I tried to speedrun the comedy industry and you know what? It wasn’t a total disaster. It wasn’t a totally conscious decision. Yes, I knew I was starting later and had to play catch-up, but throwing myself in head first and learning on the job has always been my approach to everything. 

With comedy, I had something. I picked up a hugely supportive manager and I intended to ride my wave for as long as I could. 

Looking back on it, I made two mistakes. One was to get my head too focussed on the Edinburgh treadmill, churning out shows that fit a formula which I think the industry wants to see. And the second was basically skipping the open mic circuit because I wanted to focus on doing pro gigs or shows where the line-up was made up of professionals. 

This, I realise now, hampered the development of my own comedic voice. I was working on shows with critics in my head. When I did gig, a mix of imposter syndrome and the paranoia of how I was viewed on the circuit would dictate what material I did. This resulted in me sticking hard to my tried and tested material as I wanted to show others and myself that I deserved to be on the line-up. 

Even at new material nights I felt an internal pressure to prove myself, I never gave myself that freedom to fail which is vital to learning what you’re capable of.

In addition to stunting my development, spending only a brief time on the open mic circuit meant I didn’t make as many contacts. I had fewer people to collaborate with as a result and I became further down the list in people's minds when booking line-ups, as chances are, you hadn’t met me yet. I can tell you this from experience - and new comics mark my words:  in the long run (not a speedrun) the bonds and groundwork you make playing dodgy basements with no microphone and a leaky ceiling are vastly more important than a few TV gigs and some decent reviews.

So I surfed my wave and it came to a natural end, but when that happens you don’t just walk off onto the beach, you turn back and you catch another one… (I went surfing like, twice and now use it as a metaphor as often as possible). So that’s what I’m doing and it seems like a good moment to start again. I have been going back to open mics and doing five-minute spots, I have been trying material well out of my comfort zone and starting to really develop my own comedic voice rather than the voice I’d convinced myself would get me recognised. 

In the past I saw the formula of a successful Edinburgh show work for people (narrative, sad bit, uplifting message) and I’d tried to replicate that without asking myself if I enjoyed that way of working. Who cared if I enjoyed it? To me the Fringe felt like a trade show, I was chasing down the awards, the recognition, the bookings that may come after. 

And while that is an element of it you mustn’t get sucked in fully because what you’ll find is it’s very expensive to play that game… but that’s a whole other article. I did not enjoy making my show last year and I have to ask myself if I’m not finding joy in this then what is the point?    

What you’ll see from me this year is a completely different show, there won’t be a clear narrative, there may not even be a meaning to it. I intend to go on each night and perform my material in no particular order, then thank the audience for coming. 

Industry recognition is a wonderful thing, but this year to me is about finding my comedic voice again, finding my audience. There is nothing more important to your career than that.

• Richard Stott's show, Dear Lord… What A Sad Little Life, is on at Laughing Horse @ Cabaret Voltaire at 8.45pm.