It was in high school, and we went to a play festival in another city. Our play was one we had written ourselves; a series of funny sketches that allowed everyone to take turns performing in, and supporting the show. One sketch was an empty slate. We were told by our teacher/director, that it would be purely improvised, that just before the the show, he would single one of us out to start and end the scene.
I wanted to throw up. The thought of it made me ill.
I wasn't good at improv.
Even when we improvised in the classroom, I tried as hard as I could to avoid participating. Everyone was funnier, more entertaining than I, and I would just feel stupid. I couldn't believe actually wanted he wanted me to be the one to lead the scene. Surely it would suck and I would ruin the show.
I begged. Pleaded. Cried. Couldn't breathe.
If this were a movie of the week from the 80's, he would have made me do the scene, I would have been brilliant and learn a valuable life lesson about believing in yourself.
However, the real story is, someone else was appointed the task and I could breathe again.
During the show, when the improv sketch was happening, I did not participate at all. I sat, watching the guy who was chosen to lead, as he had the entire place in stitches. It was absolutely the right choice and perhaps even the highlight of the show.
I didn't regret not doing it.
But I did feel I had disappointed my teacher, for whom I had the greatest respect, and that I did regret.
Ironically, a great portion of my career has been based in improv and sketch comedy, yet I still fight the fear that I am not a funny person. I still struggle with the pressure of thinking that everything has to be funny.
Even as a child, I didn't like to do something if I couldn't do it well the first time. And even now, if I know I can't be great the first time, then I like to observe and learn until I feel comfortable enough to present it. That, of course, is the antithesis of improvisation.
Recently I watched a lecture by John Cleese, on creativity, where he said, "Nothing will stop you as effectively as your fear of making a mistake".
Ain't that the truth.
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| thanks for the swanky chart, google guys |
The first (and best) teacher to really break it all down was the director of a show in which I was cast. He was a comedy writer, comedian, and could reduce a person to tears on a daily basis. At least he did that to me. I lost count of how often and how close I came to quitting. On a daily basis.
There was a lot of improvisation during the days and I dreaded each morning's rehearsal. It was a boot camp of improv and he really was a drill sergeant. He could fire a size 9 Florsheim shoe at you faster than you could block an offer. But I did not quit. Without knowing it, I learned.
Of course, I didn't just learn skills that would help me on stage. What I learned could (and has been) be carried into life. It has helped me think on my feet, whether it is speaking in front of a group of people, or to someone on the phone.
Oddly enough, the art of "making it up" follows some hard and fast rules. The most important rules of improv can be applied to the way in which we live our lives, which of course, is the greatest form of improvisation there is, really.
Don't block.
This means to never say "no" to any idea. Saying no will completely stop action. Be open to offers, say yes. Or even "yes, but..." But never say no.
Take risks.
Fear is going to make you take the safer option. Sometimes that's not a bad thing. Learn when to tell the difference.
Depend on the people you trust and know that if you falter, they will step up. You'll ever have to worry about losing your lines, or your way.
Know those you don't trust, and stay alert.
Don't act, React.
And move the action along.
Know when to take focus, but also know when to give it.
It's not always about you, sometimes you are better served and can serve better, among the supporting cast. When it is about you, step forward and shine like a young bride's diamond.
Be committed.
Own the decisions you make. Follow through.
Years ago, when I was ducking to avoid a flying shoe in rehearsals, it seemed to me that I was given a more difficult time of it than my other cast mates. Years later, as friends, I asked my shoe-throwing director why he was so hard on me.
"You had it," he told me. "You had it all along, and you just didn't see it. I pushed you until you did."
And for this I am eternally grateful.
(Now)
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