The greatest risk of an improv class isn't that you're not funny

Whether it's golf or any kind of performance, your beliefs run the show

Photo by Sean Benesh on Unsplash.

So, you think a downhill three-foot putt to win your club championship is scary? I suggest you try an improv class.

There’s nothing much more frightening that standing before an audience on a stage with no idea of what you’re going to do or say while also hoping you might be the teeniest bit funny.

One of the wildest—and most revealing—things that I ever did was take improv classes at The Making Box comedy club in Guelph over two years in those halcyon pre-COVID days. (The club closed during the pandemic, but The Making Box continues to provide online programs aimed mainly at businesses.)

Most of my classmates were younger than me by decades. During the first few classes, I thought, ‘Really? I’m trying to be as funny and inventive as these folks? Why am I doing this?’

The classes were certainly fun, but I also felt like I was walking an emotional tightrope without a net. Like playing golf, improv is like being naked in public. Your quirks, qualities, and character are laid bare.

I went into improv mainly to learn how to be a better speaker and workshop leader, but my greatest surprises were about how my beliefs dictate my performance. Like golf, you practice and take in information to improve at improv, but in the excitement and fog of performance, your beliefs about yourself determine how you show up.

Of course, some of my classmates appeared to be naturally funny and spontaneously inventive, but becoming adept at anything is mainly a matter of developing skill. You develop improv skills by participating with your classmates in ‘games’ that have scenarios and guidelines. More on this in a moment.

Early on, we learned that the core tenets of developing improv skills include:

·      Respond to everything with “yes, and”

·      Always support your scene partners

·      Be spontaneous

·      Be the world’s greatest listener

The challenge? You’re trying to adhere to these fundamentals within the structure of the game with people watching you and your scene partners counting on you. Yipes! You also hope the scene will make some sense and, as a bonus, it might even be funny.

You start with simple word-association games but as the classes progress, the games get more challenging. A classic improv game is Four Yorkshiremen where four people reminisce about their humble beginnings—as, say, children, in a job, hobby, anything—and proceed to one-up each other with increasingly absurd anecdotes. The sketch was made famous by Monty Python.

I was keen to participate in the games, but as soon as the leader began explaining a game, I started planning what I’d say and do. That’s not being spontaneous. When the scene started, I’d rush in with my earth-shatteringly funny bit. I didn’t support my scene partners, I didn’t listen to them, and I sure as hell wasn’t funny. Most of the scenes that I participated in lurched quickly to cringeworthy conclusions. I contravened just about every sacred tenet of improv.

At this went on, I thought, “How come I can’t do this?” I felt embarrassed, incompetent, and frankly ashamed. The feelings were well known to me from golf, in writing and music. This improv thing was supposed to be a fun. Why was I such a compulsive jerk during the games?

I was struck by the parallels to my life; I do the same stupid things repeatedly even though I know these things are stupid. Things like always thinking about what I’m doing, trying to do them correctly, and hoping that everyone will think I’m pretty good at whatever thing I’m doing.

I talked about my frustrations with Hayley Kellett, a co-founder of The Making Box.

I told Hayley that, as with everything, I absorbed all the information and tried hard, but I was careful and defensive, as if whatever thing I was doing was so important that my survival depended on it. ‘Don’t f*** up. It’s too risky.’

When I got right down to it, I believed that I wasn’t good enough. Maybe mediocrity was my lot. These beliefs ran my show.

In an odd way, this belief system paid off; it spurred me to develop skills and have a career as a journalist, consultant, and coach, but at the cost of being chronically self-absorbed and careful. If you’re looking for a recipe for paralysis by analysis and getting in your own way, there you go.

Hayley’s suggestion was basic: “Surrender. Give up control.”

She said my greatest risk wasn’t that I might not be funny. Rather, could I risk trusting myself? Could I take the risk that I’d be OK? And could I risk discovering some things about myself?

As the classes went on, I did my best to put Hayley’s advice to work, and increasingly, I not only felt more comfortable, but my contributions to scenes also improved, and on a few blessed occasions, I actually made people laugh. It wasn’t like trying; it was more like allowing.

I became more adept at catching myself when the stories and beliefs started up. I tried to let them go and let the magic happen.

It led to a breakthrough. Even though I had played bass in bands, I had always been deathly afraid of singing in public. But during my second year of classes, I found myself on stage at a showcase before about 75 people singing a song that we improvised on the spot. As we joyfully jumped off that stage, I felt like I’d suddenly become free of something. Now I sing my fool head off in a punk band that I subsequently joined.

My self-defeating beliefs continue to flare up all the time, but now I have a relatively new strategy: ‘Take a risk you jerk.’

It doesn’t always work, but now I give myself a fighting chance.

If you are interested in golf coaching or my Commit to Freedom workshops on improving execution and accountability in organizations, please send an email to tim@oconnorgolf.ca.