I Hate Improv Class

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(Author's note: I wrote this essay around February 2009.)

Since moving to San Diego, my once weekly fix of improv with my long form group has yet to fully satiate my improv hunger. I decided to sign up for classes at the local improv house. It's a short-form in the style of Comedy Sports kind of place, and even though I don't particularly want to do that kind of 'prov again, I was so hungry to do some improv, any improv, I was willing to go back to “class one” again. Additionally, I'm hoping that I can get a place performing at the theater regularly when it's all over with, and get some stage time and start building a group of improv friends to hang out with. (What can I say? I'm lonely.)

I signed up for classes no problem (though, to my surprise, almost the same price as a session of classes at the iO in Chicago, and only six weeks instead of eight), and as I was driving to the theater, I noted a distinct knot in my stomach. I was nervous. I was dreading going to class - I was honestly afraid of getting up on stage and making a damn fool out of myself. Now, I have never been afraid on stage. I have proudly stepped on to many stages and have been animals, people getting sexually molested, doing the sexual molestation, and inanimate objects (that are being used for sexual molestation). But this class, and as a matter of fact, every single class or workshop I have ever taken, I feel nervous right before the first one. I am constantly afraid that this class is the one where I will completely screw up, and no one will ever want to improvise with me ever again. And, I would argue that this nervous feeling has gotten worse the longer I've been doing improv.

While most people would say that after they've been doing it longer, they've gotten more comfortable because they're more experienced. For me though, I feel that the longer I've been doing improv, the less of an excuse for screwing up I have. When I took my first class at the iO in Chicago, I was bold as hell (probably too much, my teacher Andy had me rope it in a little bit) because at that point I could have screwed up, and just said: "Oh well, I've only done improv at college". Now though, if I screw up, people can only say: "I thought this guy did improv in Chicago!"

A failure on stage is almost always the result of no support, etc. But I can't fault new players for messing up. A flub now will definitely support the theory that I have no business doing this. As a result, I find myself working ten times as hard for everything, just to keep my head above water (it also doesn’t help that I’m a bit of a perfectionist, and I’ve only liked maybe 5% of all the improv I’ve ever done). I feel the need, the absolute life-ending need, to prove myself every time I’m around a new group, and especially a new teacher/coach. I hate improv class for the exact opposite reason that people take classes: wanting to prove that I’m good enough. I’m a student! Shouldn’t I feel comfortable enough to make mistakes in class?

Unfortunately, I now wear my Chicago improv tutelage like a weight around my neck.

The Lowest of the Lows

I haven't felt like a really crappy improviser in a long time; which as much as I promote remembering that improv is a journey and you should be thankful for the distance you've already traveled (and blah, blah, blah all the other stuff), is something that in a way, I've missed. Feeling really crappy is something that I and most of my iO classmates used to feel on a regular basis (generally on the order of every other level), and by feeling crappy, I don't just mean the feeling of “oh, man, that could have gone better”. What I mean is the soul crushing feeling of “oh, man. I absolutely destroy every scene I'm in and can't seem to get anything to work right”. You'd go to class just like any other time, but you'd leave feeling really shitty – like you can't believe you ever thought you could do this thing seriously, and that you should just give up. On top of the every-other-class feeling of being really shitty, I'd also feel little lows here and there. You'd have an O.K. class, but someone else would just rock it, and you'd feel like crap by comparison (thanks, other guy). The tradition of having these dramatic highs and lows is probably the second most practiced of all the unwritten improv traditions in Chicago, just behind the who's-going-to-get-on-a-Harold-team-who-won't-and-who-might game.

So what is my problem? Well, I was at an audition the other week (not auditioning – just observing) when I realized that I have been plateauing for a very long time. Plateaus are natural parts of any learning process: spots where we're just honing one or two techniques before we make the next breakthrough (most of which are probably the cause of the class blues; you're in a plateau, your classmate is in a climb), but I have been languishing for a long time. (Part of the problem is I'm worried my improv knowledge has become more academic than practical.) Basically, it boils down to me having been in this group that was holding auditions for a year and change, and I don't feel like I have moved ahead at all in that group. (That I was sent to this group for the express purpose of getting better doesn't help much.) I usually don't feel like crap after practices or shows for that group, though, so it's not the class blues. In fact, it's quite the opposite, I really enjoy the director and my fellow team mates, I feel like we have a great time, but I don't feel like I'm learning anything.

Class way back when had the (now what I see is) benefit of sometimes making you feel like you suck. Sure, you'd walk to the bar with your class and/or team mates for lunch and a beer and howl misery into the top of your pint glass, but at least you knew where you were. And there were those classes and levels where you would honestly go: 'do I want to spend another three hundred bucks and eight Saturdays feeling like crap?', but there were also those levels and classes, where you had the bug, big time. You were charged, and maybe it's just the manic depressive in me, but the highs and the lows left you at least feeling like your progress had some dynamism. The highs warranted more work and attention to keep you pointed in the right direction, and to encourage you to keep at that high, and the lows said “hey, don't do that, and work harder”.

So there I am, watching auditions, watching a lot of very talented people really putting it out there to try and make the team, and I can't help but think - “why am I still here?”. Or rather, being thankful that for the first time in a year, I feel a sharp, distinct low, one that screams out to me that improv personified thinks “You suck” (of course, it's improv personified, so he's only doing it to be supportive) to which I reply “Yes, and...” (obviously). Now that I'm in this low, there's nowhere to go but up.