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I think sometimes as improvisers we forget how brave we are.
We were not born that way. We’ve become brave though years of training. Years of falling flat on our face. Years of persevering in spite of self-doubt. There is no other way.
We often do not give ourselves enough credit for what we do. After a couple of years of taking improv classes and being in shows, the novelty wears off, and we start taking for granted what we can do. We think anyone can do what we can do. That is not true. If one of people's biggest fears in life is public speaking, we not only surpass that, but we also get up in front of a paying audience who has an expectation that we will entertain them. We have a big responsibility: to make them feel or think, or God wiling, make them laugh, and we do this without a net.
We fail much more than we succeed, and we do it because that is how we learn. That is how we get better. We are in an art form that encourages us to fail. Think about that. NO, REALLY THINK ABOUT IT. It’s pretty much the opposite of how the rest of the world’s brains are wired. We are taught that failure is good, because we know what won't kill us only makes us more creative. We understand that failure is not part of the process, it's the whole process. We are willing to make mistakes because mistakes are gifts in our altered universe.
We’re brave because we are asked to be vulnerable. To exposed our naked truths. We stand up in front of complete strangers in shows or in classes or in rehearsals and reveal ourselves, never knowing what will come out of our mouths — the good, the bad, and the ugly.
We have taken so many of these types of risks, we stopped counting. We constantly face rejection and jealously. The longer we stay around, the harder it gets. We have to learn how to deal with other people's successes and yet we keep going. Our team may get broken up, or we may not make a team at all, and that rejection becomes part of our DNA, always reinforcing the fact that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger improvisers.
All of that makes us the fortunate ones. We are blessed with the gift of being able to create something out of nothing. Out of thin air. Without a script. That is amazing when you stop to think about it. I don’t think improvisers take the time to realize just how amazing it truly is.
We’re also fortunate because we know our super powers come from other people. We cannot create all alone. We are dependent on them for our creativity, because we understand that we are part of something larger than ourselves. That together we will create something better than if we were just acting alone. If that sounds too spiritual, too bad. It’s true.
Improvisers don't get the respect we deserve for all of that talent and bravery, but that’s not what drives us. That’s not what keeps us going. It’s certainly not money. It’s our heart. It’s our passion. Not everyone can do what we have chosen to do and make the sacrifices we have made. Don't forget it. Don't minimize it.
Remember, in a world that feels like it’s going to shit, we are in demand. Right now, people need us to make them laugh. Laughter is the always the best medicine for uncertain times. And you are being called upon to use your gifts as a healer. If that’s too spiritual, too, I don't care, it's true.
Making people laugh is one of the ways we can make a difference, in our tiny corner of the world. We are better equipped than most since we have been trained on how to adapt to any circumstance. We can use the anger, the fear and the ridiculousness that are flying around in the media and on social media and use it to make people laugh. We are prepared to do so. Why? Because we are brave. Don't ever forget it.
The best way to get more good stuff in your life is to be grateful for what you already have. All you have to do is physically get out a pen and paper and on a daily basis and write out the things you are grateful for. You can even call a friend and leave a message on their voicemail about the things you are grateful for. Yes, it is that simple; gratitude tends to build on itself. I am not speaking out of my ass here. I am speaking from experience. In fact, it has worked so well in my life that I stop doing it. You cannot get a better endorsement than that.
This morning I looked back at some of the Thanksgiving blogs I wrote in the past, and I am almost embarrassed by one I wrote two years ago where I asked the reader to list ten things you are grateful for, which in retrospect seems a little ambitious if you are new to this whole gratitude thing. I’m pretty impressed that I had a couple of brave people who wrote ten things they were grateful for in the comments. Thank you for that.
So this year, if you feel up to it, write as few or as many things you are grateful for in the comments below. Since I am asking you to do this, I guess I will lead by example, so here I go.
Wait. Before I go, I want to say that I have seen a new pattern emerge in my life that I want to share with you. If you have read this blog or listened to the podcast Improv Nerd, you know I measure my success and happiness by how much money is in my checking account or how close I am to achieving such a shallow goal as fame.
Yes, we all know how fucked up I am and how low my self-esteem can be, but I don't want to focus on that for a second; I want to focus on the progress here. Today, when I think about what I am most grateful for, it’s people. For me, that is a fucking miracle.
Now, I will finally go:
If you haven’t heard by now, last week, after 108 years, the Chicago Cubs finally won a World Series title. Pretty incredible, especially for me who has been a Cubs fan my whole life.
But if you have been reading this blog with any sort of regularity, you know that a celebration of any kind doesn’t come easy for me, and this one was no exception.
As I stood in the kitchen with my wife, Lauren, nervously listening to the radio as Cubs legendary broadcaster Pat Hughes made the last call of the World Series, I jumped up and down with joy. But in less than two minutes, I was already replaying the moves the Cubs’ manager Joe Maddon had made during the game. Moves that I did not understand. Moves that I thought were mistakes. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be excited? They won, something they had not done since 1908.
That did not matter. My head took over. Why did he pull his starting pitcher so early? Why did he pull his middle reliever so early? Why did he put his closer in so early after the guy had pitched a ton of innings the night before?
It was as if I was ignoring the results. They won the World Fucking Series. The real question is why couldn’t I enjoy it?
The simple answer is this is what I do.
I do this in my life and certainly in my performing, especially if a show has gone well. Instead of feeling excited, or even joy, after a good scene or a good show, I would rather pick it apart, replacing excitement with my drug of choice: shame.
I did this again last Sunday night at Second City where John Hildreth and I were celebrating our five-year anniversary of our show, Jimmy and Johnnie. A pretty big accomplishment. So big that after the show we had a little party to celebrate.
But, you know me, I’m not good at celebrating and feeling joy. Instead, I need to find some shame so I can medicate those feelings. So, during the show I did a character that was not very PC by today’s improv standards. The young audience gasped a couple of times, and I got the hit of shame that I needed. Surprisingly, during the show, I was able to let it go as we moved on to the next scene, knowing I would have plenty of time to pulverize myself about it afterwards, which is just what I did. Despite the fact that it was a good show overall, I used this character choice to beat myself up by replaying it in my head for the next 48 hours.
I often have guests on Improv Nerd who say they don’t analyze or even remember what they did after they improvise a scene. I am not sure if that’s really true or if all of these guests are lying to me. If they actually don’t analyze their scenes after a show, I am impressed. I not only remember every moment, especially the bad ones, but I like to beat myself up about all the moves I think I should have made or not made.
And that is excatly what I did when the Cubs won the World Series. I went right into picking-it-apart mode so I wouldn’t have to feel the excitement or the joy of them winning. Instead I decided to bask in the shame, like a bath of cold, dirty water.
We think as improvisers it’s our duty to dissect every move we make after a show or class, because we think it will make us better. But sometimes it just makes us miserable. I am not saying don’t ever analyze your scenes; that would be unrealistic. Instead, just try to do less of it. Since I obviously I don't know how to do less of it, I would love your help. In the comments portion below, can you tell me how you celebrate your successes without dissecting them to death? Thanks.
Here’s something I see often in my improv classes: Two students will improvise an incredible scene, get tons of laughs, play real and grounded characters, and then when it’s over, they rush off stage and get back to their chairs as quickly as possible, as if they are in the witness protection program. The thought of basking in the glory of their success is too vulnerable.
I get it, we're complicated. As actors, we are dying to be seen, but at the same time, we are uncomfortable being seen, especially if someone is going to hand out kudos.
I know this has been very true for me. My whole life I wanted to get attention. I was funny, always making people laugh. But at the same time, I felt like I was a burden. As a kid, if went over to a friend’s house and they offered me something to eat or drink, I would lie and say I was fine. In high school, if I locked myself out of my parents’ house late at night, I would rather crawl through a window than ring the doorbell and wake them up. When I started taking improv classes, I never wanted my parents and non-improv friends to come to any of my shows because I felt like I was bothering them, because deep down I felt I was a bother. (God, I hope do not pass this on to my daughter).
My way of dealing with this was to become invisible. My senior year, I refused to be seen and did not get my picture taken for the yearbook. Instead, my name was listed at the back of the book as an invisible senior. It was as if I never existed. I wanted to be seen, I wanted to be noticed, but I was terrified.
So believe me, I get it when my students want to run off stage after kicking ass in a scene so they won’t have to hang around to get some positive feedback. If they’re like me, the message in their heads is “I don’t want to take up any more time from the teacher and the rest of the students,” or “I don’t want to be selfish,” or “I don’t want to be a stage hog.” All of these messages are really saying “I am a burden.”
So, if you are like me and think you are burden or a bother, I want to encourage you to practice not feeling like one. Take up a little more space in your improv classes. Take a risk and be the first person to get out there in exercises and scenes and see how it feels. Do the same in your rehearsals and shows. Yep, you are going feel uncomfortable, and that is the sign you are headed in the right direction. Let me know how it goes.
As you know, a little over three months ago, Lauren and I had our first child, a beautiful baby girl named Betsy Jane Carrane. Being a parent is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I am a glad I did not know how hard this would be or I wouldn't have done it. Lauren feels the same way.
Here are some of the things I have learned in the first three months of being a dad.
Are you looking to take your improv to the next level? Sign up for Jimmy's Art of Slow Comedy Level 2 class, starting Nov. 2 (you do not need to have taken Level 1 to sign up). The Early Bird Deadline ends Oct. 19!
Kicking a member out of your improv group is something nobody wants to do. Most groups avoid it because improvisers hate confrontation. But sometimes it has to happen, and if you do have to let someone go, remember what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. So here are some tips to help prevent you from having to kick a bad apple out of your improv group as well some tips for showing someone the door.
Tonight is the 2016 Emmy Awards. It's a big night for the television industry, and it's also a big night for the improv community. When I was looking at the list of nominees the other day, I couldn't believe how many improvisers were nominated in all categories -- acting, writing, and directing. Here is our unofficial tabulation of improvisers who are nominated this year. If we've left anyone off of this list, please let us know.
And good luck to all of tonight's nominees!
What still excites me about improv after all these years? I get this question a lot. And the answer may surprise you. It is the teaching. I love teaching. I love teaching improv even more than doing shows or the podcast Improv Nerd.
And this will blow your mind coming from Mr. Self-Hatred and Self-Loather himself, I am great at it. In fact, I am a terrific improv teacher and I keep getting better. I have put more time and energy into becoming a better improv teacher than becoming a better performer, which is how I have become so incredible at it. (Now even I am getting uncomfortable). I think the fact that I can admit that I think I’m good at it is quite an accomplishment. Let's move on.
There are so many things I love about teaching improv, but one of the biggest ones is being able to create a sense of community for people. I love taking a group of strangers — it doesn’t matter if it’s a three-hour, one-day workshop in Omaha or a six-week class in Chicago — and creating a place where students feel safe taking risks, being vulnerable and making lots of mistakes. At the end, the students will say they feel "bonded" or "really close to one another." That is community. And that is the thing that brings me so much pride and joy as an improv teacher.
I cannot think of a better gift to give people than a sense of belonging. You cannot have group mind without it. You cannot build trust without it. Support does not exist without it. Having a sense of community is what attracted me to this crazy art form in the first place as lost teenager more than 30 years ago, and it’s why it’s so hard to leave. Community is the number one reason improvisers do improv in the first place and they are not even aware of it. Why else would you choose an art form that relies on other people?
The biggest compliment you can give me besides “You are the best improv teacher” is to tell me that you made friends in my classes and workshops and you stay in touch with them.
In the years since I started doing improv, I have seen it grow up from being a local thing that was unique to Chicago to a global thing that’s done across the world. But despite how widespread improv has become, the thing that’s as still true today as it was when I started out is that everyone is striving for that sense of acceptance and that feeling of belonging.
I know as read this, you might have been kicked off a Harold team or never made one or auditioned for shows and never got cast and you feel that you never became part of the community that you wanted. But the beautiful thing about the size of improv today is that people are creating their own communities. Smaller sub-communities. Musical improv is its own community, and inside that community are even more sub-communities.
Nothing makes me more proud than when my students create their own shows or start their own groups or find a theater that they call home. And I can’t think of anything better than if they start coaching and teaching and take what they have learned from me to bring even more people that sense of community around the world.
This summer I taught two sold-out weekends of my Art of Slow Comedy intensives, and after the first two-day intensive, one my students from Denmark asked me: "What is the Art of Slow Comedy?"
That is hard question to answer since I have evolved and so has my teaching. After I explained it, he said, "You should have said that at the beginning of the workshop. It would have been a lot more helpful."
He was right. Believe me, I am not beyond learning from my students. So guess what? The next weekend, I explained my philosophy at the start of the workshop.
So what is my teaching philosophy in the Art of Slow Comedy? It is very simple: I want my students to start learning to be believable on stage. It’s the thing that separates a good improviser from a great one. It’s a superpower that will make you stand out from the rest.
All of the great improvisers I have either worked with or watched have had one thing in common: You believe every word that comes out their mouths. Whether they are playing some big character or an aspect of themselves, we believe them. Some would call this acting. That’s why I teach a hybrid of acting and improv.
I often say that you need to be real before you can be funny, and I truly believe this is the case. Now, I know some improvisers are brilliant with being clever and witty, and for the 10 percent of you who can pull this off, you have my support. For the rest of us, if we commit to being believable to the relationship and scene we are in, we can transform improv into to theater. Yes, it sounds pretentious, but it happens.
One way to be more believable in your improv, you have to emotionally react to your scene partner. This will not only give you some more life on stage, but it will also give you an opportunity to develop a point of view for your character. If your scene partner is playing your mom and she says that she’s going to come stay with you, you can be excited, or pissed off, or scared. I don't care what your reaction is, but the point is you have to have an emotional response to the information that given by your partner. My students always make the same discovery when working this way. They realize that by putting the emotions first, the words comes easily. They sound natural and real, and yes, most of the time they find the funny, but only after focusing on the emotions
Another way to become more believable in your improv is to talk like a real person would speak in real life. We do this by slowing down, shutting up, and responding to last thing our partner said. The slowing down part comes in the listening. Ask yourself, what is my partner really saying to me and how are they saying it? If they are saying, "I love you," are they saying it sarcastically or do they mean it? By shutting up, we stop rambling and create a space for our partner to respond. In theory, it should work like this: You say a line and then you don't speak again until your partner responds. Yes, it’s uncomfortable and scary, but when you start doing this, you can very organically start building off the last thing your partner said. You can start making discoveries by making assumptions about the characters’ relationship, history and situation.
When we work this way, specifics come easily, dialogue is natural. We start to surprise ourselves and our partners and our improv become spontaneous, easy, and guess what? Even fun.
The Chicago improv community has lost another great one, this time to fucking cancer. Judy Fabjance was a beloved improv teacher at The Second City Training Center, a member of the ground-breaking group Gayco, and a mother to Daphne and wife to Kelly. She was only 41.
She started taking improv classes at Second City Northwest, which used to be located in the far away suburb of Rolling Meadows. As a teenager, she worked as a host, back when Second City was still operated like a family-run business. Eventually Judy would come "downtown," as we liked to say in those days, and eventually began to teach and perform.
She was an incredible improv teacher. I worked with Judy when I taught at the Training Center, which means I would pass her in the hall or talk to her between classes in the teacher’s lounge. To be honest, unless you co-taught with someone or observed their class you didn't really know how good of a teacher they were. But you could always tell from their reputation and from what the other students would say about them, and when students would say they had Judy as a teacher, they would beam -- that's how you could tell she was good.
She was also an improv saint. She did things that few improv teachers are good at or have the patience to do, and that’s work with the beginners and students with special needs.
When I heard a couple of weeks ago that Judy was going into hospice after her long, eight-year battle with brain cancer, I was sad. I was also angry and confused. What the fuck, God? Can't you give her a break?
Every time I would see on Facebook she was headed back to the hospital for another treatment, I would get sick to my stomach. I would get pissed off at God. She was tough, she was brave, she endured pain for ten life times, but she wasn’t angry at God. She left that to me, and in the end, I was not that happy with the results.
I was lucky enough to have the chance to interview Judy for my podcast, Improv Nerd, twice: once by herself, which we lost due to technically difficulties and I am still barely over it, and another time a couple of years ago with her wife Kelly at Sketchfest. They were doing a show called “Tales of a Stage 4 Cancer” about her cancer from both the caregiver’s and patient’s point of view. She was a bit weaker than the first time I had interviewed her, and she explained that she had to conserve her energy during performances. She was kind and sweet, open and honest, as was her wife and performing partner, Kelly. Her family was there and they talked candidly about the struggles cancer brings to the whole family. It was an emotional topic, and in the end there was not a dry eye in the house.
I remember thinking two things after the interview. First, Kelly had recently married Judy, knowing what she was getting into. Some would say that is crazy, others would say it is love. Second, I thought about the generosity of the improv community the community I was part of -- from people like Stephen Colbert to the people at Second City to everyone who continues to support the gofundme campaign to help Kelly and Daphne.
Sometimes in the improv community, it can seem like becoming famous is the only priority. Judy was not famous, yet she was a star. She made an impact in the classroom, on stage, and in life. She showed us how to deal with adversity with courage and grace. She was revered at Second City. The woman was loved.
I think some of us in comedy (mostly me) think applause and success equals love, but that kind is not real. What Judy had from her students, her family, her wife, her daughter, Second City and the improv community was love. Love is lasting. Love is the legacy we are all after, we just don’t know it. You had that, Judy, and you will be missed.