Menu
Menu
I’ve been doing improv for more than 30 years, so I’ve had lots of time to think about it. And I’ve come to realize there are lots of great pieces of improv wisdom that can help people on stage and in their lives.
So about a year ago, I started jotting down these little gems of wisdom and putting them out on social media. They’re kind of like fortune cookies for improvisers, minus the cookie.
They’re not revolutionary concepts, of course; but I hope these little tidbits of #ImprovWisdom have helped you to become a better improviser, and reminded you to keep learning. Here are few of my favorites:
#131: Vagueness is the number one cause of death to any scene.
#133: Beware: Too many “bits” can get in the way of people getting to really know you.
#134: The best PR? Being nice.
#135: You get better by DOING.
#138: Sometimes the best inspiration is a bad show.
#139: Your best shows are ones where you barely try.
#140: The thing people are drawn to is authenticity. So for God’s sake, be yourself.
#141: The more mistakes you make, the closer you are to mastery.
#142: Taking a break is not quitting; it’s making room for inspiration.
#143: Object work is there to support you, not to annoy you.
#144: It’s impossible to succeed in improv without failing.
#145: Putting other people down is not getting ahead. It’s just being a jerk.
#147: If you are not having fun in your off-stage life, how do you expect to have any fun on stage?
#148: If you don’t take time to recharge your batteries, they may die on you in the middle of a show.
#156: How much effort does it really take to give a compliment?
#157: The best kind of improvising is when you don’t know what’s going to happen next.
#158: Telling people what to do in scenes is not improvising; it’s controlling.
#159: When you are frustrated the most in improv class, you are actually learning the most.
#161: Death to improv is thinking you are finished learning.
#166: listening is the quickest way to gain respect.
#178: How long you’ve been doing something doesn’t matter, but how you treat people does.
#180: A selfish player sucks. A selfish character is brilliant.
#182: If you’re “too good” to take class and workshops, you’re “too good” to get any better. You’ll never improve.
#216: "Yes, And" starts with-- "Don't be a dick."
#218: Just because your scene partner isn't saying anything doesn't mean you're not getting anything from them.
#219: You're not as clever as you think.
Have you had a favorite #ImprovWisdom that we’ve posted, or one of your own? Tell us in the comments below!
We recently held a little contest to win a free spot in my upcoming workshop. We asked improvisers to tell us about a time that they had bombed, and what they learned from it.
Like every improviser, I've had more than my share of shows where I have bombed.
I have not only bombed on stage, but in all aspects of my life. In my improv, in auditions, in my teaching, in interviewing people for the podcast, in actual paying gigs. Bombing is never pleasant. But unfortunately, if we try to avoid it, it only makes things worse. No one wants to bomb, but to get good at anything you need to have "bombed" many times over. The arts suck that way. Some people will learn from it. Others will use it as an excuse to quit. It's up to you. The thing I've learned about bombing is that it never goes away. You just start to experience it differently. The longer you try at something, the higher the level of your bombing.
We got so many great submissions for this contest. The stories of bombing you shared with us were all too relatable! But Daniel Anderson's (ultimately positive) experience with bombing took the cake, and also won the contest.
"The Flower Shop Bangers were having their third show together. We really felt we had good chemistry and so we were filming this submission. The show had mixed reviews among our cast. I felt the show was awkward, another person really enjoyed it, and I don't remember the third guy's opinion. Well, we posted the video on YouTube and shared it on Facebook.
“I then woke up one morning to find our video was getting comments... lots of comments. I was trying to figure out how this happened, and I noticed that one of them said, ‘You always comment on /r/cringe videos.’ At that moment, I knew that our video had been posted to the cringe section on reddit.
“I shared it with my team. We agreed that it was pretty cowardly for someone to anonymously post this on the Internet, and it is not helpful when trying to foster a supportive community. We made a pact to take this as constructive criticism. Since this experience of ‘free coaching,’ we have been committing ourselves to making more relationship-based choices. Two of us are still in Chicago today and still perform as the Flower Shop Bangers on a regular basis."
Daniel turned a "bombed" performance into a real learning experience, and handled the criticism of strangers with grace. Thanks to Daniel for sharing your experience and congrats on winning the workshop contest. And thanks to everyone brave enough to submit their stories. I hope we all keep bombing our way up the ladder.
If you have been doing improv for a while you will eventually get a chance to audition for some pretty cool stuff. Stuff you will really want to get. It may be for a Harold team, or a show, or if you’re lucky, even bigger things like a role on TV or film. Some stuff you will get and some you will have the opportunity to choke -- you know, blow it, bomb, stink up the room.
Why do we choke in auditions? There are a million reasons. All I know is it cannot be avoided. It's real. It exists. When it happens, it’s as painful as getting your hand slammed in the car door. The point is, it hurts.
When (not if) you choke, the goal is to feel your feelings and not let it ruin the rest of your day, the rest of your week, or in severe cases, the rest of your life. I cannot believe I am going to say this, but I am actually getting better at dealing with both choking and the aftermath.
Last month, I had a big audition for me. It was for two lines as shlubby drug dealer for the NBC show Chicago PD. Because it was for a network TV shows, and I get scared whenever I audition for this particular casting director, and I knew there was a good chance I was going to choke.
Even though I had over rehearsed the lines in the front of the mirror in the bathroom at my house and on the L on the way downtown, it didn’t seem to make a difference.
When I got into the audition room and stood in front of the camera, my breathing stopped and my heart rate increased. I was light headed and could not feel my hands. The casting director read the script and gave me my cue. That's when I went blank. Deer-in-the- head-lights-blank.
Trying to recover, I stated the obvious, "I am drawing a blank." (Remember, this was two lousy lines for Christ’s sake!) The casting director read the lines I was supposed to say out loud before she gave me another try. On the second take, I forced the lines out of my mouth, which by this time had gone dry. In terms of performance, I had clearly choked, and this time it only took two lines to do so. I had broken my old record.
Here is where the story gets good. Sure, I felt shame and fear that I would never be called back in, but they weren't at my usual toxic levels. And just as the negative voices started in my head -- "You’re a bad actor," "You need to quit" -- they were interrupted by one gentle thought: "How about you just got nervous?"
I have been auditioning for close to 25 years and choking for way more than that, and I have NEVER had that kind of thought. The truth is, I’m not a bad actor. I have gotten my fair share of parts on network TV shows and major studio movies when they come to Chicago, and some have been larger parts then what I just auditioned/choked for, so to say I am bad actor was a lie.
What was true was I got nervous. I actually knew the lines, and once again, I psyched myself out. It was also clear that what I need to do next time is to take care of myself and calm my nerves.
What surprised me was how kind I was to myself under these circumstances. I do not have the reputation for being particularly nice to myself, especially when I think I fuck up. Not only did I realize that being kind to myself stopped my shame spiral, but also I realized that I might actually be getting better. The whole aftermath of choking lasted a matter of minutes when it normally would last days, sometimes weeks. Now the only thing that scares me now is what am I going to do with all of this free time?
Has this ever happened to you? After a string of great shows you get tons of compliments, but instead of being happy you start to worry... will you be able to keep it up? You've raised the bar on your improvising so high that if you don't deliver you will disappoint. You're paralyzed in your fear. What if the next show sucks?
Eventually it will happen. You will have a show that will suck. Maybe several. But it will be a new kind of suck; a better version of what "suck" used to look like, because "suck" is relative. What "suck" looked like a year ago is not the same as this year. Your suckiness is getting better. That has been my experience in improv.
That is where I am today. I don't feel like writing this blog, because I felt that last two blogs were exceptional. I am afraid I won't be able to top them and I am afraid to suck. It's called "expectations" and they work like this: you set a really high standard for yourself and if you don't maintain it you suck. It's non-negotiable. It's pass or fail. You end up either winning a Pulitzer Prize or you're a piece of shit.
So what if I committed to the idea that the blog I am writing right now is going to suck?
I agree to write the worst blog ever. (In a lot of ways, I think I've gotten off to a pretty good start.) I'll let go of my expectations, and as my new-age friends like to say, "lean into" it. I'm serious here. Just by saying that out loud, I have come up with at least 10 ways I can make this blog really suck. Like what if I just stop typing and end the blog right here?
That would suck, wouldn't it? But I don't have the courage to do that because of my fear of what you'd think of me as writer, and more importantly; as a person.
I feel a little lighter just knowing that this blog is going to suck. I'm having a little more fun typing these words onto the page. I am actually enjoying myself. I may even dare to use the word "happy." I feel happy.
I have to tell you, I don't know where this blog is going to end up... except it's going to suck. All roads leads to Suckville. And I am really fighting the urge to tie this up and give you a Jimmy lesson, but I am resisting it. I want to honor our commitment to suckiness, but maybe a lesson out of left field would really make it suck.
Let's keep this simple. How about we all agree that this was one of the worst blogs I have ever written, so we can all move on? In a weird way admitting that to you has given me some hope that I still have some great blogs ahead of me. (This blog not included.) Who would've thought that committing to sucking would give me so much freedom and inspiration? I should do it more often.
Fine-- I suck and I'm cool with it. I am going out to celebrate the fact that I wrote a blog that sucked. See you next week, and that is how you end a blog that sucks.
Sign up for Jimmy's August 22nd "Two-Person Scene Tune Up Workshop" to reserve your spot today!
Have you ever been sick of improv? Like, just over it? I am right now, and I hope I’m not alone with this one.
I have been improvising pretty much my whole life, and right now I am sick of it. I have lost my passion. Frankly, I’m just bored with it, and when I feel like this, I usually start thinking, “I am done with improv. lt's over, I quit."
Last Friday night, my wife, Lauren, and I went to see some improv at our friend Dan’s apartment on the north side of Chicago. Twenty or so young improvisers began to show up around 8:30 p.m. in his back yard, helping themselves to cans of cold beer from the cooler before finding a folding chair to sit in. As the sky got darker, two lamps lit the cement patio floor, and the show began.
Lauren and I were by far the oldest ones there. We looked more like chaperones than performers. I was there to do some stand up, which I did. About half-way through my set, the lights went out, and someone yelled "Keep going!," which I did. This set the tone for the evening. Everybody was clearly there just to have a good time and have fun -- something I clearly still struggle with doing.
After I finished my set, two different groups went up and improvised for about 15 minutes each. They weren’t performing on a big-name stage to a sold out crowd, but these guys clearly had passion. There was something so pure about their improvising. There was freedom to it -- no pressure and clearly no expectations. They were doing it for each other, not to get put on team, not to be seen, but for the love of it. You cannot fake that ever.
I had a great time at the show, but afterwards, I started to feel depressed that I didn’t still feel as passionately about improvisers as they did. I chalked it up to just being old.
Then on Monday morning, I drove down to Lincoln Park to meet Curt Mabry and his wife – two improvisers who were in Chicago from Shanghai -- and Dave Pasquesi. I love seeing Dave, I have tremdenous respect and admiration for him, plus he can make me laugh. The four of us sat at one of those long wooden green benches in the park and talked about improv for about an hour and a half. What I found amazing in our conversation is that even Dave, who started improvising before I did, seemed to be even more passionate about improv today than he was when I first knew him, which threw my theory about lack of passion only applying to older improvisers right out the window.
So, then I concluded that it must just be me. I must be the only one in the world who ever feels sick of improv. No one else feels like they’re doing the same scenes over and over again or making the same choices in character and emotions over and over again like you’re in the movie Groundhog’s Day but me.
The last couple of months have been a struggle for me. It was hard putting up Improv Nerd this last season. The guests and my staff were great, but I was getting tired of it. I hope I hid it well from everyone because it’s embarrassing to admit this to you, especially because I feel like I have to be improv’s biggest cheerleader 24/7.
This is not the first time I have fallen out of love with improv, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be the last. The hardest thing to remember is that “this too shall pass.” But when I’m in this place, I usually scare myself into believing that my boredom of improv is permanent.
I think some of my lack of passion for improv could have been prevented if I had taken my own advice and slowed down and taken care of myself over the past couple of months. But by writing this, I know there is a better chance that this feeling will go away more quickly, and hopefully I’ll get some of my passion back for this art form that has been such a big part of me. Really, what other choice do I have other than to wait it out?
I have yet to have a student in one of my improv classes or workshops come up to me and say, "Hey, can you just point out the good stuff I do today?" Nope, it’s always the opposite: "Hey, can you please tell me the things I'm doing wrong? I can take it. You can go hard on me." (By the way, I am never sure what that really means.)
As improvisers, me included, we are much more invested in what we are doing wrong than in what we are doing right. There is this misconception that if we solely focus on our weaknesses we will automatically improve. Not true. I am all in favor of working on your weaknesses, but not at the expense of ignoring your assets. Those assets are what help build our confidence and shape our voice -- both key ingredients in succeeding in any art form.
I never really understood this until last week, when I met with my 80-year-old father, who is dying.
My dad knew that I had a lot of anger towards him, so he contacted me a couple of months ago and requested we meet. I was filled with resentments. I love the definition of resentments: It’s like taking poison and hoping the other person is going to die. And if that is true, at my rate I was going to die before my father, because they were killing me.
So, with a lot of help from people in my group therapy, I put a list together of the resentments I had towards him as well as things that I am grateful for that he gave me.
When we finally met, I brought my friend Matthew from group therapy because I was terrified. My dad was hooked up on oxygen and we sat in the living room, him in a chair on one side of the room and me on the couch on the other.
On the way over, I had asked Mathew whether I should read the "bad stuff" (aka the resentments) first, or start with the “good stuff” (the gratitudes). He came up with a genius idea: “Why not let your father decide?”
Before I began, I made my amends to my father for withholding these resentments, because I realized I had been holding onto them as a way to push him away. Then I asked my father, “Would you like me to read the good stuff first or the bad stuff?”
He knew his answer immediately: "Screw the good stuff,” he said. “That is all bullshit anyway. I want to know what I did wrong."
As soon as he said that, I could completely relate. That is me. I am that insecure student who only wants to hear what they are doing wrong.
I read my list of resentments. It was actually easier than I thought. My father was matter of fact. “You’re right, all those things are true,” he said.
This is where it gets good. Then Mathew asked me, "Would you like to read the good stuff, for yourself?" I thought for second, and then I said "Yes, yes I would."
I began reading the list off of the notebook paper, and I my throat got tighter and my eye lids felt heavy. Tears started to swell and I began to cry as I read each and every one of the good things on that list.
My dad did give me a lot – he taught me to love reading and writing, he was always supportive of my career, he paid for improv and acting classes when I first started out, he gave me the performance gene that I have today, and he was always proud of my accomplishments. Reading those attributes, I could see myself in my Dad in a way I could never see before. For years, I had ignored all of my Dad’s gifts, which meant I was also ignoring my own.
I cannot think of anything more transformative in my life than this experience. Before meeting with my Dad I had felt stuck, blocked and creatively constipated. No matter how hard I pushed, nothing came out. Afterwards, ideas are flowing freely again, like a running faucet that cannot be turned off. I'm lighter and more confident and willing to be a little more honest and take more risks, which only helps my work.
It was clear I had not been acknowledging my good qualities at all. And I suddenly realized that if I want to have a bigger improv career and a better life that I must continue this work of embracing the things the things that are good about me.
Since improv is such a personal art form, whatever is affecting us in our every day lives can have a huge impact on our stage life without us even knowing it. In my case, I learned it in reverse order. Would you expect anything less from me?
Improvisers are told all the time how important is to "give gifts to your scene partners," but are rarely shown how, leaving them dazed and confused.
I am no different. At times I am confused by it, too. Certainly, I been around long enough that I know a good gift on stage when I see one, but teaching it has always been a bit tricky. When I improvise, I usually give gifts by heightening the emotional game of a character, adding history to the relationship, or giving specifics. However, this is an area in my improvising and my teaching that I can always improve on, and I am always looking to pick up some new tools to put into my sometimes rusty improv tool box.
That's why I was happy when Paul Vaillancourt addressed this topic in his new book, The Triangle of The Scene: A simple, practical, powerful method for approaching improvisation. Paul is a great improviser and improv teacher who started out in Chicago and then became one of the co-founders of iO West and a member of Beer Shark Mice. His book’s premise is that all good long form improv comes from two-person relationship scenes. The book includes lots of practical tips and examples for making two-person scenes really work.
One of the most fascinating parts of the book is Vaillancourt’s emphasis on how to give big, playable gifts to your partner to create improv scenes with rich characters.
Vaillancourt explains that the best way to set your partner up to succeed is to make statements that not only include specifics, but also include information that can give your partner clues about his or her character’s attitude. Vaillancourt suggests that you ask yourself:
He then lays out lines of dialogue to show how you can include character information in a statement to make an ideal gift for any improviser:
Vaillancourt says these are the best types of gifts to give our scene partner because they have the most playability. He then shows us how we can "Yes, and…" the generous gift that's been offered to us.
With the first line, "You have problem with authority," Vaillancourt suggests that you could the respond by saying that you drink in school, or that you hate your boss for making you work over time, or you could wrestle a cop who pulls you over.
With the second line, "You are the meanest person I have ever met," Vaillancourt suggests that you could respond by slapping your partner’s baby, shooting them in the foot, or taking their new iPhone and throwing it down the sewer. In this way, he is not only giving us verbal ways to support and heighten the gift but physical choices, as well.
The whole concept of "Gift Giving" in improv has never been explained to me in such easy to understandable way, until now.
Really, the whole book is like that. It’s accessible for every level of improviser, teacher and coach. It’s structured like a great improv class, with each chapter building off the last. Vaillancourt has simplified the concepts to perfection and supported them beautifully with clear examples and embedded videos making every concept super easy to follow, especially for improvisers who live in smaller markets and don’t have access to many improv classes.
I love people who have been around as long as Paul, who have not only created their own method and can explain it such practical terms, but also who are as passionate about improv today as they were when they first started. If it’s not clear already, I highly recommend this book. ( The Triangle of the Scene is available on Amazon Kindle and iBooks.) And lets us know how you give gifts to your partners on stage, just put it in the comment section below.
Growing up as a fat, awkward and insecure teenager, I had a dream of performing stand-up comedy. Over the last 33 years, I’ve gotten sidetracked from that by this thing called improvising.
But recently I had been so burnt out on teaching improv that I knew I had to get back to doing something that the little boy inside of me would be ecstatic about, something that was just purely fun.
So a month ago, my wife, Lauren, suggested I take a stand-up class. I liked the idea, not only because I wanted to re-charge by batteries, but also because I have not taken a class of any kind in several years.
I didn’t know where to study, so I did what most people do: I posted it on Facebook and waited for advice.
As soon as I posted the question, I got responses like, “Why should you take a stand-up class? You should be teaching them,” and “Jimmy, you had successful one-man shows that were funny as shit. You should already know how to do this.”
The comments were great for my ego, but not so good for my art. Artists need humility, and nothing is more humbling than taking a class. When you take a class, you are saying, “I don’t know, so teach me something new.”
It is important to keep taking classes and workshops because we are never finished learning. Learning is exciting and it pulls your brain into a different direction and makes your mind work in ways you didn’t think were possible. It’s also scary and frustrating, but I know that if I am frustrated with something, it is just a sign that I’m learning something new.
So, despite the lack of help I got on Facebook, I found a stand-up class at the Lincoln Lodge and signed up, and I have to tell you that taking this class is one of the most liberating things I’ve done in years.
Last week, we had to present three minutes of stand-up to the class, and even though I was the oldest person in the class by 20 years and had the most stage experience, I was terrified. That’s why I love it: I am out of my comfort zone on so many different levels. It’s like I have to re-learn how to speak or walk, and even though it’s awkward, I feel free.
There’s also a part of me that feels sad and regretful, like I should have done this earlier, but at least I am doing it now, and there is something to be said for that.
Often, when I go to different cities across the country to teach improv workshops, the organizer will tell me that there are a group of improvisers who won’t take any workshops, regardless of who they bring in because they think they are above it.
I used to get angry at those people who didn’t want to learn something new, but now I just feel sad for what they are missing out on and what I’ve been missing out on, too.
The goal in this art form is to always being getting better. There are a lot of different ways to do that, but if we don’t come from a place where we can learn something new, we are dead. We are killing our creative soul. Our inspiration dries up and our art suffers. I am so glad I found a class just in time.
Nothing frustrates me more than watching a perfectly good scene be ambushed by an unnecessary walk-on.
We are all familiar with the scene where a couple is out to dinner at a restaurant and then the zany waiter ambushes the scene and the scene ends up becoming all about the zany waiter and has nothing to do with the relationship of the couple.
And we’ve all watched those “walk-on happy” groups that give no time or room for a scene to develop.
Walk-ons done right are a thing of beauty, like ballet. They should be there to support what’s happening on stage, not distract from it. In the wrong hands, they are a cluster fuck and do more harm than good.
I think walk-ons are overused, and I know my outlook on this subject is definitely old school, but in my opinion, a walk-on or tag out is not a good substitute for good scene work.
Today, I want to give you five very simple questions to ask yourself to help determine if a scene needs a walk-on.
1. Do the players need an environment?
This is usually easy to determine and can be of maximum service to the players in the scene. If two players come out and have no idea where they are after a few minutes, it is the perfect opportunity for a walk-on. Come in and place them in a specific environment, such as in a restaurant, in a hotel room, on an airplane – anywhere but “vagueland.” Then quietly leave the scene, because your job is done.
2. Is a character being called for?
Sometimes, two players will start a scene and they’ll reference another character, such as, “Your mother and I are really upset you didn’t come home last night.” We don’t have a mother in the scene, so this is your opportunity to be the mother. It doesn’t matter if a woman or a man plays the mother, we need a mother. You want to avoid where the players are desperately calling out for another character to join them three or four times before some one is brave enough to step up. I have also seen the opposite where players are trigger happy and think every time a character's name is mentioned is an opportunity for a walk on. Be aware that is some cases they will be referring to character and a walk on is not necessary.
3. Does something need to be heightened?
This is by far the trickiest one to do. Ask yourself if there is a game, premise or emotion in a scene that needs to be heightened. Can you do it gracefully, by adding a piece of information that will up the stakes? If so, it might be time for a walk-on. However, remember that you don’t have to jump into every scene. Sometimes a scene may not need heightening by you; they may be able to handle it themselves.
4. What is my motive?
I am guilty of this. Sometimes my confidence is low and I feel safer walking into a scene than initiating one myself. If you feel you are doing this, instead of looking for an opportunity to walk into a scene, how about following the fear and starting a scene yourself?
5. Does the scene need an edit?
I wish I could take credit for this advice: “Sometimes your best walk-ons are edits.” This is true, especially if the scene has been going on for a while. If the scene feels like it’s dragging and you have an instinct to walk on to change the energy, probably it would work better as an edit.
This list is just a beginning. How do you decide if you should use a walk-on in an improv scene? If you’ve got any tips, please share them in the comments section below.
Calling all actors! Sign up now for Jimmy's Improv for Actors Workshop on May 19, 2024.
This month, I've been really busy at Improv Nerd. So to prevent me from becoming even more overwhelmed and crabby than usual, I am turning over this week's blog to my wife, Lauren.
Last week, Lauren was lucky enough to hear Judd Apatow speak at the Chicago Humanities Festival while I was busy teaching a corporate improv training across town. Lauren's a great writer, a great audience, and I think she really needs to start performing herself, for the sake of our marriage. Enjoy.
* * *
Recently, I had the chance to see Judd Apatow speak at the Chicago Humanities Festival. He was in town to promote his new book, Sick in the Head, and also plug his new movie, Trainwreck, starring Amy Schumer, Bill Hader and Colin Quinn. He was being interviewed by movie critic Richard Roeper of the Chicago Sun-Times in a huge auditorium at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Whenever I go to a talk like this, or listen to an episode of Improv Nerd, I always try to deconstruct how the famous person became famous. What are the lessons that I can glean from them and use in my own life? Sometimes I come away feeling like the person is a genius who is so far above where I am that I’ll never be able to reach where they are. And other times I get the sense that they’re just people like me, who’ve basically had a stroke of good luck.
What I got from Judd Apatow, however, was that it’s not just talent, and it’s not just luck that gets people to where they are. It’s also passion.
Apatow talked about how he grew up in Long Island in the late '70s and early '80s and loved watching TV and following comedians. But unlike most kids, Apatow became obsessed. “I was interested in tracking comedians like other kids tracked Darryl Strawberry’s career,” he said.
He did a show on his high school radio station about comedians and used his “press” status to call up comedians’ press agents and get interviews with them. He interviewed 45 up-and-coming comedians at the time, including Gary Shandling, Jay Leno and a young Jerry Seinfeld.
Apatow made those high school interviews sound like no big deal, but that kind of persistence takes hutzpah and confidence. It’s interesting that a guy who has made so many movies and TV shows that glorify smoking pot and getting high is secretly someone who has more drive in his little finger than most people do in a lifetime.
After that, he studied screenwriting at USC, and became a stand-up comedian in Los Angeles, where he became friends with people like Adam Sandler, David Spade, and Paul Feig. Those friendships and connections led to writing jokes for other comedians, which lead to writing for the Larry Sanders Show, which led to him doing his own pilots, executive producing for Freaks & Geeks, producing Anchorman, directing the 40-Year-Old Virgin and more.
You may think, well, duh, he was in Hollywood, he met the right people, so it all just fell in his lap. But I think it’s more than that. I think other people recognized he was passionate about what he did. Passion and enthusiasm make other people think you are going places. It’s magnetic. And clearly, people wanted to work with Apatow.
Apatow also seems like someone who has gone out and sought his own opportunities rather than waiting for people to come to him.
He talked about being in his car listening to the Howard Stern Show when he heard Amy Schumer, who was a relatively unknown stand-up at the time, and reached out to her about making a movie. He reached out to Lena Dunham, too, after seeing her independent feature, Tiny Furniture, to make a pilot, which became Girls. That may sound trivial, but it takes guts to call someone up whom you’ve never met and ask for what you want.
Apatow, like many successful people, knows that if you want things to happen you have to be willing to put yourself out there and take risks.
At the very end of the interview, someone asked the question that Jimmy always asks at the end of each Improv Nerd episode: “What advice do you have for someone who is starting out in the comedy scene today?”
“I think the most important suggestion would be to make things,” Apatow said. “It’s so much easier for you than it was for me. If I wanted to make a video, I had to do it on 8mm film. You can shoot a video on your iPhone. It’s much more inexpensive to do anything these days. And if you do something great, it can go world-wide in a matter of days.”
I’ve heard people say this before, and it always strikes me as a little bit of a pipe dream. I mean, of course you can make something and put it on the Internet and you have a one-in-a-million chance of it striking gold.
That’s why I’m glad he said this, too: “One thing isn’t going to make you famous. Just learn by doing it and make tons of stuff.”
And, if you follow Apatow’s example, be passionate, be fearless, and don’t give up.