One summer, back when people shared indoor spaces without masks or advance virus testing, my level 5 improv class had its final show. It was fun and energetic and almost fulfilled its potential.
And then I froze.
Somehow, my character, a manic driver/police offer, was to appear at the end of Act 3. To wrap it up with a flourish.
My classmates set the stage for me for me to come in. It was so clear that I needed to play some sort of part that I was on alert as soon as the scene began:
How do I make this work? What do I say? When do I come in?
And there I was, on the sidelines, still watching, still analyzing, still thinking, still hesitating, when the theater turned down the lights. ,
Our show was over.
I’d missed my chance.
There’s this paradox between doing for myself and doing for others.
Tell me if this sounds familiar:
If I do for others, I’m trying to help them make progress, so maybe I read a little, think a little, prepare in some way, but then: I start doing. Because it’s for a project someone else has defined. What matters is getting it done. And the only way to get things done is to do.
If I do for myself, I’m the one who defines the project, and I’m never sure I’ve defined it quite right.
It’s caring too much about the parameters versus just caring about taking steps. It’s a juxtaposition between solving by doing (try something, see if it works; if not, try something else) and postponing the doing till I manage to solve by thinking.
And who’s ever solved anything by thinking?
(Except theorists. We know a bubbly male computer science theorist who goes on round-the-world trips and long treks and comes back with highly regarded papers.)
Committing to action over analysis when I’m the one writing the syllabus, when I’m doing something I’ve never done before, when I don’t know the right answer (because, in all likelihood, there isn’t one) is so hard.
I like right answers. That’s why I kept taking math classes throughout college.
But improv helped me practice.
Later that summer, after a few weeks away, I began the next improv class.
We started a scene on an island.
My character was lying back, trying to tan: “They didn’t tell us it would be overcast. This is the most disappointing tanning session, ever.”
Another character was sipping a drink: “They said we’d have free sunrises. Tequila sunrises.”
And then, I didn’t think. I just spoke.
“Can you pour that on me?”
“You want me to pour my sunrise on you?”
“I’ll take whatever form of sun I can get.”
I know, I know: How painful was this to read? At least you weren’t in the room when it happened.
Still, what I hope comes across is something I try to remember most days: If we see failure as an opportunity—to explore options, to learn, to simply try and see if a different tack might lead to more interesting results—it’s rarely a bad idea to do something (reasonable) to move things along.
As for abject failure? Well. Maybe it’ll make for a good story. Whether you tell it to friends or your therapist? That’s up to you.
But what if the failure isn’t so abject?
Or… What if you don’t actually fail?
Which reminds me, I should re-do this great fear-setting exercise to figure out what terrifying worst case scenarios are holding me back.
Then accept that they might happen and focus anyway.
Do you find it easier to do things for other people than for yourself? What helps you hop that hurdle? Leave a reply and share below: help us learn from each other.
This Glass Has Water 