This week I am in the land of Midwest opportunity—Chicago—taking two classes at
Second City. A few weeks ago, somewhat on an impulse, I decided to sign up for an Improv and Comedy Writing class, because this is what I should be doing during my required, unpaid sabbatical, right? So I found myself suddenly stunned and propelled to take action upon realizing that this might be the only time in my life when I can reasonably justify such an experience. Whether it was the minimal commitment of one week (as opposed to, oh say, a three-year graduate program), or finally listening to my gut instead of letting my brain get in the way (stupid brain), or maybe it took people telling me that I’m funny to realize that I
want to make people laugh (at me or with me, whatever)—either way it felt, with invigorating certainty, like the right thing to do right now.
Yesterday was my first day of classes—three hours of improvisation in the morning and three hours of comedy writing in the afternoon. They call the course an “Immersion,” which sounds like they are going to hold our heads under water until we emerged as amazing talents. Nevertheless, I had a great first day. It was the kind of day I think you spend your naïve professional years dreaming of, where you feel like you are powered by a constant, flowing stream of inspiration, excitement, passion and hope. I know it sounds trite, but I had goose bumps all day, and not just because of the artic temperatures in the building (I learned that the air conditioning is kept at just above frostbite in order to maintain “electronic equipment,” which is, of course, more important than human comfort). Maybe it’s the buzz of the city in the summer, the way you can feel the energy of life and activity pulsating through your body as you walk down the street, but I wasn’t even deterred by the homeless man’s piss I accidentally walked through.
Even though I was terrified of the improv class, having always felt most comfortable scribbling on paper or hiding behind a computer screen, I must say, I enjoyed it more than the writing class. But the writing class did give me a chance to reflect as our teacher walked us through the first exercise, a favorite of mine that I am all too familiar with: “Write for 15 minutes and don’t stop. You won’t have to read what you write out loud, and I don’t care if you write the same sentence over and over again, just write for 15 minutes without stopping,” said Joe, our writing instructor. I love this exercise because it forces you to fight your way out of a block, which can happen every third word. It also helps me be less critical—when you only have 15 minutes and you can’t stop, you have to let go of the word you just wrote, the sentence you put it in, you have to reserve your criticism, avoid the urge to edit as you go and just let the words flow organically. Anyway, I’ll stop geeking-out now, below is what I wrote during this 15-minute free write.
The room we are in is divided, not in terms of people, but by paint. The lower half of the room is a sort of putrid brown, the kind of shit color you’d find in a baby’s diaper, or maybe in your grandparents’ outdated bathroom. There’s a poster on the wall that has the word CHOKING written in big red letters and even though my vision is too poor to know for sure, I assume that there are instructions on what to do when someone is choking and how to perform the hymlic maneuver. The poster is laminated and shiny, which gives it an official presence. The weird part is, I don’t see a candy machine anywhere, small objects, or even food, so it’s not like there’s anything you could even legitimately choke on. It’s as if someone decided to snag it from a doctor’s office to make up for the lack of decoration and poop-colored walls. I mean, I guess if someone chokes on a pen top, or their own saliva—both of which I’ve nearly done myself—then maybe the poster would come in handy, assuming you had time to read the fine print instructions and then apply them before the choker croaked. “Oh, what’s that you say?” [Making the universal choking gesture] “Oh, you’re choking? Okay, well can you hold on just minute while I read up on and practice the hymlic maneuver?” Unless, of course, I’m even blinder than I think and it’s not a choking poster at all…maybe “choking” is an improv thing that I don’t get yet…
The carpet is a drab navy with a weaving of gray thread throughout. The sporadic stains seem to tell stories of past clumsy students, wannabe comedians who spilt their sodas on the famed floors of Second City, not knowing at the time that this would be the only impression they would manage to leave.
The air is blowing directly on me, set to an unreasonably chilly temperature; I can feel myself shivering as I write this. I’m the only one wearing a skirt, which I now realize was a terrible choice because these people are really fond of sitting on the floor in circles. It’s odd how difficult it is to get a group of about 20 adults to stand, or sit, in a shape that even sort of resembles a circle.
The people in these classes are from everywhere. But I find it strangely comforting that at least two of the students aren’t American—one is from England and the other Australia, which must mean that these classes are a big damn deal because their investment in terms of travel is double, even quadruple, compared to everyone else. The instructors keep asking us why we are here, what made us take this class and what we hope to get out of it, but no one actually says the truth: “I’m here to be discovered.” But you hear it every time someone says, “I’m here because I want to broaden my skills” and “I’m here to see what it’s all about.” Lies, ALL LIES! If I think I am here for any other reason than the dimming hope of one day becoming famous for a talent I’m not entirely certain I possess (even as I write that I know it’s not true—I believe I do possess the talent—but perhaps it is the strength, endurance and luck that I lack…?) then I’d be kidding myself. It’s not that my goal is to be famous (that would be a shitty goal) it’s that fame just seems to be the only way success is ever measured in this field. It is validating though, surrounding yourself with people who are just as hungry as you are (seriously, I had no idea that there were people out there more desperate for attention than me).
The cold is getting me again, creeping in from all sides and wrapping around my toes like barbed wire. I wish I had a Snuggie.
That’s all I got to in 15 minutes, nothing more than a descriptive rant, which, I’ve learned, tends to be my consistent fallback in the write moment (something I plan to work on while I’m here). I'm off to my next class now and tonight I think I’m going to try to catch a few improv and comedy shows, assuming the public transit system doesn't "trick" me again. As of now, I’m feeling quite confident that what I’ll walk away with after this week will be better than any fame or discovery, instead, I think I’m going to walk away knowing what to do next, which is more than I could have ever hoped for.
I guess it's only been a day, so I should try to keep my expectations reasonable, in the event that it all of a sudden sucks.
Stay tuned...
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