Why the Rules Take the Pressure Off Being Clever
Oh man, okay, so we've been doing "Yes, And" for a couple weeks now and I keep noticing the same thing happen. Somebody does a scene, it goes fine, and then afterward they say some version of "I'm just not funny" or "I'm not quick like that."
I want to push back on that a little, because I don't think improv is about being quick or funny. I think it's about being scared and having a rule to hide behind.
Here's my actual opinion, and I know it's a little contrarian: improv is for scared people, not brave people. Most folks assume you have to be the outgoing one, the one who's always "on," to do this stuff. I think it's the opposite. Improv works because it hands you a rulebook so you never have to sit there thinking "okay, now be clever." You just have to follow the rule. The rule does the work. You don't.
The rule is doing more than you think
"Yes, and" isn't a suggestion, it's scaffolding. It tells you exactly what to do with whatever your scene partner just handed you. You don't have to invent something brilliant out of nowhere. You just have to accept what's there and add one small thing.
That's it. That's the whole job. Not "be interesting." Just "accept, then add."
Once people actually believe that, something loosens up in the room. I can watch it happen. Somebody who's been holding their shoulders up around their ears for twenty minutes finally drops them, because they realize nobody's grading them on wit. They're just following a rule, like a game of tag with different footwork.
A kid taught me this before I ever taught a class
My oldest, Jackson, was maybe seven or eight and did this elementary school program where the kids had these little frozen-statue moments built into the number. Freeze, hold, unfreeze, keep going. Simple enough.
Jackson's cue came, and instead of just freezing like a normal kid, he slowly, dramatically melted down to the floor. Like a candle. For no reason anybody had rehearsed. I was sitting in the audience mortified and delighted at the exact same time, which is a very specific feeling.
Here's the thing though: he wasn't clever. He wasn't trying to be funny or original. He just took the instruction — freeze — and committed to a version of it with his whole body, no hedging. Kids do that naturally. They don't stop to ask if the melting is a good idea. They just melt.
Adults ruin this in themselves somewhere along the way. We start asking "is this good" before we've even tried the thing. Jackson didn't have that filter yet, and honestly, watching him taught me more about acting than most of the plays I've been in. That's the muscle we're building here. Not cleverness. Commitment to the rule, whatever weird shape it takes.
How to practice this at home, actually
You don't need a scene partner sitting across from you at the kitchen table for this, though it helps if you can rope someone in — a spouse, a kid, a roommate who owes you a favor.
Try this on your own first: 1. Pick any object near you. A spatula, a shoe, whatever's on the counter. 2. Say out loud what it is, in character, like you're presenting it: "This is my grandfather's fishing lure." 3. Now add one true or false detail to it. Don't correct yourself. Don't go back and "fix" it to be more clever. Just add. 4. Do this five times with five different objects. Notice how fast you stop hesitating once you know the only job is "add one thing."
With a partner: 1. One person offers a line, any line. "The soup's ready." 2. The other has to accept it as true and add something. Not "actually" — add. 3. Swap who's offering after every few lines so nobody gets stuck being the generous one the whole time. 4. If you catch yourself blocking ("no, the soup's cold") just notice it out loud and try again. That's good data, not a failure.
The only real caution here: don't let this turn into a debate where you're trying to one-up each other or win the scene. There's no winning. If it starts feeling competitive, slow down and go back to smaller offers. Little additions, not big swings for approval.
The part people skip
People want to skip the small stuff and jump straight to the big funny bit. I get it, that's the fun part to imagine. But the small stuff — the spatula, the one line, the one add — is where the actual skill lives. The big funny bit only works because you trusted the rule enough times in a row that your brain stopped auditioning your ideas before you said them.
At the end of the day, ironically, the rules aren't there to box you in. They're there so you don't have to be the interesting one. You just have to be the one who says yes.
Before next time: try the five-objects exercise once this week, out loud, even if you feel silly doing it alone in your kitchen. That's kind of the point. 💛