I used to be in an improv comedy troupe.
It was called “Deep Fried Comedy on a Stick,” I was 19, and a total spaz.
(not me up there) Photo credit: Levi Saunders
I mean, I wasn’t a total spaz…I was actually pretty good at improv. (Because being a spaz is kind of a prerequisite.)
Improvising for laughs came pretty naturally to me, because I’d been shoving cupcakes in my face for the amusement of others since grade school.
I liked the spontaneity, the brashness, and the permission to be as weird as I wanted with a bunch of other weirdos.
But my improv career was over almost as soon as it began, because something killed it.
SPOILER ALERT: it was me.
See, when I auditioned for the troupe I had the confidence of someone with nothing to lose.
I didn’t know anybody, had no one to impress, and even though it scared the pants off me to walk out on stage with absolutely no idea what would happen, I fed on the fear. It felt like a challenge, and one that I knew I could rise to.
And I did.
I killed the audition, throwing caution to the wind as I impersonated 8 Mile era-Eminem and made a convincing infomercial for a spork. I went all out and left any semblance of dignity on the floor.
It worked.
I was the only person asked to join the troupe early and come sub in the next show—without training.
My ego swelled like a Macy’s parade balloon.
But soon after my off-the-walls audition, I realized I had a little issue.
Actually, it was a huge issue...
The kind of issue that you realize up on stage with a bunch of funny people while they do hilarious things and you just stand there frozen.
As soon as the show started, I felt like a total fraud.
A total PARALYZED fraud.
The way improv works (for those who’ve never sat in an audience and been asked to name their favorite vegetable) is that troupe members are only as involved as they want to be.
The gist is that you jump into skits when you have an idea, when you want to assist in someone else’s idea, or when you think it would be funny to go play the rug in a living room scene.
Improvising means assuming that a scene will be better with you in it… but you’ve gotta volunteer.
My courage had apparently been exhausted in my audition, because I may as well have been playing a lamp post in that first show. My “awesome” audition had felt like something to live up to, and I was now a petrified wreck.
The only thing I could hear on stage was my head, and it got pretty ugly.
These people are so much funnier than you.
Don’t ruin what they’ve got going in this scene.
What if I jump in and nobody laughs?
Oh dear God, just smile and they’ll forget you exist.
I imagined the head of the troupe watching me from the audience, shaking his head.
Why did we pick her? She’s not even doing anything! What happened to the Eminem impersonator? What a mistake!
I didn’t move the ENTIRE show.
Are you noticing a theme yet?
It’s not just imposter syndrome, which I definitely had a fair amount of. It’s not simple insecurity either, although it’s related.
It’s something else: something that’s easy to miss if you don’t look closely with some pretty incredulous eyes.
I suffered from completely debilitating EVERYONE-IS-THINKING-ABOUT-ME levels of self-importance.
Psychologists call this the "Spotlight Effect."
Whether it was my puffed up ego driving home from the stellar audition (everyone thinks I'm amazing) or the humiliation of freezing on stage (everyone thinks I'm terrible)… I knew EVERYBODY was focused on me.
They had to be: it was ALL about me.
Sure, part of performing involves being the center of attention—and I was no stranger to that.
But the best performers are the ones who let go of who “they” are and embody whatever it is they’re performing…whether it’s spoken word, playing music, or making an infomercial for a spork.
It can’t be about what OTHER people are thinking ABOUT you, or it’s just not good.
Most of us have heard the old “stop worrying about what everybody thinks, because they’re not thinking about you” lots of times. I remember hearing that back then too, but it didn’t register.
Somewhere in my mind I thought that I was different, important, and that maybe the world wasn’t worried about OTHER people, but it was DEFINITELY worried about me.
This idea could work for AND against me, depending on the moment. My younger self was a slave to the messages that my head would send me, be they grandiose or disgusted.
You’re such a big deal!
You’re a piece of crap.
They think you’re so pretty!
They think you’re repulsive.
You’re hilarious!
Nobody likes you.
These voices are what I like to call “the committee.” They sit like a team of Olympic judges in my head, ready to hurl insults or pile praise that does nothing but get in my way. The judges are relentless, overwhelming, and if I listened to all of them I would still be impersonating a lamp post in every area of my life.
But unlike that 19 year old, I’m now aware of this committee and realize that it’s not actually me. I’m not the best OR the worst…I’m not as special as I once thought I was, and I thank my lucky stars for that: it’s freeing.
Becoming aware of the committee allowed me to tune OUT the voices that were hurting me, and tune INTO the only one that actually matters…my own.
Now when I’m shuddering on the “stage” of a given area, I can ask myself a series of questions:
Whose judgement do I really care about, and why?
Where am I in need of praise, and why?
Why am I doing this thing that I’m doing?
Is it to because I want recognition from someone else?
Is it to because I need to prove something?
Or
Is my inner creative just really excited?
Do I have something to say that feels important?
Am I being motivated by creativity or the committee?
If I fall on my face and embarrass myself, will I live through it?
The beauty of time is that I’ve gotten many chances to fall on my face and realize that I DO in fact live through it.
I’ve also realized that there are some tricks to dealing with this inner committee in the moment, and I don’t have to live my life either paralyzed OR with a Macy’s parade sized balloon of ego.
These two extremes are pretty brutal, and it’s in the middle that the magic happens.
It’s in the middle that one can impersonate 8 Mile-era Eminem without a care in the world.
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xo,
Melissa
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