Improv and AA Are the Same Thing
Right after I got sober, I started my first comedy class. Since then, nearly everything I've learned in AA has been echoed by improv, and vice versa.
On Monday nights, I perform with my all-female, all-sober improv team in the East Village. A comedy crew comprised entirely of sober women might sound kind of niche, but really it’s unsurprising: Improv and sobriety are the same thing.
For me, the two have always been linked. My sobriety date is June 12, 2007, and I started my first improv class on July 30. I was scheduled to start an MSW program at NYU that August but I told them I wasn’t coming—I’d found improv!
Giving up the khaki-clad stability of social work to pursue my lifelong creative dreams may sound like the most alcoholic decision ever, but it wasn’t really. When I was in the throes of addiction I didn’t care about anything except blow and booze. My harsh inner critic constantly wore me down: You’ll never be successful. Why try? It’s too competitive. You’re not funny. You’re not talented. Who do you think you are? Just get a stable office job and STFU.
The first rule of improv is “Yes, and.” In AA, I learned to say yes. Yes is acceptance. If a sponsee says to me, “I feel like drinking,” I accept the information without judging it and we move forward together.
But somehow, newly sober, I got the balls to sign up for my first class at the Upright Citizens Brigade. The UCB teaches long-form improv in New York and LA (it’s way different from Whose Line Is It Anyway?, which is short-form improv.) In long-form, nothing’s predetermined. There are no games, notecards, or gigantic clown feet. You fly by the seat of your pants for 30 minutes, like you're a passenger in a high-speed car chase and the driver is drunk but also your car has no brakes and three wheels and you're about to drive off a cliff.
When I came into AA—and improv—I was such a little sponge that I noticed the many similarities between them right away. Here are some of the biggest and most transformative:
Yes, and (Acceptance) The first rule of improv is “Yes, and.” If someone initiates a scene by saying, “I’m a pretty princess,” your response should be something like, “YES, you’re a pretty princess AND you live in a castle.” Then your scene can move forward and you can improvise together for a half-hour.
If you respond with, “No you’re not. You’re a one-legged clown on stilts,” then you’ll be stuck in a fight because you just negated what the other person said. Ultimately, you’ll look like a jackass and won’t be funny and everyone will hate you.
I was raised by a lawyer in a household with lots of fighting, and I was taught to argue with whatever people told me. In AA, I learned to say yes. Yes is acceptance. If a sponsee says to me, “I feel like drinking,” I say, “YES, you feel like drinking, AND here’s what we’re going to do about it.” I accept the information without judging it and we move forward together. If I say, “No you don’t!” then I look like a jackass and everyone will hate me.
Make an active choice (Take the next right action) In an improv scene, you have to make a choice in order for it to move forward. We’ve established that I’m a pretty princess and that I live in a castle. We can’t keep talking about the castle or the scene will be boring. One of us has to make an active choice like standing on a chair and saying, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”
The same thing happens in sobriety. Take work, which I don’t like. When I was drinking, I'd call in sick all the time, or maybe show up late and hang out on message boards. I talked myself out of my responsibilities in favor of laying on the couch to nurse my hangover. Today, I hate my day job, but it allows me to buy nice food for my cats and to get my eyebrows done. So I wake up, I get there early and I try not to complain, because it’s the right thing to do.
Don’t think (Go with your gut) The Upright Citizens Brigade had a Comedy Central show before they started the theater and its motto was “Don’t Think”—which makes no sense. Of course you have to think to improvise for 30 minutes. What it really means is don’t overthink. Don’t stand on the back line thinking about all the possibilities of what could happen in your scene like a chess game, because it won’t be funny. Instead, just follow your gut.
In AA, your gut is your little God voice telling you the next right action. When I first got sober, I used to wake up with a small monkey jumping around in my brain, obsessing about all the ways my day could play out. My sponsor knew I was crazy and told me to read pages 86–88 in the “Big Book” every night and morning. Page 86 says, “Here we ask God for an inspiration, an intuitive thought or a decision.” Today, I usually have a gut feeling about how to conduct my day, and I can stop playing that goddamned chess game.