Fiction writers often take forever to write and revise a scene. Weeks, months, years later, they can still rewrite. Improvisors, by contrast, must build a scene instantly, by interacting in real time with other players. When it’s over it’s over. There’s no rewrite.
Could there possibly be two such different ways of reaching similar ends?
In a sense, no. The fiction writer’s particular skill is to merge inspiration with slow, steady synthesis––building toward completion of a narrative that purposefully drills deeper and deeper into the dark core of character and conflict. The skill of the improvisor is to find “the game of the scene”–that is, commit quickly to a character, define a situation and a relationship with your scene partner, and–always in the moment–to build an audience-pleasing dramatic unit.
I can report from experience that not only do the skills of the writer NOT help much in building an improv scene–they can even get in the way. In my case, a characteristic irony (which serves me well in fiction) caused me to make poor choices. I would turn a promising moment on its head by tossing out a skeptical aside totally uncharacteristic of the character I had chosen to be, or inappropriate to the moment. I had changed the game. Other players had to make instant adjustments to this new version of my character, and more often than not, the scene took a dive and never recovered.
One of my teachers made it his mission to cure this. “STOP!” he would shout from the darkness of the house. “You were a fireman trying to save a baby. Now you’re fretting over forgetting the lox for the bagels. Do you realize you just let all the air out of the scene?” Game over.
Here’s what I took away:
A novelist has plenty of time to develop a character, complete with needs and desires, as well as secrets, foibles, neuroses, etc. An improvisor doesn’t have the luxury. You must build a character lightning-quick, from one or two pertinent traits. You commit to that character and GO. You can’t hesitate, waver, or play metafictional games. As my teacher put it, “hang onto your sh_t!”–and play out the game of the scene with ferocious dedication.
It was a powerful lesson to learn. New awareness seeped into my writing and reading. My instinct for the right action at the right moment sharpened up, as well as my nose for the marginal choice–the inappropriate character move that could undercut the power of the scene. “No, this man would not turn on the TV at this point in this scene. Think. Remember who he is. Remember what’s of vital concern right now.”
Remember the game of the scene. Play by its rules and play to win.
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aha! now the improviser in me understands how to be a better writer and the writer in me understands how to be a better improviser! gadzooks! we’re so excited! can’t wait for improv class on monday night! thanks, bill.
Great to see the “aha,” susie. I’ll be posting more about how improv helps you write better.
Very interesting post. I’ve dabbled with improv and am fascinated by how the various games crystallise different things we might want a scene to do. I often use a list of improv games to kick-start me on a scene that isn’t yet telling me where it wants to go. I’m going to share this on Twitter!
Thanks. There’s nothing like a round of improv games to keep your creative muscles supple. And nothing like long-form scenes to develop a sense of the game and remind us how simple it has to be.