It was time to pry loose the fear and move on…
Registration was the nightmare everyone said it would be: even with waking up pre-dawn—which made me miss Abby desperately—I was shut out of every class I wanted. Comedy writing, full. History of comedy, full. Writing for television, full.
This is how the universe screws around with you; this is how the world drags you kicking and screaming toward your fate.
The only class remotely associated with comedy that had any seats left was Improvisation. I imagined the smile broadening on Abby’s face as she sat on her meditation cushion four hundred miles away.
On the first day, I sat in the back of the room and hid behind my notebook. The teacher had a blond pageboy and dressed all in black—surprise, surprise. I figured it was the first class; we were safe.
I was wrong.
She made us write down random words on pieces of paper, which she proceeded in collect in an old hat. (Was this college or kindergarten?) She then took out the class list.
The first name she called was mine.
When I heard the words “Becky Martin” it reminded me of Rick introducing me at the club.
“Becky Martin,” she repeated. “Take the stage,”
I told her I didn’t have anything prepared.
She looked at me as if I’d just said the stupidest thing possible.
“This is an improv class. Of course you don’t have any thing prepared.” She clapped her hands. “Let’s go.”
As I walked past the rows of other students to the front of the auditorium, I tried to concentrate on my breathing. Difficult to do when you’re terrified.
She stood in front of me and held out the hat. I picked a scrap of paper with the word “car.” I looked at her expectantly.
“No instruction, no direction. Give me five minutes on your topic.” She pointed to the stage. “Go.”
Car—brilliant. I could use my whole getting-your-licenses set. I hadn’t proceeded it in a while, but even if I forgot some of it, I had a solid five minutes.
I climbed the stairs then stopped. What if I didn’t go with my planned set? This was supposed to be improvisation, after all. What if I trusted my instincts, really trusted this time. What would I come up with then?
“Ms. Martin, get a move on before I decide to grade you.”
I took the stage.
I had been through hell this past year, through emotional and physical betrayal I never could have imagined. I had survived. I’d stood in front of the girls I didn’t know and hated my innermost feelings of fear and shame. It seemed silly to be afraid now, especially when I had such important stories to tell. It was time to pry loose the fear and move on.
Extract from the book Fault Line
By Janet Tashjian
All Rights Reserved.
New York: Henry Holt, 2003
Call Number: Y English TAS
Extract contributed by Norah Ismail
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Do people perform better when they trust their instincts?
August 21st, 2008 at 10:40 am
Instinct.. hmm.. reminds me of the tv series “Medium”, which I’m currently really into. I wldn’t say ppl naturally perform better but I wld agree that ppl’s instincts are usually right.
September 30th, 2008 at 12:16 pm
But won’t there be times when you will doubt your own instinct? Questioning yourself if it is the correct step to take…