How to Write Comedy Into a Rom-Com
In college I participated in perhaps the only activity more ridiculed than a cappella. Not ultimate frisbee or medieval dueling or even extra credit. Reader, I did improv. That’s right, while my peers were throwing back murky liquids with reckless abandon, I was doing my best Angela Lansbury impression in the basement of the history building. Or pantomiming a psychic vision. Or stirring an invisible bowl of chili.
(100 Creative Writing Prompts for Writers.)
My group performed, for the most part, at fraternities. To this day, I’m still incredulous that a litter of rambunctious men would pay us, a swarm of buffoons, to entertain them. Maybe it was a court jester situation or maybe Tuesdays were just a slow night for beer pong. Whatever the reason, week after week we found ourselves scampering into the frat houses to perform scenes on their sticky hardwood floors.
“Can I get a word of inspiration?” we’d call into the crowd.
The word was almost always, “Beer.”
“Can I get another word of inspiration?”
It took a few tries, but eventually someone would shout something brilliant like “asparagus” and we’d start our show. Some nights, we got big laughs—thanks, alcohol!—while others we failed spectacularly. What did we care? We were having the time of our lives. By the time we emerged into the crisp New Hampshire air, we were out of breath and a few bucks the richer.
It’s been years since I’ve asked a rowdy crowd to shout any word but “beer.” Nevertheless, I like to think I’ve retained one of improv’s greatest gifts: the gift of play. We all used to play, didn’t we? It came naturally to us as kids, probably because we were constantly encouraged to do it. Go outside and play, we were told. Play by yourself while I make dinner. At some point, though—12, 13?—this directive ceased. The instructions stopped coming and the vast majority of us lost the nerve to be silly. We became cool. Embarrassed. We ceased to do things willy nilly. This is what made college improv so tantalizing to me—not just the instructions to play, but the permission.
I quickly learned, as any improv novice does, the rule of threes. That is, if you’re coming up with an idea, not only should you do it three times, but you should make it more ridiculous with each iteration. Weirder. Wilder. For example, “I’m not touching that laundry! It’s dirty, it’s steaming, and it’s covered in severed earlobes.” When I’m stuck on something in my writing, I take myself through it three times. For every “was” I try to think, “What’s a stronger verb?”
A friend once said to me, “It’s not a Mary Liza piece without the word ‘festoon.’” I adore festooning, fiddling, frittering, flinging, and flouncing. And those are just the F’s! If you’re feeling stuck, make a list of verbs from A to Z and fill it with oddballs. I dare you! In order to make someone laugh, whether on paper or on stage, you have to be willing to jettison your dignity. Hear me when I say this: Nothing funny has ever been accomplished in pursuit of coolness. Those guys sitting on the sticky hardwood floors shouting, “Beer!” were not funny. But my friend Patrick who skinned his knees diving for an invisible can of Spaghetti-O’s? Hilarious. The key is to be—or to become—unembarrassable.
Check out Mary Liza Hartong’s Love and Hot Chicken here:
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Well, that settles the “com” but what about the “rom?” I happen to think they’re connected. My favorite romances—including my real-life love story—are the ones where it’s clear that the main characters simply get a kick out of each other. Give me stolen kisses, sure, but also give me two people goofing off at the grocery store. Show me those guys are friends. In improv, the most boring scene you can do is called an “11 scene.” This refers to two people talking without moving, less of a skit than a dialogue. These scenes can be funny if the actors are talented enough, but from a visual standpoint, they’re not all that fun to watch.
To prevent 11 scenes, my improv group practiced opening scenes with motions. Someone would be sweeping the floor, for example, and the second person would go from there. Give your lovers something to do while they fall in love. Have them fold laundry or remove a stubborn stain from a suede jacket. This action-and-dialogue combo helps create something more lifelike than chit chat alone.
Looking back, maybe those fraternities hired us because there were no campus magicians (or at least not any you could rent by the half hour). As we ran off stage, we’d sometimes catch a whiff of disbelief. An awestruck, “How did they do that?” look hanging on the face of a flannelled econ major. “Practice,” I wanted to tell him. Twice a week. In the basement of the history building. With a foot of snow accumulating over your head.
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