Ten Top Tips for Thriving at an Improv Retreat

My first improv retreat went by in a blur of exhaustion, adrenaline and weird noises. It never really occurred to me not to go again. Sadly the last few have been cancelled but there was also a pandemic to think about. Now here in the UK, things have been slowly opening up. As we rattle through September, an optimistic bunch of us are holding our breath as we get ever closer to attending The Maydays autumn residential intensive. It’s a nail-biting time.

It has me getting all nostalgic for what has passed. But I can assure you that my first improv retreat was no picnic. There was also not a picnic… which seems weird with lots of beautiful grounds to explore. However, for my first retreat I didn’t really see any of the grounds. I was too busy inside running about and being all ‘improv’.

I’d like to report it was a constant wonderland of improvised performance. The truth of the matter is, it was, but it also had its tough times. My first retreat started by being told by a fellow improviser how I had embarrassed myself in a session. I don’t think it was meant to sound unkind but I can be a sensitive soul so it sent me into a shame spiral that lasted the rest of the retreat and resulted in me being less and less able to say anything in scenes. During the showcase performance I made some battle cries and that was all I could manage to get out through my mouth hole.

We were fighting invisible orcs. Fitting huh?

As I drove away after the retreat had ended, a whole bunch of new voices poured out of me, from some deep dark place, until around about Salisbury. From there I started singing to an Avril Lavigne song on the radio, got ridiculously angry, and then cried my eyes out all the way to Pizza Hut.

Yesh.

I still laugh thinking about it because the weird thing was, I think that retreat may have been the making of me. And also the breaking of me. But also the making of me. I still managed to make friends, find fun and learn loads, including what weird substance I was made of: me. It was a baptism of fire and for some irritating reason they’re the best for growing at an exponential rate.

I came back asking my teachers if I should ever improvise again… could I really handle this? And they all said the same thing: Hell, yeah!

And thankfully, I listened to them.

So here’s a collection of my top tips for getting the most out of an improv retreat, from someone who has been there and got a t-shirt… which was for free because it was faulty and fell apart… so then I framed it and hung it on my wall like a diploma… because I’d earned it.

  1. Resist comparing yourself to the skill/talent/superpowers of others. You are going to be surrounded by people doing great in their own particular ways. Some will be fantastic at initiating, some will blow you away with their word play, some will have object work to kill yourself with an imaginary gun for. Try not to let that get to you. Swim in your own lane. You often won’t know what others love about your improvised performance so be secure that you are just where you need to be right now. Here!
  2. Listen to feedback from teachers and instructors. Try not to defend your intentions. Make a note of the feedback for later. Give it a go, putting it into practice if you feel ready for the note, but don’t expect to correct yourself in the few days you are at the retreat. Lap it up as a useful observation and know you can come back to it later to explore in your regular practice.
  3. Compliment, don’t criticise. You’ll see loads of great improv but sometimes you’ll also get ideas about how others could ‘do things differently’. That’s fine but keep those bits to yourself, unless you are specifically asked. I have received the most unsolicited criticisms from people at retreats and sometimes they have come right after receiving great feedback from a teacher. Whoever the improviser is, they get to make their own decisions so dig their groove, don’t burst their balloon. If you do find yourself on the receiving end, know you are only hearing one person’s opinion on how they would do things and that is just one drop in a sea of possibilities.
  4. Keep doing something. If you freeze up like I did, then try not to panic. See it as an opportunity to focus on interesting object work or body language. Or make weird noises. These can be just as strong offers in scenes. When I was at my most frozen I said to Jules Munns, “I just don’t feel like I’m giving my scene partner anything.” He replied, “I bet you’re giving them much more than you think you are.” Because even silence can be inspiring if leaned into. I once saw a normally very chatty improviser do a whole scene in silence at an improv retreat jam and it was incredibly powerful.
  5. Avoid burning out. It’s hard to hold yourself back when there is so much to throw yourself into, but try to build some time into your day for just you. It took me until my third retreat to discover I could take myself off for a little walk, sit on my own in a field, or just quietly focus on my breath for a bit. It was a really important grounding tool to right me again after all the joyful make-believe. Wherever you can find space, and it may be the toilet (also speaking from experience), find a moment for yourself and seize it. I know some people even give themselves a session off the schedule. Do what you need to do to recharge your batteries so you have the energy for the experiences that matter most to you.
  6. Keep out of your own head (as much as possible). It is so hard not to get stuck in your noggin when your brain is being bombarded with new information: here’s a new format, here’s a new way to initiate, here’s a new way to play a pair of furry car dice. If you get in your head, try to remember why you came to the retreat and give yourself permission to be bad. The best place for your worst improv is in class, so do what you can but don’t sweat it if you are not everything you want to be. This is the place to try new things and fail gloriously.
  7. Accept you will probably get overwhelmed at some point. It’s a part of the journey. You might cry at a cardboard robot. You might get all in your head. You might freeze up and be only able to make noises for an entire scene. You will not be alone. I have done all these things. Ride it out and keep on trucking. You might learn a lot about yourself from the way you get through these moments.
  8. Make a record by taking notes or your equivalent. Improv requires a certain degree of ‘being in the zone’ which tends to come with a tendency to let it all go afterward. When your learning is interspersed with improv exercises this can mean you forget some useful lessons pretty quick. I can feel a bit awkward taking notes but now I get my notebook out early – preferably before the session begins so I can be poised and ready. I’ve even started writing down at the end of class all the exercises we did. It’s really helpful later when the session is a distant memory because it’s the afternoon and you’ve moved on to singing improvised folk songs and playing an upbeat roof tile.
  9. Offer support to your fellow players when you can. Some of my most cherished moments at retreats have been when I can support others. So many people have been kind enough to support me when I’m wobbling so it’s meaningful to pay it forward. We all crack at different times. Different things scare us. Some people get incredibly nervous just before performing, other people get their buttons pushed in an immersive class, and other people still, cry over cardboard robots. There’ll be times you’re riding high on the improv fumes, while others are struggling. As long as your well isn’t dry, take the opportunity to lift your fellow players. You may even find yourself with a new improv buddy.
  10. Follow your fun. At one retreat I tried to go to all the advanced classes because I wanted to be in those rooms. Now I choose a balance of sessions for learning and for lighting me up. Lean into it and live your best improv retreat life by following your own unique fun-times. You don’t need to prove yourself. You have as much right to be here, doing improv, as anyone else, so be enough for your glorious self. You really don’t have to be good. You just have to be here.

…I think that robot might need an explanation, right? At the last retreat before the pandemic, I went to a session in improvised puppetry with the marvelous creative energy that is Jennifer Jordan. In that workshop, we had the opportunity to make a creature out of scrap materials. I got a big piece of cardboard and coupled it with some egg boxes to make a robot-like creature. I called it Brian. Now in your head, you are probably imagining something more sophisticated. Dial that down a few notches.

And now a few more.

There was a high quantity of surprising behaviour in that workshop which Brian wasn’t too sure about – probably also not helped by the graphically obscene cardboard sex.

Yep, you can’t unsee that. Even if your eyelids are made of an egg box.

After the cardboard creature dancing and the scenes, there was a chance to reflect. I started talking about my box robot and how it felt disconnected. All of a sudden I was crying. It was such a surprise and I tried to hide behind the cardboard. ACTUAL ME tried to hide behind the cardboard robot. The improvised musical magician Joe Samuel then said, “Don’t you see, Lela. That puppet is you when you started improv.” And of course, the wise sage was right. He’s always right.

I did feel disconnected when I started improv and I wasn’t sure then I had a right to be in the room. And on top of that, I now felt rather foolish after having cried over cardboard but to my great surprise, for it people seemed to connect with me all the more. It made me wonder if I should carry that robot around with me all the time! But it was too late by then; he’d been recycled.

I’ve been recycled too. I’m a different version of the rather disconnected person I was when I went to my first retreat. I don’t need that cardboard robot to hide behind (sorry Brian).

No doubt, you’ll be going to your next retreat in a different place to me but if it comes to it, I say: don’t be afraid to break. Let it go. Grow. This is your party and you can cry over a cardboard robot if you want to… and even if you don’t.

Enjoy your own retreat journey. I hope you embrace every weird minute of it and hold on tight. It’s going to be one heck of a ride.

Thinking Inside the Box

In the school hall, I sit with an imaginary cardboard box balanced precariously on my thighs. I feel the weight slowly shift, its contents gradually re-distributing itself. An itsy bitsy ruckus in a space only a bit bigger than a shoebox.

I know exactly what is inside.

The other things I know are that the herringbone wooden floor is actually covered in autumn leaves, the still school air is dancing through the imaginary trees making them rustle and the plastic chair where I am sitting is actually only one-half of a bigger seat.

I’m on a park bench. And in a few minutes the person next to me, who is wearing an imaginary bowler hat, will get up and leave. In their place, another person will join me and bring with them something new.

This is a Park Bench. And it is the first improv exercise I did… possibly. There must have been others, but this is all my mind has left me with now. This joyful snippet from my childhood dabbles in drama.

I have a small collection of vivid memories from junior school: wearing a finger sling to class when my nail had fallen off and all the other kids found it gross; colliding with a kid running the wrong way through the canteen and getting spaghetti bolognese stains all down my shirt; being told off for sticking drawing pins to the bottoms of my shoes to tap dance…

And I remember so clearly sitting on that park bench.

During that time, a retired actor came into our school and taught us improvisation. I wish now I could remember more of what we did. But being in that drama club got me a part as Princess Brenda in the school production of Queen Beryl and the Romans. And this I remember most.

I remember waiting in the wings to go on, I remember Caesar forgetting his lines and one of his centurions sticking a sword up his toga to try to remind him (I’m not sure how that was going to help), I remember walking through the audience at the end having just married Paul Wheeldon, and I remember standing at the front of the stage on my own, being seen, while I delivered the line:


“I want some peas and if I don’t get any peas, I’ll scream and scream and scream until I’m sick.”

Princess Brenda


I’m not sure why Princess Brenda wanted peas so much. Seems likely nobody asked. But I do know what being seen was like. Exhilarating. Powerful. Complicated. I wasn’t the kind of kid who normally screamed for peas.

For the next four years one of the teachers in the school – a big tall beardy fellow – called me Queen Beryl. And every single time he did, I corrected him that I had played Princess Brenda. And he laughed and ignored me.

I wasn’t Queen Beryl.

Queen Beryl was a flaming redhead with gorgeous big hair, like something out of Brave. And she was brave because she played Queen Beryl, whereas I only played Princess Brenda. I don’t know what her name was, but she was my drama friend. And then she left the school and I never saw her again. I would only remember being about to go on stage with her and feeling nervous, but not really sure if I did feel nervous. I thought I should feel nervous, so I gave myself a talking-to, to feel nervous.

I dreamt a lot about being an actress when I was little. I guess a lot of kids do. I don’t know how much talent I had then. Although I do remember at high school a teacher trying to persuade me to take GCSE drama. I just thought he wanted me in his class because I was a well-behaved kid. It didn’t occur to me that I might be any good at it. And I’ll never really know if I was, back then, any good, because all I wanted to do was hide, so I took Art instead.

Life was difficult enough without people seeing me.

My mission in high school was quite a simple one, really: to never, ever, ever, ever, under any circumstances, find myself in a spotlight. I kept my head down. I avoided eye contact.

But the problem was, there was a little person still in me who didn’t much like that strategy. She played up in Graphic Design class doing sketch comedy in an early improvised duo with a wild child called Emma. Our material mainly paraphrased things I’d heard on the radio, which my father listened to religiously. We entertained the ‘mean girls’ who seemed to enjoy the show until they remembered who I was to them – someone they hated for some reason.

It wouldn’t do.

So I put that little person who wanted to be seen into a dark, creepy space inside of me for twenty years and forgot about her.

Thankfully, she did not forget about me.

And nor did she forget about that park bench or what was in that imaginary cardboard box.

It was a tortoise.

Fitting. Ever so frigging slowly, I’d save that little girl from that creepy dark place, and she’d save me. Obviously, as soon as she was out, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

Improvise.