Before the phrase “yes, and?” was made into an anthem of unflappable disregard by Ariana Grande and Mariah Carey, it was a well-known rule in improvisational comedy. An actor throws something out there, and his scene partner accepts the statement and runs with it, adding their own embellishments:
“The children appear to be turning into goats,” says Actor One.
“Quick, let’s hide the washing before they start eating it off the line,” replies Actor Two.
Actor One then begins gathering the laundry, and adds their own new twist. If they refused to do this, or if Actor Two rejected the initial observation that the children were turning into goats — if they said “no”, in other words — the scene would grind to a stuttering halt. Saying “yes” ensures momentum on stage, while fostering an atmosphere of generative possibility. Anything can happen because the actors are open to collaboration and serendipity.
I’ve always loved the principle of “yes, and”. During high school and in university drama club, I was dreadful at improv — the example above is proof that little has changed in the intervening years. But it was thrilling to roll with the punches, to see how others adapted on the fly to some outlandish suggestion they had to accept. We are confronted, at virtually every moment, with so many decisions. What if the decision was, in a way, made for you? I often think about “The Dice Man”, a cult novel from 1971 by Luke Rhinehart (a pen name for the American writer George Cockcroft). Its narrator, a psychiatrist, submits himself entirely to what he calls “dice therapy”, where a roll of the dice decides his actions in every situation. The plot that ensues is predictably horrifying: as an agent of chaos, he ends up wreaking havoc on his friends and (spoiler alert) killing a patient. But there is something seductive about the central conceit, in the same way that “yes, and” is a kind of liberation for an actor.
For the sake of self-preservation, we have to say “no” a lot in our lives. Yet this impulse can calcify into a defence mechanism, a way of protecting the self from every possible contingency. In the face of uncertainty, we respond with “no” to maintain control of the scene. We do not accept every suggestion and run with it, or even most suggestions, preferring the safety of what we already know. This only becomes truer the older we get.
But what if we stopped doing that? What if we said “no” less? Lately I’ve been wondering what would happen if I imported the improv rule into reality, saying “yes, and” at moments when I might instinctually shut down discussion. Rolling dice feels like a step too far into randomness, but I could do with a little more spontaneity as I enter my 40s. (Call it my midlife crisis.)
Indeed, if I survey my life thus far, some of the most extraordinary moments arose out of just this kind of open-minded submission to the current, when somebody made a suggestion and instead of saying no, I said yes.
Once, for instance, I was staying in a beach town on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I was using a homestay for accommodation, somebody’s spare room, and my host, after we got talking, asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a local ceremony. I had no idea what I was getting into, no idea what he even meant by “ceremony”, but I went on a whim — and found myself at an exorcism. A young woman was ill, and her community believed she was plagued by a demon. So she squatted on a mattress, looking glum, as elaborately masked dancers moved around her to the rhythmic beat of drums, trying to drive away the spirit and thus restore her to health. I was amazed, watching the torch fire in this private ritual, to think about the tourists sitting right that moment in beachfront restaurants less than a kilometre away. Two different worlds, which I had crossed between with a spontaneous “yes”.
Another time, I was sailing in the San Blas Islands off Panama, on a yacht owned by a friend of a friend. The trip had been something of a surprise: I’d had no idea where we were going when we got up that morning. This new friend, seeing how overwhelmed I was by these pristine islands, dared me to call the airline and change my flight so we could sail off into the sunset for a few days. Again I said yes. I called, paid the penalty fee — and immediately dropped my phone, by pure accident, into the ocean. It felt like the universe nodding its approval. We sailed into one of the best weekends I have ever had as a traveller, all unplanned.
There are countless other stories I could tell here. There are moments in my work, too, when I said “yes” to something and it changed the direction of my career. My first book only happened because I took a friendly suggestion and ran with it all the way to the archives. I could just as easily have put it out of mind — the easier option, really, which would have set me on a very different path.
Then there is my marriage. Because every marriage, I think, is really a commitment of “yes, and”. When you make those solemn vows, what you are making is the vow to share the stage with another person, to accept their prompts and to build on what they say continuously. No healthy marriage can function on a strict diet of “no”. Even compromise requires a little give.
Going forward, maybe I could do even more, become a better scene partner. Maybe this is where I say “no” less. Next time I feel the urge to shut down one of my husband’s propositions, what if I did the opposite? What if I assented to everything for an entire week? He’d be more satisfied, I bet, but who knows, maybe I would be as well.
Maybe the pathway to happiness is lined with “yes”.
