The problem with too much good advice
My tennis coach wasn't wrong... and that was the problem.
I’ve always been a mediocre tennis player. Then I took a lesson… and I got worse.
I’ve been playing tennis since Pretzel (my wife) and I first started dating in New York City. I wasn’t particularly good but we had fun playing together.
When we moved to Panama, we decided to take it more seriously. Individual lessons at first, then a joint setup once Pineapple (my daughter) arrived: I’d do thirty minutes, Pretzel would do thirty, and whoever wasn’t on the court would wrangle the toddler. I’m still not “good” per se (there’s a 50/50 chance my serve ends up in play or outside the court). But I’ve slowly gotten better.
Recently I picked lessons back up after a bit of a break. Early in the session, things were going okay. Not great (at one point the coach felt it necessary to remind me the goal was to get it over the net), but okay. Warming up.
Then the instruction started.
Eyes on the ball. Fine. My contact got a little better.
Now swing through and rotate the wrist. Okay. Marginal improvement.
Off hand out in front. Rotate it as you swing. Bend the knees. Watch the seams on the ball. Pivot the foot on follow-through.
Each new instruction landed right after the last. And with every addition, I got worse. Not plateau-worse. Actively, visibly, confusingly worse than when I had no instruction at all.
I could feel the frustration building. Not at myself, but at him.
He was giving me too much to think about. After yet another ball directly into the net, I told him I needed a water break and was fully intending to pretend like I got a message that I needed to go home just so I could put an end to the stupid class.
But after a sip of water and a few deep breaths, I decided to try again, but with a caveat. In my best broken Spanish, I told him: “Una cosa. Quiero pensar solamente una cosa.”
One thing. I only want to think about one thing.
He paused. “La mano. Y los ojos.” The hand out front, and watch the ball.
That’s two things, but way better than the 87.5 I had in my head before. So that’s what I focused on.
And I got better. Still sending some balls into neighboring zip codes, but consistently, noticeably better. Once that felt natural, I added a third thing and improved. Eventually he tried to give me a fourth. I said, “no gracias.” That’s for next time.
The Problem With Too Much (Good) Advice
The thing about my tennis coach is that he wasn’t wrong. All of those things he told me to do? Correct. Bend your knees. Watch the seams. Rotate the wrist. If you asked any tennis instructor anywhere, they’d give you the same list.
The problem wasn’t the advice. It was the timing and the volume. There’s a version of “helpful” that becomes decidedly unhelpful.
Many of us run into the same problem any time we’re trying to learn something new, like humor. “Be more intentional.” “Don’t try too hard.” “Read the room.” “Leave a pause for laughter.” “Don’t dwell on it.” All technically accurate.
None of it particularly useful when delivered all at once to someone who just wants to feel a little less wooden in a meeting.
What I’ve found through the research is that humor isn’t one skill. It’s eight distinct competencies. And the reason most advice falls flat is that it treats everyone the same, hands them the full list, and says good luck.
That’s the equivalent of my coach rattling off seven corrections while I’m mid-swing.
What actually works is finding your “una cosa.” The one or two competencies where you already have natural strength, so you can build from there instead of trying to fix everything at once.
And that’s what I want to help you figure out.
Find Your Una Cosa
Next Wednesday, April 15th, I’m hosting a live workshop as part of International Humor Month. It’s called “What Kind of Funny Are You?” and the whole point is exactly what we’ve been talking about.
We’ll walk through all eight Humor Intelligence competencies together, and you’ll leave knowing which ones are already your natural strengths. Not a full list of things to fix. Your una cosa (or two).
If that sounds useful, I’d love to see you there. You can grab a spot here:
Wit regards,
-Andrew
P.S. If you have questions before Wednesday, just hit reply. I’ll try not to create too much of a racket, but if I do, it’s not my fault.