All language subtitles for Masterclass David Sedaris Teaches Storytelling and Humor - 07.Story Evolution.Active Shooter

[LIGHT JAZZY MUSIC]

So I thought
what I would do is

try to take you through my
process for writing an essay.

It begins with a
notebook-- for me,

a notebook that was
very much like this one.

And I just write
everything down in it,

things that are pertinent.

And then I take
those notes, and I

use them to write in my diary.

I go on these lecture
tours several times a year,

and I usually start with
four new essays, four

or five new essays.

And I'll read
something out loud,

and I'll go back to the
room, and I'll rewrite it.

And I'll read it the next
night, and I'll make notes,

and I'll rewrite it.

Read it, rewrite it,
read it, rewrite it.

When the audience
laughs, I make notes.

And when the audience
doesn't laugh,

when the audience coughs--

the audience coughing is like
they're throwing skulls at you.

They're telling you that
if this was on the page,

they would be skimming now.

So this was a diary
entry from May 17, 2012.

"'You did a pretty good job
with that Glock,' Lisa said

yesterday afternoon as we walked
to her car in the parking lot

of ProShots.

I'd assume before leaving
the house that this would

be an open-air-firing
range, but instead, it

was at a shopping plaza next
to a Chinese restaurant.

We'd made our appointment
a day in advance

and arrived to find what
looked like a store.

Gun safes the size of
closets were displayed

near the front door,
and further back were

cases with pistols in them.

Smith and Wesson 642,
.38 special, $479.99,

read the tag next
to one of them.

Then came the Rossi R352,
which was also a .38 special,

and was slightly less
expensive, $349.77.

On a coffee table
beside the purses

a person could stick a gun in
were copies of "Guns & Ammo,"

"American Hunter," "American
Rifleman," and a magazine

called "Hand Gunner."

There should be a magazine
called "Magazine,"

I thought, noticing that
the sign above the restrooms

read, 'Restrooms.

Practice perfect aim here.'

Then there was a bumper
sticker beside one

of the cash registers.

'ProShots, converting
pansies daily.'

Near that was a sign
extolling the NRA.

The place was fairly
busy when we arrived.

Two of the male customers
looked to be in their late 30s.

Another wore shorts with
boots and a baseball cap.

Another one still was drinking
a can of Mountain Dew.

Our appointment was
with a man named

Lonnie, a co-owner
of the business

and a retired Winston-Salem
police officer.

He might have been in his
late 50s, a kind-looking man

in a baseball cap
that read Blackwater.

His glasses had wire frames
and were unobtrusive,

and he wore a black
ProShots t-shirt.

There was a classroom in
the back of the store,

and after greeting us,
he led us to a table

and asked us to sit down.

'The first thing you need
to remember,' he said,

placing a pair of pistols before
us, 'is that people are stupid.

I don't mean you folks
personal, but folks in general.

So I have a few rules.

Number one, always assume
that every gun is loaded.'"

So that was the beginning
of a diary entry

that lasted four pages.

And then this was my initial
opening to the essay.

"My older sister and I were in
her clown-sized Mini Cooper,

riding from the airport in
Greensboro, North Carolina

to our house in
Winston-Salem when we

were passed by a silver Lexus.

Its owner had used
press-on letters

to write a message on
the rear view mirror,

and Lisa and I read
it at the same time.

'Jesus is my life.'

A moment later, a
young black woman

sputtered by in a
rusted-out Ford Taurus.

She too had invested in
some stick-on letters,

though hers were on
the driver's side door,

arranged to read 'Luv Tay-Tay.'

'Do you think she's Tay-Tay, or
do you think she maybe borrowed

the car from a friend?'

I asked.

Lisa thought for a moment.

'No,' she said.

'That was definitely Tay-Tay.'

I was in North Carolina
to have a colonoscopy

and to talk to my
father about his will.

It was a double
serving of tribulation,

and when it was over, I
wanted to treat myself

to a little something.

'Before I leave on Wednesday,
do you think we could go

to a movie?'

I asked. 'Maybe something
with a gun in it.'

Lisa squinted at Tay-Tay's car
as it ascended an exit ramp,

disappearing into
a cloud of exhaust.

'I have a better
idea,' she said.

'How about we go to
a shooting range?'

And so it was that the day
after the gastroenterology

appointment, my colon
still so clean you

could store drinking
water in it,

we wound up at a place
called ProShots."

So that was my original
opening to the essay.

And I hated to get
rid of Tay-Tay,

but after I'd written the essay,
I realized that it was already

too long, so I thought, well.

So this was my second opening.

"My sister Lisa can get
a little blue sometimes.

'Do you ever say, out loud,
when you're all alone,

maybe taking a
bath or something,

'I have to kill myself,
I have to kill myself,

I have to kill myself?'

She asked.

We were in her
toy-sized car riding

from the airport in
Greensboro, North Carolina

to her house in Winston-Salem.

Before I'd landed,
it had rained,

but the sky was blue now,
with plump freshly laundered

clouds in it.

'All the time,' I said.

And it was almost true.

I do say out loud when I'm
alone, 'I have to kill,

I have to kill, I have to
kill,' but there's always a name

at the end of the sentence."

This was the opening
on the 13th draft.

"My sister Lisa can get
a little blue sometimes.

'Do you ever say, out loud,
when you're all alone,

maybe taking a
bath or something,

'I have to kill myself,
I have to kill myself,

I have to kill myself?'

She asked.

We were in her
toy-sized car riding

from the airport in
Greensboro, North Carolina

to her house in Winston-Salem.

'All the time,' I said.

And it was almost true.

I do say out loud when I'm
alone, 'I have to kill,

I have to kill, I have to
kill,' but there's always a name

at the end of the sentence.

I'm still deluded enough to
believe that my problem is

other people, while Lisa
knows that the one who's

bothering her, and will always
be bothering her, is her.

'I've been having such a
hard time lately,' she said.

'Everything just
feels so pointless.'

'With me too,' I said. 'Every
day is worse than the one

before it.'

'It's been going on for
weeks,' she told me.

'Is that all?' I asked.
'For me it's been months.'

Lisa rolled her
window down halfway.

'I kind of thought about
killing myself last Tuesday.'

I rolled my window
down all the way.

'I thought about killing
myself an hour ago.'

It's irritating, I
know, but I always

do this with unhappy people--

try to one-up them.

It's not that I'm
unhappy, really.

Rather I get scared they'll
do something drastic,

so I try to reassure them that
what they're feeling is normal.

That everyone lives with
a constant low-level fever

of self-doubt and despair.

And "The New Yorker" wanted me
to get into the essay quicker,

so this was what I
wound up with with my--

this was my opening
with the 14th draft.

"It was spring,
and Lisa and I were

in her toy-sized car riding
from the airport in Greensboro,

North Carolina to her
house in Winston-Salem.

'I'm glad you're here now and
not two weeks ago,' she said.

'God, was I sick.

It got so bad I was having to
wear underpants to Starbucks.'

This, in one sentence, is why
I so love my older sister.

She opens her mouth
to tell you something

and you just don't
know where to begin.

'I had this terrible
cold,' she explained,

'and whenever I coughed,
I'd pee a little.'

She sensed me looking at
her. 'Not buckets, but just,

you know, a few drops.'

'And why would you not wear
underpants to Starbucks

in the first place?'

I asked.

'Because I go in my pajamas.'

'Inside?' I asked.

She nodded.

'Speaking of which, I was
there a few months ago

and saw a lady with a monkey.

I don't know what kind, but
it was small, not much bigger

than a doll, and was
in a pink frilly dress.

And it was just so
upsetting to me.

I wanted to go up to
this woman and ask,

'What do you plan on doing
with that thing once you lose

interest in it?'

Like a lot of pet
owners I know, Lisa

is certain that no one
can take care of an animal

as well as she can.

'Look at how that guy is
dragging his Irish Setter

on that leash,' she'll say,
pointing at what to me just

looks like a man
walking his dog.

Or if the dog is not on a leash,
'That Beagle's about to be hit

by a car and his owner is
not doing a thing about it.'

No one's Spaniel has
its shots it needs.

Nobody's bird is
eating correctly,

or getting its toenails
trimmed to the proper length.

'What made you so sure this
woman was going to lose

interest in her monkey?'

Lisa gave me the look
that said, 'A monkey--

of course she's going
to lose interest in it.'

It was right around there
that we came upon a billboard

for a firing range
called ProShots.

'I think we should go to that
place and shoot guns,' Lisa

said.

And so it was that on
the following afternoon,

we arrived for our 3
o'clock appointment.

I'd assumed for some reason
that a firing range would

be outdoors, but instead, it
was situated in the strip mall

next to a tractor supply store.

Inside were glass cases
filled with weapons,

and a wall of purses a woman
could hide a dainty pistol in.

This was a niche market.

I knew nothing about until
I returned to Lisa's house

later that day and went online.

There I found websites selling
gun-concealing vests, t-shirts,

jackets--

you name it.

One company makes boxer briefs
with a holster in the back,

which they call compression
concealment shorts,

but which I would
call gunderpants.

Lisa and I quite enjoyed
wandering around the store.

Rossi R352, $349.77, read a
tag beside one of the pistols.

Were I in, say, an
office supply shop,

I could have made a judgment
concerning the cost,

but I have no idea how
much a gun goes for.

It was like pricing penguins
or milking equipment.

My shooting experience
was limited to air rifles.

Lisa had no
experience whatsoever.

So before stepping
onto the firing range,

we sat for a
40-minute gun safety

class taught by a retired
Winston-Salem police

officer named Lonnie,
who co owned the business

and was dressed in
one of its t-shirts.

The man was perhaps
in his early 50s,

his pale eyebrows and
wire-rimmed almost invisible

glasses shaded by a baseball cap
with the Blackwater logo on it.

He might not be someone
you'd choose as a friend,

but you wouldn't mind
him as a neighbor.

'I shoveled your drive while you
were asleep,' you can imagine

him saying.

'I hope you don't mind.

I just wanted the exercise.'"
And then it goes on from there.

[LIGHT JAZZY MUSIC]

When you read in
front of an audience,

and when you make notes
in front of an audience,

when the audience
is under stress,

or the audience is
listening to painful things,

laughter-- the jokes work
as a kind of release valve.

And they will really
respond to something

strongly just
because they really

want to laugh at this point.

So you'll get an outsized
laugh for something

that maybe didn't
earn it, but that's

about the audience wanting
a little bit of relief.

And it's really important
to give it to them.

When I make notes on a page, I
often lay the entire thing out

in my hotel room to get an
idea of the overall rhythm

of the essay.

And to think, oh, I need to let
off steam here, and I need to--

this is just a block of
information that's not--

it feels like they're
being lectured to.

That's not going to do, because
that puts people to sleep,

to be lectured to.

So I need to take
this information,

and I'll move a
little bit over here,

and a little bit over here,
and a little bit over here,

and just spread it out in
a way so it's not all--

it's not stopping my story.