Original subtitles

[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.