All language subtitles for Masterclass David Sedaris Teaches Storytelling and Humor - 04.Breaking Into a Story

[MUSIC PLAYING]

My boyfriend, he's the
most talented painter

I've ever known.

But he'll go to a museum, and
go to an exhibit, and come home,

and say, I can't paint.

And it's like, well, you
can't paint like that person,

but you paint like yourself.

I think a lot of that has to
do with needing to be perfect.

And that's a real curse,
needing to be perfect.

I mean, you need to do
the best that you can do.

And then you need to take
the best that you can do,

and you need to rewrite it,
and rewrite it, and rewrite it,

and rewrite it.

Feeling the need to be perfect
doesn't make you perfect.

It just makes you paralyzed.

So let go of that, because
you're not going to be perfect.

And if you're very lucky,
you'll learn to be yourself.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

When you're in
school, you're taught

to have a topic sentence.

So a topic sentence for a
story like "Understanding

Understanding Owls"
might be, I don't

know if you've ever
tried to buy an owl,

or, it's not as easy as you
might think to buy an owl.

But I can't bear
openings like that,

and so I had to
unlearn everything

that I had been taught, right?

Another thing you're
taught, especially

it was on the radio a lot
was like, let's get to it.

Let's get to the story.

But I preferred to go
over here for a while,

and then to go over
here for a while.

And eventually, I'm going
to get to the story.

It's sort of like
"The Simpsons" to me.

Most television shows, you
watch the first three minutes

and you say, oh, she's going
to get her finger stuck

in that bowling ball.

But "The Simpsons," I defy
you watching the first two

minutes of an episode where
it's going to wind up.

I mean, if you've
never seen it before.

So sometimes, I kind
of knock over here,

and that doesn't let me in.

And I knock over here, and
that doesn't let me in.

And I knock here,
and that doesn't.

And I can not
proceed with an essay

unless I have an
opening line that I feel

confident to some degree with.

I mean, it'll often change.

But I can't get to
the second sentence

unless I feel sort of steady
with the first sentence.

And it can take days.

It can take weeks.

Because your opening is going
to determine your entire essay.

An example from an essay I
wrote called "Understanding

Understanding Owls."

And this was my original
opening to the essay.

On a high shelf in
our Paris bedroom,

there's an illustrated
book with a catchy title,

"Understanding Owls."

Hugh bought it
maybe 10 years ago.

And though I rarely
open the thing,

I refer to it constantly.

You know, I'll say, there's
something about ours

that I just don't get.

I wish there was
somewhere I could join me

for a little help.

What kind of help,
Hugh will ask.

And a few minutes later, after
I've considered everything

from the Audubon Society to
a National Geographic video,

he'll say, actually, if
it's an understanding you're

after, I have a book, you
might want to look at.

As part of the joke, he'll
pull it from the shelf.

Then, because he
is who he is, he'll

spend the next hour reading it
and making appreciative noises.

The way my friend
Lyn is a dog nut,

Hugh is an owl nut,
the only difference

being that he doesn't have one,
or at least not a living one.

So that was an original opening.

And then I thought, well, gosh.

Let me try something else.

So, doesn't it sometimes happen
that you look around your house

and find that it's been
completely overtaken by owls?

That's how it was with me,
and it came as a real shock.

I said to Hugh, how
did this happen?

It was, of course, a
ridiculous question,

as how do these
things always happen?

You're out shopping
and, see I don't know,

some cocktail napkins with
the little owls on them.

Not wearing glasses or doing
favors for Harry Potter,

but just standing on a
tree branch or something.

Well, that's cute, you think,
so you throw it in your card

or whatnot and bring it home.

A few weeks later, you might
see an owl-shaped candle.

And again, you say
to yourself, why not?

The beauty of both candles
and cocktail napkins

is that they're functional.

You use them, you
throw them away,

and then you move
on with your life.

It's that in between
period that causes trouble.

People come for dinner,
notice you have more than one

of something, and think, a-ha.

Now, I know what to
get them for Christmas.

And then the final
version that ultimately

ran in "The New Yorker" and in
the book was, does there come

a day in every man's
life when he looks around

and says to himself, I've got
to weed out some of these owls?

I can't be alone in this, can I?

And, of course, you don't want
to hurt anyone's feelings.

Therefore, you keep
the crocheted owl

given to you by your
second youngest sister

and accidentally on
purpose drop the mug

that reads, "Owl
Love You Always"

and was sent by someone
who clearly never knew

you to begin with.

I mean, mugs with words on them.

Owl cocktail napkins stay,
because everyone needs napkins.

Ditto, owl candle.

Owl trivet, take to
the charity shop,

along with the
spool-sized Japanese owl

that blinks his eyes and
softly hoots when you plug him

into your computer.

Just when you think
you're making progress,

you remember the owl tobacco
tin and the owl tea cozy.

Then, there are the plates,
the coasters, the Christmas

ornaments.

This is what happens when you
tell people you like something.

For my sister Amy,
that thing was rabbits.

When she was in her late
30s, she got one as a pet.

Before it had chewed through
its first phone cord,

she'd been given rabbit
slippers, cushions, bowls,

refrigerator
magnets, you name it.

Really, she kept insisting,
the live one is enough.

But nothing could
stem the tide of crap.

Amy's invasion started
with a live rabbit,

while Hughes and mine
began in the late 1990s

with decorative art.

I felt like the opening
line in the book

and in "The New Yorker"
was much stronger

than the original essay.

It was just talking about
this book that Hugh and I had.

Does there come a day
in every man's life

when he looks around
and says to himself,

I've got to weed out
some of these owls?

I mean, that's sort of
ridiculous to suggest

that day's going to come
in every man's life.

But insisting that it does,
insisting that it will

is just funnier.

It's just a funnier
way to open the essay.

You're insisting that
you and the reader

have something in common.

But what you're insisting you
have in common is ridiculous,

and it just seems
all-around just a better

way to break into the story.

I would never think to
do that formulaically.

For the essay that I'm
working on now, for me to say,

does there come a day
in every man's life

when his first beach house
is destroyed by a hurricane,

and he has to move
into a second?

Like, no.

It just seemed like
a one-time thing.

But also, it never works
really for me to, like,

break that wall, right?

There's a way, I
suppose, to do that.

If the entire
essay was that way,

and you were almost making
fun of it, it would work.

But it's tricky.

It's tricky to make
that work, too.

It just often feels amateur to
address the reader in that way.

It's something you
would do in high school,

and it would be OK.

But really, after that,
the only way to do it

is to do it ironically
making fun of it.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

I bought a taxidermied
owl in London,

and I wrote about
it in my diary,

and I wrote about the experience
of going to the store.

And I wrote about
seeing the human parts

that the person had for sale.

But that was just
an incident to me.

But when I reflected
upon it, I thought

what was interesting
about that was

I felt as if the taxidermist
had looked into my soul.

And so many people
in the life are going

to get you all wrong, right?

People come up to
me and they say,

is that your car
parked right there?

I've never driven
a car in my life.

I'm shocked when people might
mistake me for a driver.

Is that your wife?

The worst.

Is that your dog?

I would never have a dog.

So people get you
wrong all the time,

so it's pretty amazing when
somebody gets you right.

And I'm sure that
a lot of people

walk into this taxidermy
shop and they say,

I would like to buy that kitten.

And the salesman wraps it
up, and takes the money,

and that's the end of it.

But I walked in, and he
recognized something in me,

and brought things
from high shelves,

and from the back room.

And he knew exactly who
I was, and so that's

what it ultimately
wound up being about.

Because if it was
just a diary entry

about walking into
a taxidermy shop

and seeing these strange
things, it's not enough.

You know, I think we
all like to believe

that we can hide ourselves
whenever we choose, right?

And we can, from
a lot of people.

But there are others out
there who are just our type,

and they can
recognize you, which

is kind of terrifying and kind
of comforting at the same time.

So then it was an essay.

Then, it was no longer
just an incident.

It was something bigger.