All language subtitles for Masterclass David Sedaris Teaches Storytelling and Humor - 10.Revision Philosophy

DAVID SEDARIS: I love
a good five-page essay.

I love it when that works out.

I recently started as
a commentator on a show

called "CBS Sunday Morning."

And I'm allowed to write
about whatever I want.

It can't be overtly political.

But it can't be
longer than two pages.

And it's a really good
assignment to write something,

and it's two pages long,
that has an ending,

and that doesn't
feel like a screed.

But I have a 12-page
attention span.

I would not write something
that's 20 pages long.

Because I couldn't
read it on stage.

And if I can't
read it on stage, I

don't see the point
in writing it.

There have been a few
things that I've written

that are longer than that.

But I think they suffer.

Because I didn't
read them on stage.

And so I didn't hone
them the way that I went

home one of the 12-page essays.

You know, when you
pick up a book,

the author's skill is making you
turn the page from 273 to 274.

Because you want to know
what happened next, right?

People turn my pages
because there's 12 of them.

And they think,
uh, might as well.

9 times out of 10,
my only comment

is you need to
rewrite this 60 times.

And most people, they
don't even want to hear you

need to rewrite it one time.

But that's what writing
is, it's rewriting.

And sometimes, something's
not worth rewriting.

You think, oh, I'm just
so bored with this,

it's not worth diving back into.

And that's fine.

Because not everything is
worth diving back into.

But I would say,
personally, I probably write

something over
probably 12 to 18 times

before I give it to my editor.

Because if I were to give
my editor a first draft,

knowing that I was going to
write 20 drafts, if I were

to give my editor the first
draft before I even sort of

am sure of the essay, she's
really going to be sick of it

by the third draft.

And by the 20th
draft, she's really

going to be sick about it.

So what I personally like to
do is learn as much as I can

on my own, and then
turn to my editor.

And then say, can
you help me here?

This is as far as I have
been able to take myself.

If I were to say that my sister
was in the basement watching

"I Dream of Jeannie,"
a lot of young people

now would say, well, I don't
know anything about that.

I don't know what that--

but if I said my sister was
in the basement watching

a show about a woman who lived
in a bottle, that's ridiculous.

And you think,
well, that can't be.

What kind of a world
would we live in that

would have a show like that?

And it's like, oh, it was
called "I Dream of Jeannie."

That's a world we live in.

So sometimes a
laugh can come just

from stepping back
and describing

something in a cold way rather
than taking the easy way out.

And I'm always hesitant to
use popular cultural names

and references.

Because when your book gets
translated into Korean,

they're not going to know
what "I Dream of Jeannie."

Or in Persian, if you said that
somebody looked like Jackie

Gleason, someone
in Iran might not

have any idea what Jackie
Gleason looks like.

So I think being translated
in other languages

has really caused me
to step back from kind

of pop cultural references.

But also there's a laugh
just right there waiting

for you if you can step back
and describe something coldly,

I think.

I think if you read
your essay over,

it becomes pretty
clear where you need

to dig a little bit deeper.

The hard part for me is I don't
like writing about my feelings.

I don't like hearing
about people's feelings.

I like hearing about
people's problems.

I'm happy to hear about
anybody's problem.

If somebody breaks
up with somebody,

I'm right there, all
the details, delighted.

But when people talk
about their feelings,

I tend to lose interest.

So there's a difference between
digging a little bit deeper

and using it to talk
about your feelings,

and digging a bit deeper and
using it to touch upon a truth.

Truth is different
than your feelings.

It's a truth about everybody.

It's a truth about
a human condition.

And it's often really
difficult to put into words.

There's a difference
between emoting and finding

the truth of the situation.

And it's a difficulty for me.

I think that when I'm
emoting, that's when I blush,

and I realize I've failed, and
I've been reading my essay,

and all of a
sudden, I'm emoting.

And it feels like somebody
should be up there

with a little violin playing.

And it's everything that's cheap
in the world and everything

that's wrong in the world.

It's every television show where
someone says, I got your back.

That's what it becomes.

That's not what you want.

You want that moment
that connects all of us.

It's like touching a nerve.

It's more like yanking your
heart out of your chest

or pealing your skin off.

So there's peeling
your skin off.

And then there's one of those
emotional Hallmark cards,

you know?

And you don't want
the Hallmark card.

And you do want to
peel your skin off.

And you'll know when to do it.

You'll know where it belongs.

But for me, it's a
challenge every time.

I mean, I'm delighted
when it works.

And I'm profoundly embarrassed
when it doesn't work.

If you, let's say,
go out to dinner,

and there are 10 people
at the dinner table.

And you're at one
end of the table.

And so different groups
are talking at the table.

And someone in your
group tells you

an interesting story, right?

If you begin by saying,
I went to a dinner party.

And there was Jerry.

And there was Phillip.

And there was Latrice.

And there was another
guy named Phillip,

not the same as the first one.

And there was Jordan.

And there was Mark.

And there was Tanisha.

And there was Kimberly.

And there was Martin.

[SNORING] Your
listener, they can only

hold so many characters
in their head.

And so if somebody wasn't
pertinent to it, you could say,

I want your dinner party.

There were 10 people.

At my end of the table
were Latrice and Phillip.

And Latrice started
telling this story.

That's OK.

We don't need to know who
all the other people are.

I think, sometimes,
especially when you're young,

you want to throw
your friends a bone.

And it's like, oh, my god, you
mentioned me in your story.

Thank you so much.

But it's not an
Academy Award speech.

It's actually hurting
your story to mention

names that aren't going to
be pertinent unless it's

the names are ridiculous.

And you are doing it ironically,
or you're making a whole bet

about names of people, or
when you're a character who's

a name dropper.

But I think this is
something I learned

from being on the radio,
was that you can't overwhelm

the listener, and you can't
put too many characters

on the stage of their mind.

I write for "The New Yorker."

And so "The New Yorker's"
fact-checking department

is really, really rigorous.

And a number of years
ago, I had an essay

in which I was at Costco in
Winston-Salem, North Carolina

with my brother-in-law.

And I was buying condoms.

Because at that time,
when I would go on tour,

I liked to have a little
something to give out as gifts,

you know, if it's
somebody's birthday.

And I always have gifts
for teenagers, right?

So I thought,
condoms, perfect gift

to give to teenagers, right?

So I needed a gross of condoms.

So I was with my brother-in-law.

It was a Sunday at Costco.

And all we had in our grocery
cart was a box of condoms

the size of a cinder block.

And I said, we got to get
something else in this grocery

store, in this grocery cart.

Because people
were looking at us.

And I felt very self-conscious.

And so we put a box of
strawberries in there,

which just made us look gayer.

Really, when you think about--

you've got a big box of
condoms, everything you put

with it is going to be suspect.

Like, oh, we need rubber gloves.

Or, oh, we need bleach.

Anything you put in there is--

so I turned this essay in.

And it was ultimately
about being on a book tour,

the essay was.

And the fact checker
said, I contacted Costco.

And the biggest box
they sell is 36.

So that would not be the
size of a cinder block.

And I said, you've got
to give this to me.

Because when you're in a
small town, in North Carolina,

on a Sunday, with
another man, and all

you have in your grocery
cart are these condoms,

it feels like it's the
size of a cinder block.

And really, you have
to give this to me.

And I really fought for it.

Again, if I were writing
an essay about Costco,

or if I were writing an
essay about condom sales,

if I was reporting, that's a
completely different thing.

But I'm trying to get a laugh.

And I'm trying to paint a mental
picture in a reader's head.

So that was something
that I fought for, again,

because I felt like it was
my right writing humor.

Similarly, I was watching
a television show.

And it mentioned a camel.

It was a nature program, and
the camel and his girlfriend,

right?

So the fact checker
looked at the video

and then said, that's his
friend, not his girlfriend.

And I said, you--

camels don't even have
friends, I mean, really.

I mean, here's a camel.

And here's a camel next to it.

But they're not friends.

But if we're going to
say they're friends,

we might as well say
it's his girlfriend.

It's not like the
camel had a wife

and then he's cheating
with the girlfriend.

It's two camels.

I need to be able to say
the camel's girlfriend.

And again, I really
had to fight for it.

So, technically, the
fact checker had a point.

But again, I'm trying
to get a laugh.

And that's a really
good way to get one.

And I was going to throw away
a perfectly good laugh when

I could get one.

Similarly, I wrote an essay that
was also in "The New Yorker"

about feeding spiders.

When we lived in Normandy,
the house was full of spiders.

And there's one kind
in particular that

build horizontal sheet webs.

And they're pretty big spiders.

They can go months
without eating.

But I was feeding them
several flies a day.

I had like 20 spiders that I
was feeding several times a day.

And there was this
one particular spider

who was my favorite.

And her name was April.

And I said that she got so
obese that she was tearing holes

in her web with her feet
and that her thighs were

chafing together.

And the "New Yorker"
fact checker said,

I talked to someone at the
Natural History Museum.

And there's no way that the
spider would get fat and tear

holes in it's web.

And it's like,
no, of course not.

And her thighs aren't
going to chafe either!

But again, I'm writing
a humorous article

about feeding spiders.

And you have to allow me this.

Because if you take all those
things out of the tool box,

how are you supposed
to get laughs?