David Sedaris's Masterclass is Giving Me LIFE

For the last few years I have clicked on the Masterclass ads on my Facebook or Instagram feed and thought, “oh, Shonda Rhimes, I bet this is good” or “wow, Margaret Atwood, I’d love to take that.” Then, like with most social media ads, I took a screenshot, closed the tab, and went back to whatever it was I should be doing instead. 

Then in December of last year I saw an ad for David Sedaris’s class and obsessively thought about it for a week before pushing the button and signing up. I sat, like a lunatic, smiling to myself while I readied a fresh page in my little notebook and made myself a cup of coffee. I plopped down in the fresh morning stillness and began my first lesson. 

David has a way of making you feel like you are special, like what you have to say is valid and no matter how many people have called you “wacky” or “off color” or “a little too honest about diarrhea,” you should never let this stop you. 

A few years ago I attended a friend’s intimate birthday dinner with some of her friends I didn’t know too well. Most of the meal involved the group discussing the school their children attended, the teachers they all had in common, and assorted other topics I had no way of participating in since I didn’t know the children, school, or teachers. More importantly I wasn’t that interested, because I’m kind of an asshole, so I just drank wine and ate cheese. 

At one point one of the women launched into a story about a young boy who had gotten into a fight and hit his head on a locker. After the nurse took him to her office to inspect him, the boy began ranting about violent thoughts and morbid ideas. My ears perked up, as this reminded me of an episode of a popular true crime podcast I listen to.

“Did you know that early head trauma can lead to homicidal thoughts later in life? So interesting that immediately after the impact he was already showing these tendencies!”

The table sat silent and frozen in time as if I had taken off my pants and blow torched the table adjacent to ours. 

“I’m not saying he’s gonna turn out to be Ted Bundy, but isn’t it crazy that he hits his head and suddenly starts talking about killing his friends?”

No one moved, and I felt my face turn crimson and heat up like a curling iron. 

“I guess this isn’t a big true crime crowd,” I chuckled awkwardly as I tried to lighten the mood. 

I took a sip of my wine, unsure of what to say next. 

“Anyhow,” one of the women began with a slight eye roll as if I wouldn’t see it, “he’s under observation because he slapped the nurse and called her a whore. But, I mean, it was probably because he was in pain and confused…”

“Or it’s because he’s morphing into Ed Kemper like a tiny pre-teen werewolf,” I thought, containing my amusement with myself. 

As I moved though my first couple lessons with David I thought about moments like this from my life, times when I wondered if I was the weird kid in the tuxedo t-shirt at the grown up party. Yet the lectures progressed it became clear that these moments were a gift from the universe. You can’t write an exciting essay about about asking the woman at Trader Joes how she is if she simply replies, “fine thank you.” Part of being an interesting writer is diving into life and taking yourself on mini adventures through conversations with strangers. This was one of my first homework assignments, and also one of my favorites. 

On Tuesday I went to a local comedy theatre to see a comedy show called Sarah Silverman and Friends. Jeff Garlin came on stage and began ranting about how you should never ask anyone “how was your weekend” because in addition to it being a boring question, you are then placing someone in the position to self-reflect on their life and realize how uneventful and unworthy of sharing it is. 

I smiled to myself thinking, “David would appreciate this.” Then immediately began making a list of more interesting questions, ones that would spark fun conversation and not bum everyone out. 

“Have you ever had gallbladder surgery?”

“If you had to have a sloth or a hedgehog as a pet, which would you choose?”

“Have you ever eaten a live animal?” 

“I was once slapped across the face by a small child that wasn’t mine, has this ever happened to you?”

“If the zombie apocalypse happened today, which celebrities would you want on your team?”

Now, instead of dreading the next dinner party, I am excited to launch my newest round of questions, taking notes of who looks at me like I’m made of Spam and who leans in and answers with a giggle. 

I wake up every morning, excited to see where David’s class will take me. I sip my hot beverage and diligently take notes, adding reminders to my calendar like “find a local open mic, “read Tobias Wolff,” and “write about that time my client told me about the frozen cat in the Ziplock bag in her freezer.”  

In the early morning hours, when the world is quiet and my negative brain is still asleep, I feel clever and ready to take on anything that comes at me. My coffee dates with David have not only taught me how to be a better writer, but that my quirkiness is what makes me special. No one wants to read an essay about how I drove to the post office and it was closed so I went home. They do want to hear about how I peed on a firefighter, or the time I accidentally thought Paul Newman was an old friend and ran up to him and hugged him in a busy theatre lobby. These embarrassing moments, these stupid accidents, make life fresh and interesting.

I now have a new mantra, taken from one of David’s own embarrassing (and hilarious) memories, “I sat and said to myself ‘one day this will be funny, one day this will be funny.’”

And of course, he was right.