1. CREATIVE NONFICTION: Some time ago, I purchased a copy of a literary journal, entitled, Creative Nonfiction. I found the title of the journal somewhat difficult to absorb because it seemed so completely counterintuitive to me. Indeed, how could literature that was labeled as “nonfiction” also be “creative” at the same time? While it is true that the process of writing anything is a creative process - and it could be no other way, unless one could scoop up literary works in much the same way one mines iron ore - doesn’t the nonfiction moniker suggest a written work that should be strongly factual and “realistic?” Really, when you think about it, though, isn’t all writing “creative” by definition? Is it even possible to have writing that is not creative? What would you call it instead? “Found” writing? “Accidental” writing? “Inadvertent” writing? It is almost too perplexing to contemplate. Nonetheless, there exists a tension between what we think of as the legitimate works (all right, you English majors out there, all together now, say: noble, creative writers of fiction), and those gnarly bastards of creative nonfiction. The editor of Creative Nonfiction, Lee Gutkind, even wrote an introduction to the issue, in which the basic “unfairness” of categorizing creative nonfiction writers as lower-order writers than creative fiction writers was explored, and he did that with some bitterness: “Frankly, I am sick and tired of having to pass legitimacy tests” (Lee Gutkind, “From the Editor: The Poets & Writers Issue,” Creative Nonfiction, Number 26, n.d., p. 2). Jeeze, Gutkind, I feel really bad for you.
2. JOURNALISM WITH A CLEAN SHIRT: Well, legitimacy tests or no, I was perplexed, let me tell you, about that unusual title until I saw an advertizement in the back of the journal that pretty much defined the genre for me: “Creative nonfiction liberated journalism by inviting writers to dramatize, interpret, speculate, and even re-create their subjects.” Just so. Perhaps “creative nonfiction” is just another way of saying, “elegant letter-writing,” or “journalism with a bit of genuine style” (i.e., style that was not taken from some newspaper’s idiotic notion of style, e.g., the New York Times Style Manual. Remember that traditional journalism is to writing what coal mining is to sculpture. So, any suggestion about informing journalism with some modicum of writing excellence is always to be welcomed. After all, we can’t all be eight-year-olds in our reading habits). In effect that is exactly what I found in that literary journal: material that could be found in any personal journal or in a letter from an accomplished writer-friend. And I recognized the genre at once because that’s precisely what I do when I write: I tell stories that have some anchor - however tenuous - in reality. But I wouldn’t degrade myself by calling my writing “journalism.” Good heavens, one should always strive to produce writing on a more exalted level than that. Man!
3. VACATION STORIES: But the literary journal had me in a frame of mind at the start of a personal vacation in which I was reflecting upon the meaning of the words “fiction” and “nonfiction.” And it was into that very context that some difficulties in telling stories to others led me to reflect on the meaning of stories in general, and on the practical implications of differentiating between the various forms of narration or storytelling. In particular, I found it difficult to tell some of my stories to others with my wife and daughter present. They interrupted my stories repeatedly, and would not let me tell the stories in my own way - even when I said, “Hey, it’s my lie. Let me tell it my way.” For some reason they felt compelled to emend almost everything I said. They made me feel like a fool, and I became very angry at their persistent rudeness.
4. RUDE LISTENERS: Yet, it is almost always a facile and unthinking matter to confuse the internal logic of a story with the raw structural elements of a philosophical argument. When that happens, the narrator’s exposition of his story is frequently attacked en echelon by his auditors, as if it were a philosophical argument requiring a precise refutation, or a piece of courtroom testimony to be seared with heated and repeated objections. Yet, the story itself so often contains such rhythms and internal cadences that philosophical inquiry and argumentation serve only to destroy the lilting flow and pace of the story. Then too, the abrupt cessation of the story line that is necessitated by the imposition of those raw arguments, causes the story to cease, left unsheltered among derelict and desultory fragments of narration, and caught unawares in the sudden tangle of rudeness.
For indeed, it is always rudeness and ignorance that compel an auditor to “question” the elements of a story as if the story were wholly didactic. Stories, to those who really think about them, however, are often actually works of performing artistry. The stories are told, not to convey eternal truths per se, or to present compelling arguments as such, but rather, to give pleasure to the auditors (and to the narrator) by the very act of telling alone. In many ways, a singer and a story teller both infuse their particular media so that their efforts might be received with pleasure by those so inclined to receive it. One would not confuse either effort with a legal deposition, or a philosophical argument, or even, surprisingly, with detailed instructions for repairing washing machines. The proper telling of a story, in my view, is always a piece of artistry, and one should no sooner interrupt an actor on a stage in order to contradict one of his lines than he would or should - properly - interrupt a narrator in the thick of his tale. No reasonable person stands on his feet, shouts rudely at the actor on the stage, and expounds on the ontological dilemmas of Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” during the play itself. To do so would quickly label the person as a crank of the meanest order.
5. THE STORY IN ITSELF: But often rude and ignorant people will interrupt a narrator to edit his story, or to contradict it, or to launch an ad hominem on his character because they believe that he is fabricating the events in his story, or what have you. And yet, and yet - none of these things about the story is necessarily true. The story in its broadest outlines is the very essence of what the story means: or, more succinctly, the story means itself. How can anyone, then, contradict something that means itself? One may properly disagree with the delivery strategy of the narrator, or his choice of words, or the pace and cadence of his tale. But one cannot disagree with the story itself except in a banal, perfunctory, and pedantic way. To say that one does not like so-and-so’s story is to make a statement about one’s own opinions. It says nothing about the story itself. In fact, the story stands immune and alone, quite beyond the reach of any would-be detractor.
We should always remember that no two stories are ever precisely and exactly alike - even if the second story is a digital recording of the first story: the digital reproduction will contain electronic hum, distortion, noise, and glitches that are not present in the first story. To be sure, they are similar. But they are not alike. And we can see this demonstrated in a very gross way almost daily, when we are present when someone tells a person a brief story. Let’s call the auditor Michelle. Later, we hear Michelle attempting to repeat the story to another third person. Invariably Michelle - and all of us for that matter - will garble some of the details of the story, to the point that we cannot believe what we are hearing. Whereas Mrs. Smith may have told Michelle that 77 people were on the ferry, Michelle will report 37 people present. If we are ignorant and rude, we might have a tendency at that point to reach into the narration to hit the big emergency stop button, and to correct Michelle right then and there. But when we do that, we destroy Michelle’s narration; we embarrass her; and we transform unimportant and tiny details of the story into big, lumbering, forensic monoliths that trip up poor Michelle. Unless Michelle’s story was a confession or a deposition in a police station, the sundry details of the story should always be unimportant to the narration. Does anyone really suppose that Michelle’s ferry story is any less compelling because she could remember only 37 passengers being present when the ship sank to the bottom of the sea with the loss of all 77 hands on board? What practical difference does it make if 37 or 77 or 907 people were on board if the fate of all of the passengers is death by drowning?
But the pendant, rude or ignorant person (to be sure, there is a considerable overlap among those categories) will insist upon disrupting the narration in order to “correct” the storyteller, when, in fact, the story being told is unique in itself, and cannot properly be emended.
Please do not finish my stories. With all your might, pretend that the story I am telling is my story, mine and mine alone. And let me say further that you cannot take the hand of the dancer and whirl her away from me as if that didn’t matter at all. I’m doing this foxtrot, pal; not you. You understand? This is my story. Get your own damn story.
2. JOURNALISM WITH A CLEAN SHIRT: Well, legitimacy tests or no, I was perplexed, let me tell you, about that unusual title until I saw an advertizement in the back of the journal that pretty much defined the genre for me: “Creative nonfiction liberated journalism by inviting writers to dramatize, interpret, speculate, and even re-create their subjects.” Just so. Perhaps “creative nonfiction” is just another way of saying, “elegant letter-writing,” or “journalism with a bit of genuine style” (i.e., style that was not taken from some newspaper’s idiotic notion of style, e.g., the New York Times Style Manual. Remember that traditional journalism is to writing what coal mining is to sculpture. So, any suggestion about informing journalism with some modicum of writing excellence is always to be welcomed. After all, we can’t all be eight-year-olds in our reading habits). In effect that is exactly what I found in that literary journal: material that could be found in any personal journal or in a letter from an accomplished writer-friend. And I recognized the genre at once because that’s precisely what I do when I write: I tell stories that have some anchor - however tenuous - in reality. But I wouldn’t degrade myself by calling my writing “journalism.” Good heavens, one should always strive to produce writing on a more exalted level than that. Man!
3. VACATION STORIES: But the literary journal had me in a frame of mind at the start of a personal vacation in which I was reflecting upon the meaning of the words “fiction” and “nonfiction.” And it was into that very context that some difficulties in telling stories to others led me to reflect on the meaning of stories in general, and on the practical implications of differentiating between the various forms of narration or storytelling. In particular, I found it difficult to tell some of my stories to others with my wife and daughter present. They interrupted my stories repeatedly, and would not let me tell the stories in my own way - even when I said, “Hey, it’s my lie. Let me tell it my way.” For some reason they felt compelled to emend almost everything I said. They made me feel like a fool, and I became very angry at their persistent rudeness.
4. RUDE LISTENERS: Yet, it is almost always a facile and unthinking matter to confuse the internal logic of a story with the raw structural elements of a philosophical argument. When that happens, the narrator’s exposition of his story is frequently attacked en echelon by his auditors, as if it were a philosophical argument requiring a precise refutation, or a piece of courtroom testimony to be seared with heated and repeated objections. Yet, the story itself so often contains such rhythms and internal cadences that philosophical inquiry and argumentation serve only to destroy the lilting flow and pace of the story. Then too, the abrupt cessation of the story line that is necessitated by the imposition of those raw arguments, causes the story to cease, left unsheltered among derelict and desultory fragments of narration, and caught unawares in the sudden tangle of rudeness.
For indeed, it is always rudeness and ignorance that compel an auditor to “question” the elements of a story as if the story were wholly didactic. Stories, to those who really think about them, however, are often actually works of performing artistry. The stories are told, not to convey eternal truths per se, or to present compelling arguments as such, but rather, to give pleasure to the auditors (and to the narrator) by the very act of telling alone. In many ways, a singer and a story teller both infuse their particular media so that their efforts might be received with pleasure by those so inclined to receive it. One would not confuse either effort with a legal deposition, or a philosophical argument, or even, surprisingly, with detailed instructions for repairing washing machines. The proper telling of a story, in my view, is always a piece of artistry, and one should no sooner interrupt an actor on a stage in order to contradict one of his lines than he would or should - properly - interrupt a narrator in the thick of his tale. No reasonable person stands on his feet, shouts rudely at the actor on the stage, and expounds on the ontological dilemmas of Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” during the play itself. To do so would quickly label the person as a crank of the meanest order.
5. THE STORY IN ITSELF: But often rude and ignorant people will interrupt a narrator to edit his story, or to contradict it, or to launch an ad hominem on his character because they believe that he is fabricating the events in his story, or what have you. And yet, and yet - none of these things about the story is necessarily true. The story in its broadest outlines is the very essence of what the story means: or, more succinctly, the story means itself. How can anyone, then, contradict something that means itself? One may properly disagree with the delivery strategy of the narrator, or his choice of words, or the pace and cadence of his tale. But one cannot disagree with the story itself except in a banal, perfunctory, and pedantic way. To say that one does not like so-and-so’s story is to make a statement about one’s own opinions. It says nothing about the story itself. In fact, the story stands immune and alone, quite beyond the reach of any would-be detractor.
We should always remember that no two stories are ever precisely and exactly alike - even if the second story is a digital recording of the first story: the digital reproduction will contain electronic hum, distortion, noise, and glitches that are not present in the first story. To be sure, they are similar. But they are not alike. And we can see this demonstrated in a very gross way almost daily, when we are present when someone tells a person a brief story. Let’s call the auditor Michelle. Later, we hear Michelle attempting to repeat the story to another third person. Invariably Michelle - and all of us for that matter - will garble some of the details of the story, to the point that we cannot believe what we are hearing. Whereas Mrs. Smith may have told Michelle that 77 people were on the ferry, Michelle will report 37 people present. If we are ignorant and rude, we might have a tendency at that point to reach into the narration to hit the big emergency stop button, and to correct Michelle right then and there. But when we do that, we destroy Michelle’s narration; we embarrass her; and we transform unimportant and tiny details of the story into big, lumbering, forensic monoliths that trip up poor Michelle. Unless Michelle’s story was a confession or a deposition in a police station, the sundry details of the story should always be unimportant to the narration. Does anyone really suppose that Michelle’s ferry story is any less compelling because she could remember only 37 passengers being present when the ship sank to the bottom of the sea with the loss of all 77 hands on board? What practical difference does it make if 37 or 77 or 907 people were on board if the fate of all of the passengers is death by drowning?
But the pendant, rude or ignorant person (to be sure, there is a considerable overlap among those categories) will insist upon disrupting the narration in order to “correct” the storyteller, when, in fact, the story being told is unique in itself, and cannot properly be emended.
Please do not finish my stories. With all your might, pretend that the story I am telling is my story, mine and mine alone. And let me say further that you cannot take the hand of the dancer and whirl her away from me as if that didn’t matter at all. I’m doing this foxtrot, pal; not you. You understand? This is my story. Get your own damn story.
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