But is it really True?

I was in the Creative Nonfiction workshop at the Summer Writer's Institute. There's often confusion about what, exactly, Creative Nonfiction is.

"If it's creative, how is it nonfiction?"

Our workshop leader, Kathleen Finneran, explained to us that the "creative" part comes in how you tell your story and in the writing itself. Does your life story look like an encyclopedia entry, just a straightforward listing of facts? Or can you pick important episodes from different parts of your life, and, juxtaposing them, create an even more compelling narrative?

Creative Nonfiction doesn't have to be memoir. The genre comprises essays, opinion pieces, blogs, biography, autobiography, food writing, travel writing, oral history, reviews, literary journalism, and on and on.

Basically, Creative Nonfiction is anything that tells a good and interesting story, while still being true. The creative part refers to the way the story is structured and to its writing, not its veracity.

Different authors draw the line in different places, of course. Some stretch the truth to tell a better story. Some lie. There are not yet any hard-and-fast rules for the genre. The current thinking is that as long as you're honest about what liberties you've taken, then you're OK.

Finneran published an essay called Lying in the Land of Memoir: straddling the Line Between Fact and Fiction suggesting that there are three acceptable ways to bend the line between fact and fiction:

1) Make up dialogue: but carefully. The writer must remember that the conversation really took place, have some memory of what was discussed, and how the conversation ended. Then she (or he) can carefully recreate the conversation as closely as possible to how it probably occurred.

2) Conflate time: gently. Perhaps something that really took place over two nights looks like it took place in only one night in the piece, so that the narrative flows better. Personally, I'm a little uncomfortable with this one.

3) Leave stuff out. Well, duh. It boggles my mind that people cry, "That's not what really happened!" just because the writer doesn't mention that Jim Bob was also in the room. I mean, perhaps Jim Bob isn't really a major character in this story, he didn't contribute anything meaningful, so it would just be confusing to bring him up for no apparent reason. In a history textbook, the author would mention that he was standing silently in the corner all night. In Creative Nonfiction, the author has the freedom to choose whether or not his presence is significant.

Other authors take much greater liberties. In her "memoir," Bitter is the New Black, Jen Lancaster admits that she has left out the names of places she worked, changed the names of the characters, altered the timeline to move the story along, and combined some characters together, all in a story about how long she was unemployed and why. That, in my opinion, is a thinly fictionalized novel, based heavily upon the author's own experiences. Ditto with James Frey's A Million Little Pieces.

Ira Sukrungruang also takes liberties in his (fun!) creative nonfiction. One scene in his first memoir is bookended with what's happening on The Crocodile Hunter on TV. The TV was on, Animal Planet was on, The Crocodile Hunter was on. But he doesn't really remember exactly what was happening in the show while he was having this particular conversation with his mother; he filled in the details to bring the story to life. That, too, is further than I'm willing to bend the truth, but I respect that he's honest about what he's done.

So, that's creative nonfiction, and I guess I'll write about Kathleen Finneran and the workshop participants tomorrow.

Like Me?

The biggest mistake I made at the Summer Writers Institute was to try to keep working (a little) throughout. I went in to the office for a few hours at least a couple of evenings a week during both weeks of the workshop, and that was exhausting.

Even without trying to split my focus in yet another direction, I was trying to complete coursework for a 3 credit graduate-level course in two weeks, which sounds insane. (I have one follow-up book to read and paper to write, as well as a revision of some of my previous work, then I'm all done.) Many nights during the second week, I passed out, exhausted, well after midnight without having completed quite all of the required reading. The first week was much the same, except that my stamina was greater and I always finished everything. Next time I hope to go away for a workshop, so that my focus is not at all split.

It worked like this: The Institute comprised four workshop groups: Fiction, Advanced Fiction, Poetry, and Creative Non-Fiction. Every morning, we met in our individual workshop groups for 3 hours, then broke for lunch. After lunch, we met all together to hear speakers and have panel discussions.

The morning sessions varied depending on which "class" you were in. Some groups workshopped every day; mine didn't. We watched a fascinating documentary, did in-class writing exercises, discussed published pieces (the nightly reading assignments) and had class-type discussions every day. 3 days a week, we also workshopped each others' work.

We spent 1/2 hour on each workshopped piece, and we each had a piece workshopped once each week. I spent about an hour reading each piece and preparing my thoughts for every workshop, and I think that was probably typical.

The level of participation in my group was quite impressive, and I'll talk about that more tomorrow, including who led the workshop, who else participated, and what sorts of things they were writing.

The afternoon sessions were fascinating. We had published writers talk about Craft, we had writers reading from their own work, we had a panel of literary journal editors (all men, all white, all in their 30s /early 40s, a highly representative sample). We had a notable publisher from an academic press, we had a food critic from Sauce magazine, we had a relatively useless talk about creating an author website (useless because none of the panel participants understood even basic web design). The directors of the MFA programs at Wash U and UMSL spoke, as did a couple of instructors.

Perhaps the most useful thing of all, especially with the afternoon sessions, was that I was surrounded by writers, real writers, all of whom kept referring to all of us as writers, real writers. And that was really something to contemplate.

Time for Bed

My sister's bridal shower in Valparaiso, IN was perfectly lovely this weekend. It was a "times" shower, where every guest was assigned a time of day. I had "afternoon," and my card said,

For afternoon or any other time . . . but not for work

I got her a lovely nightgown and matching robe, in translucent antique white. Very wedding night. She blushed satisfactorily.

My Writer's Institute starts tomorrow. So I might not be writing much here for the next couple of weeks, or I might be in a writing frenzy and posting daily. Time will tell.

Regardless, have a lovely June!

And, Elizabeth, I might not have mentioned this, but I hate the phone. And I really don't want to intrude right now. But I'd love it if you feel like calling me sometime to let me know how your week's going. Just call at home, because anytime I'm at home it's a good time. I hope you're having a wonderful time. I hope you're too busy to call, and way too busy to be reading blogs. And we should start Yoga again soon: Paul says that my posture sucks and I'm tense.

Thrilled!

I've been accepted into the Summer Writers Institute at Washington University in St. Louis! Hooray!

Now I just have to go about arranging child care and time off work . . .

And I'm thinking - just thinking, mind you - of growing this experience into an application to the MFA program at The University of Missouri - St. Louis.

Paul, it looks like that new computer you bought me is going to be even more expensive than you thought. He's hoping it starts giving something back someday. In the meantime, I've decided not to name this one "Nerd" like its older sibling.

Elemeno

When I was in first grade, I thought that "elemeno" was an adjective to describe the very special letter "P." I didn't know what "elemeno" meant, and I didn't know why "P" was so special, but I was 6 and there were lots of words I didn't know yet. I was used to that.

I knew how to read, of course. But I can't remember a time when I didn't read whole words. The Alphabet Song was a song to me. I got that it was about letters and letters made words, but it's not like I was singing The Alphabet Song while sight-reading in first grade.

I still remember the feeling of incredible confusion followed by clarity and embarrassment when it all became clear. I was working on an alphabetizing exercise and trying to figure out where to place a word that started with L, M, N, or O, and using The Alphabet Song to help me. I ran through the song several times in my head, then decided to "cheat" by looking up at the alphabet posted above the chalkboard. Lightbulb!

***

I'm applying for the Summer Writers Institute at Washington University this summer. In Creative NonFiction/Memoir. I'm late to this decision, and late to the application process, though I'm told that the Institute isn't full and they're still accepting applicants. I don't know how hard it is to get in. I do know that my sample piece is very new and very rough. But I really, really want to do this. So maybe they'll want my money enough to take me anyway.

Paul's reading my sample right now. He's laughing aloud and riding some emotional waves, but he's not exactly an objective reader. After all, he's reading something that he actually lived, so he's tapping into memories.

Come to think of it, if I can get him to access his memories, most of which he keeps buried somewhere deep in his subconscious or lower, then perhaps I am doing something right after all.

Fingers crossed.

A Joyful Noise

Last week, I had so many things to blog that I was restraining myself from blogging twice a day or more. Now I can actually get to my computer again, after nearly a week away, and I've got nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. I've got bloggy happiness to report. Paul decided that this whole computer-in-the-guestroom thing isn't working out much better than the computer-on-the-kitchen-table thing (which I also disliked, though for somewhat different reasons). So he decided to buy me a new computer! A laptop! And a new desk upon which to keep it, something simple that will look OK in the front room, against the windows that invite beautiful, glorious sunlight into our home every afternoon.

I am ecstatic! I'm a little confused about why "my" new computer needs a dual DVD burner, but I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth and I'll try to look the other way whenever he borrows it. As long as he doesn't clutter my desktop with icons. One column is plenty, people! That's why folders were invented!

Actually, we had a very nice week and weekend. And it's also nice to be home alone again. Ellie went down quickly and easily tonight, and then Paul and I celebrated our first quiet evening in a long time by watching TV. Sadly, we're still about two weeks behind on most of our shows, but we're staying just ahead of the TiVo auto-delete (as our hard drive fills) and plan to finish April sweeps before fall premiers.

The APO Alumni Banquet was lovely last night, and the 12-year-old babysitter did wonderfully with Ellie. She even had time to study for today's math test, after Ellie went to sleep.

"What kind of math are you taking?" I asked. Then a slow suspicion began to grow in my mind.

"Oh, it's not my best subject right now. We're learning to multiply and divide fractions and decimals."

Yes, that is hard. But when I first asked the question, it hadn't occurred to me that she is only in 6th grade and therefore not in a math class that has a specific name yet. Presumably, pre-algebra doesn't even start until next year. Wow. But she's awesome and Ellie loves her.

Everything else is fun and lovely and wonderful, and hardly worth mentioning now. I'm so excited to be heading off to bed soon! But first I will mention that Ellie's "choir" will be "performing" in church next Sunday. Oh, yes. The 18- to 35-month olds will be making a joyful noise to the Lord.

We hope. Because if they don't, it will just be the moms/dads/grandmas/grandpas who usually accompany the kids to class who will be carrying the tune. And, especially in my case, this is not a lovely sound at all. Luckily for everyone, I don't video or audio blog! Sleep well.

A Million Little Truths

I knew about the controversy surrounding James Frey's book, A Million Little Pieces, before I read the book. When I first heard the allegations that he fabricated parts of his memoir, all I knew about the book was that it had a good title, great cover design, and was shelved prominently at Borders.

So I didn't have the opportunity to feel as betrayed as those who read the book believing that it was 100% true. But there are two other reasons why I don't feel terribly angry by what Frey apparently did.

First, I sympathize. I want to be a writer very much. I can hardly imagine working so hard, pouring so much of myself into a novel, and having it rejected by publisher after publisher. When Frey's agent told him that his book might be more successful packaged as a memoir, rather than as a novel, of course he jumped at the opportunity to sell it.

He should have taken out the bits he added for drama and interest in the novelization. He absolutely should have. But maybe he thought those parts were what made the story as compelling as it is. Of course he was afraid of having it rejected yet again. He was wrong to leave in the fictionalized parts. But I sympathize with how he must have felt.

Second, I think that the lies he chose to tell say as much - or more - about Frey than a strictly truthful version of his story would tell.

Sure, addiction is horrible and messy and ugly and far from glamorous, as Frey tells us in gritty detail. But Frey can't resist the temptation to make himself, his life, his experiences larger than life, less pathetic than they really are.

Frey may have been a skinny white kid from an upper middle class suburban family, but he is such a badass that the biggest, scariest, meanest criminals are all scared of him. He didn't meet an Italian or even a mobster in rehab; he met a mob boss. He didn't meet a lawyer or even a judge; he met a federal judge.

Addicts lie. Addicts can't be trusted. Addicts lie. Frey tells us this repeatedly in his book, and he underlines this fact with the way he chooses to tell his story. He is not cured. He is still an addict; he's just not currently smoking crack.

And The Smoking Gun's coverage of Frey's lies struck me as much more petty and spiteful than a simple recounting of fact and fiction - which would have been more helpful, by the way.

I did find quite a bit of humor in Frey's self-aggrandizing style, including his FTBSITTTD tattoo (F**k The BS It's Time To Throw Down), so I borrowed the tat for a bookmark I created for my bookclub, listing our hosting order in addition to a lovely picture of our suburban mom selves from our Christmas wine bar gathering last December. I called us a Book and Fight Club, which sounds about right.