As you'll recall from a few posts back, we talked about subject matter and how we can write about our lives even when we feel like the lives we've lived aren't terribly exciting. We also talked about fraudulence and how that stems from the fear that we might not have anything exciting enough to write about.

Dan Shewan takes on these issues and more in his recent post, "This State of Literature 2: Secrets and Lies." I especially like his points about the contract a nonfiction writer has with him/herself. 

It's a must read for anyone who is new to creative nonfiction (especially those working on memoirs). Check it out!

Yes, it's a double-header this week folks!

A few posts back, I mentioned what I call "fictive devices"--creative liberties borrowed from the world of fiction that might find their way into your creative nonfiction essays (if you so choose). Unlike what we've been discussing in the previous posts about "Fraudulence," these techniques probably won't offend anyone's sense of fairness and ethics:

Last week, one of our readers, Dominique, raised a very interesting question about “History,” so I've decided to dedicate this week’s blog entry to responding to that. (If you haven’t read it already, go check out her entry in the comments section of the last blog entry. It’s well worth the read!)

In particular, Dominique mentions a quote from Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism by Hayden White: “We do not live stories, even if we give our lives meaning by retrospectively casting them in the form of stories.” The question, as I understanding it (and feel free to correct me in the comments, if I’m wrong about this) has to do with history—personal and otherwise—what our obligation is to document history and whether or not “history” as a term is preferable to truth.

We can claim something to be historically accurate without commenting one way or the other on its “truthfulness” in the larger philosophical sense. (Much in the same way we can claim that a person possesses knowledge without commenting one way or the other on whether that person possesses “wisdom,” as well.) So, in that sense, the term History may have a leg up—it seems more objective. On the other hand, objectivity is really not the goal of creative nonfiction. I’d argue that subjectivity is the goal. Telling the story you have to tell, the way you have to tell it, filtered unapologetically through your understanding and perspective. When I hear the word History, I think of textbooks, or else biography rather than memoir—pieces that have more to do with documenting verifiable fact than focusing on personal perspective and its attendant intangibles (feelings, opinions, emotions).

Okay, so in my previous post about the differences between Nonfiction and Creative Nonfiction, I suggested that what makes creative nonfiction unique is its use of fictive devices. I also suggested that the way those devices are employed is more important in some respects than supposed “truth.”  (Disclaimer: I write fiction almost exclusively, so I am probably biased.) 

I can imagine a statement like that ruffling some people’s feathers (assuming anyone is out there reading), so let’s talk about that position a little.

It might be good to start out with a definition: When I say truth, I mean accordance to “the way things really happened” in one’s personal history. I don’t mean, matters of public record that we might look up on in a textbook or almanac (such as, is the Sears Tower 1,729 feet high or 1,279 feet high?). I think, when it comes to factual details like that, it’s our obligation to make every effort to get our “moons in the right skies” (to steal a quote from Eudora Welty), if we expect to be taken seriously as people with something intelligent to say.

But what about those personal histories? What are our obligations? It’s a tricky question, one that rolls back on itself the more you try to talk about it, I think.

I’ll be clear here in stating my bias: I start getting twitchy whenever I hear writers talk about “truth.” You hear it all the time—that nonfiction may not tell the objective Truth (capital “T”) but that it tells a truth (lowercased “t”). Truth is truth, I say. There are no variations. The moment you qualify it, it’s no longer truth by definition. It’s subjective interpretation. I hear fiction writers claim that they “lie to tell the truth” or that they are striving to convey an “emotional truth.” I don’t buy any of that. Lying to tell the truth? Give me a break. To do that, you’d have to know what the truth is. And when people claim to know the truth, my bullshit detector starts beeping. Maybe some other writers—writers far better than I am—feel confident that they have discovered truths, and maybe they feel obligated to share them with the world. Who am I to say?

All I can say with any certainty is that I have no such truths to tell. And I’m not particularly interested in acquiring any. When I sit down to write a personal essay--which, admittedly, I don't do often--I only have two motivations for sharing my story:

          1. I think it's interesting enough to put out there. I live under the assumption that, if it interests me, it might also interest 
              someone else.

          2. I hope my story makes someone else feel less alone, even if only for a few minutes.

If you're looking for company, I might be able to help. But if you want universal truth, moral lessons, someone to pass judgment on himself or others, I'm the wrong writer for you.