I'd Rather Be Writing » nonfiction

My Problem with Fiction, and How I Tried to Resolve It

Tom Johnson — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 06:40:50 +0000

I’ve been somewhat bothered by the fact that I don’t read much fiction. For someone who has a degree in creative writing, this is a bit troubling. My degree is in nonfiction creative writing, but still, you would think that I read a novel a week or more.

Not really. Not too long after my MFA, I went through a burnout phase. During my 3 years at Columbia, I wrote a lot of stories and essays. They were all a type of literary writing. I spent countless hours editing them and then sent them off to various literary journals. The responses took months and were abysmal. I think I only published 1 or 2 of that whole lot.

Meanwhile, I was feeling pressures for employment. I applied for dozens of teaching positions, but nothing came of it except, by some small miracle, a two-year teaching job in Egypt. But that job wasn’t taking me anywhere careerwise, and the pay wasn’t much either.

At some point, I stopped reading fiction because I felt it wasn’t getting me anywhere. While I love story, it didn’t help me get a better job, or bring in money, and holing myself up somewhere to read was isolating from family duties.

During this time I focused more on tech and on books that would add value to my career than on fiction or even narrative nonfiction.

Years passed like this. I guess I found that I could do without fiction. Movies fill the escapism void, and travel excursions.

Last month I kind of fell into a bad habit. After work and general busyness, I’d feel exhausted in the evening. Too tired to do anything, and ready to relax and be entertained, I’d watch spy shows (like MI-5), or cop shows (like Rookie Blue), or even South/North Korean espionage melodramas with subtitles (like Iris).

The problem is that rather than going to sleep when tired, the shows would keep me up for another hour or two at night. Then I’d be exhausted in the morning. The need for some passive, mindless entertainment at around 10 pm lasted until midnight. By mid week I was exhausted and sometimes grumpy. I knew I needed to change.

My daughter recommended that instead of television, I choose a favorite book to read. It should be a book I like, with a story that is a treat to read, one that I might look forward to and prefer to television. I knew she was right.

My bookshelf. It's a mix of fiction and nonfiction (but mostly nonfiction).

The next few nights, rather than watching television, I pulled out a copy of Dispensation, an anthology of short stories with Mormon themes that Shannon gave me for Christmas. I read Brady Udall’s “Buckeye the Elder” and remembered how I used to love fiction. Then I read Brian Evanstan’s “Care of the Estate.” And before I knew it, I was hooked. I started reading more and more short stories in the anthology, and then expanded to The Atlantic to read stories in their fiction edition. I downloaded Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander from Audible and listened to nearly all of it while working on my basement. I downloaded Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and listened to that in every spare moment. I realized how much I liked fiction. Why had I been avoiding it for so long?

And then I got to thinking about writing short stories myself. I’m creative, I can make up a story on the spot for my kids. Why not try my hand at fiction? Maybe I had a hidden talent I could surface.

I began brainstorming a plot. But this story, being fiction, had to follow one rule. According to an essay by Bret Johnson in The Atlantic, you shouldn’t write what you know (see “Don’t Write What You Know”). It’s the biggest mistake rookies make. Why shouldn’t you write what you know? Because if you do, writing becomes an act of explanation rather than exploration. In contrast, if you get inside someone’s head, and imagine or explore what they would think, feel, say, and do, then you’re operating in another mode: discovery. And in that mode, your prose comes alive.

I was totally convinced by this argument. In fact, I started to think that perhaps I had gotten the nonfiction/fiction dichotomy wrong all these years. Rather than pursuing nonfiction, I should have pursued fiction. I should have been exploring the minds of my characters, specifically minds unlike my own.

With this idea, I began to conceptualize a story, to lay down the basic plot. I would write about a repressed housewife who takes a “vacation” while her husband tends to the kids at home. Instead of vacationing, the woman applies for a job at a temp agency and ends up, unbeknownst to her husband, filling her husband’s job during his leave of absence. The manager likes her work so much he decides to let the husband go and hires the woman full time. This sets the man into jealousy and rage with his wife and employer and … then I’m not sure what happens.

Excited about the possibility of writing this story, I shared it with my wife over some cake at a posh dessert shop – “The Chocolate” in Orem. The Chocolate is a house with a lot of different rooms, painted in green and black and decorated with mirrors and flowers and trendy artwork. We sat on zebra cloth chairs. I tried to explain the plot to my wife, how it would proceed, and how it would eventually end.

As I was explaining the plot, I realized how shallow and simple it sounded. I heard my own voice and thought, this sounds dumb. I would need to put a lot more thought and development into the story. I only had the bare bones of a few of the actions, and creating a real story would require much more work. Real work. More research, more brainstorming, and lots of writing and rewriting and more writing. I estimated that to write one decent short story, I would need to dedicate at least 40 hours to the task, maybe more.

My wife explained that I’d need to show rather than tell. But her generally quiet reaction slowed my eagerness, and I began to think through this idea for fiction. After spending 40+ hours on a short story, what would I do with it? Send it to a small literary journal, where it would be added to their slush pile and reviewed quarterly? Would it end up in an online literary e-zine read by a handful of wannabe writers, published by some spare-time hack on his Blogspot website?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that writing fiction would be a lot of work. I’d need to research the characters, the psychology, the environment. I’d need to write and rewrite and rewrite. And all for what? For the chance of publishing in some obscure literary journal?

There wouldn’t be any immediate reward, no immediate comments. No praise. No career advancement. No speaking invitations. No advertising perks. The work would reside in a place few would read, and yield little results.

Worst of all, I realized how simple and undeveloped my story sounded. This effort? Not really worth it. There was no twist, no cleverness in the story. It would either be predictable or manipulative.

With that, I decided to put the brakes on fiction reading. If I were to pour my soul into something, it should be nonfiction, the personal essay, my favorite format. I know what it takes to write a good personal essay. It requires research, and brainstorming, and a lot of writing and rewriting and sometimes throwing it all away to start over. Somehow it never occurred to me that writing fiction followed a similar process.

More than anything, I was befuddled about what to make of the advice — don’t write what you know. In nonfiction, if you don’t know the topic you’re writing about, your essay is going to stink. If you don’t know what you’re talking about, you’ll shift to writing a naval-gazing memoir — the sure sign of death. Without intellectual substance, the essay devolves into an over-dramatized retelling of your life.

Yet strangely, this exploratory mode that Bret Johnston describes is exactly the thing I like about personal essays. You don’t start out knowing everything. The very purpose is to explore a topic, to essay an idea and see where it takes you, or to find out what something truly is. It’s the same mode that fiction writers slip into when imagining a character, but with nonfiction, you’re navigating a world of ideas. You’re following a conceptual path to see where ideas intersect and cross. You’re looking at an idea from all perspectives, trying to find a way through.

Bret explains,

In early versions of some stories, my impulse was to try to record how certain events in my life had played out, but by the third draft, I was prohibitively bored. I knew how, in real life, the stories ended, and I had a pretty firm idea of what they “meant,” so the story could not surprise me, or prorivde an opportunity for wonder. I was writing to explain, not to discover.

He then switches from explaining to exploring, and it liberates his writing. It makes the writing process adventurous and interesting to both himself and readers.

Although Bret’s advice seems geared toward fiction, nonfiction essays actually follow exactly the same philosophy. If you’re writing what you already know, there’s no natural drive forward. The nonfiction essayist is just as much interested in charting unexplored territory as fiction writers. For example, when I started this essay, I had no idea how it would play out, where I would end, and how I would resolve my problem with fiction. Only as I come near the end do I realize that this principle — don’t write what you know — runs just as seamless through nonfiction as fiction. Both aim to explore the unknown. This gives me hope that the great divide I’ve constructed in my mind between the two genres is really much thinner than I had previously imagined.

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The Paris Review – Gay Talese: The Art of Nonfiction No. 2

Tom Johnson — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 00:27:56 +0000

The Paris Review – Gay Talese: The Art of Nonfiction No. 2. This interview with Gay Talese in The Paris Review is fascinating. What appeals to me is how Talese gathers information for his prose. He goes out and talks to people; he interacts and observes and takes notes. Critics identify him with the New Journalism movement, a group of writers who blend traditional news reporting with literary devices from the fiction world. Talese is looking for story, often from minor or unknown characters. This interview inspires me to take the same approach in my writing: to go out and interact, interview, observe, study, and then write about it in a narrative way.

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If You’re a Writer, Write

Tom Johnson — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:03:34 +0000

Many of you—at least a third, I’m guessing—are writers by nature. You majored in English, dabbled in creative writing, probably immerse yourself in literary novels at lunch. You love the written word. You revel in your expertise in grammar, your fine tastes in sentence structure and semantics. You proudly display your Chicago Manual of Style on your bookshelf. Maybe you even secretly want to be a novelist. Perhaps you have an unfinished manuscript tucked away in your desk drawer that you think about finishing. Writing—the more creative, literary kind—is in your blood.

Fortunately, now is one of the best times for writers to be alive, because you can write and publish without hassle. According to Phillup Greenspun, the web provides a flexible format that removes traditional restrictions of length. You’re no limited to magazine length (5 pages) or book length (200 pages) of content. You can publish 20 pages essays, or 2 paragraph thoughts. You can write fiction or nonfiction, on any topic you want. You could publish your novel serially, or write your book chapter by chapter in a wiki-like way, or do any creative thing you want.

So why is it that, given the opportunity and tools to write, so few embrace it? I have several thoughts as to why.

1. You enjoy the idea more than the work

Most people enjoy the idea of being a writer more than the act of writing. The same could be said of a lot of activities. I once fantasized about doing triathlons, but it was really the idea of being a triathlete that appealed to me more than running, biking, and swimming. I also once fantasized about medicine, but it was the idea of “being a doctor” that appealed to me more than putting my hands inside bloody skin and tissue to fix people.

The truth about writing—the reason why people may daydream about “being a writer” but never seem to find the time to write—is that it’s a lot of work. Coming up with original ideas, organizing and structuring those ideas, editing and polishing your sentences, refining your thoughts, and finding time to do it all rather than sit back and watch TV or work in the yard—is something akin to completing that triathlon. It’s a lot of running/thinking, swimming/writing, and biking/editing. And it’s taxing. Winston Churchill compared writing to fighting a monster:

Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.

Instead of slaying the monster, it’s easier to sit back and think about “being a writer.”

2. Your elevated awareness sets higher standards

Another reason you may not find time to write is that your literary awareness is on a higher level, which makes writing more challenging. You’re aware of what good prose looks like, and so the standards you set for yourself are more rigorous. You’ve got William Faulkner and Jane Austen or some other famous writer on your mind, and you know that to write something worth reading, it will take a lot of time, more time than you’re willing to commit. For the limited time you do have, all you can produce is mediocrity, which you won’t sink to.

This high-brow position isn’t very excusable, because knowledge of higher standards often gives you more talent and capability. And if you have limited time, you can just stretch your efforts out over a period of time. Still, being able to recognize that your first drafts are junk can be a motivational deterrent.

3. You’ve fallen out of the habit

Although the previous two reasons are possible, most likely you stopped writing because you’ve fallen out of the habit. Desiderius Eramus, a fifteenth-century Dutch humanist, said, “The desire to write grows with writing.” The reverse is also true. The desire to write shrinks the less you write.

Habits aren’t particularly tricky to establish. It’s mostly a matter of doing it. Once you start doing something, it becomes easier to do it. When asked for advice from a young would-be writer, E.B. White, author of dozens of essays, said:

You asked me about writing—how I did it. There is no trick to it. If you like to write and want to write, you write, no matter where you are or what else you are doing or whether anyone pays any heed. I must have written half a million words (mostly in my journal) before I had anything published, save for a couple of short items in St. Nicholas. If you want to write about feelings, about the end of summer, about growing, write about it. A great deal of writing is not “plotted”—most of my essays have no plot structure, they are a ramble in the woods, or a ramble in the basement of my mind. You ask, “Who cares?” Everybody cares. You say, “It’s been written before.” Everything has been written before.

In other words, if you want to write, just open up a blank Word document and start typing. It’s that simple. The rest—the form, the purpose, the ideas, the publications—will follow. The more you write, the more desire you’ll have to write. And the easier writing will become.

Final Thoughts

I decided to write this post because I’m frequently asked—by fellow writers—why I blog [write] so much. For me, I consider myself foremost a writer. I majored in English, studied creative nonfiction writing, and find value in the act of writing, especially when I have nothing particular on my mind. I enjoy creating something from nothing.

I prefer personal essays and nonfiction over fiction, so the blog is a natural form for me. But whatever preferences for form you have, don’t give up on your more creative or literary writing. You don’t have to submit your writing to journals and magazines for publication. A blog can be a worthy publishing format. I get more reward from the comments, trackbacks, emails, and other feedback on my blog than from any other writing endeavor. Whatever style and format you choose, if you’re a writer, write. The opportunity is there.

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The Intersection of the Personal and Professional, or, Why My Attempts at Nonfiction Essays in Grad School Bombed

Tom Johnson — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 13:23:08 +0000

I wrote this post for Poewar.com last year, but I like to keep my own writing consolidated on my site, so I’ve added it here.

Literary nonfiction gets its energy, Richard Locke says, from the intersection of the personal and professional. The tension and appeal of literary nonfiction comes from the interplay between the writer’s personal experiences and the topic he or she is exploring.

Richard Locke headed the Literary Nonfiction Writing program at Columbia while I was there. As a creative writing student, I’d get all jazzed up about the infusion of personal elements into an essay. These personal elements breathed life into essay topics; they made otherwise boring subjects come alive.

I used to read personal essayists like Philip Lopate, Joseph Epstein, and Ian Frazier with reverence and awe. They perfected the art of carefully weaving personal experiences into the subjects they explored. They gave us glimpses into their lives. Their authentic voice was transparent, and showed meaning for why the topic truly mattered.

Last week I watched Scott Abel, who usually writes professional articles on his site, jump into the personal essay form. I’d criticized him in the past for avoiding the first person. Finally he published an article that had a much more personal style. The main focus was still on a professional topic (helping clients find what they need), but he integrated aspects of his personal life (finding what he needs in relationships) to give the topic more depth.

It was a big shift in his writing style. A number of readers left praising comments like -

* “I enjoyed the way you wove together the personal and professional stories so seamlessly.” (Lisa)

* ” It was a nice change of pace to read about your struggles and personal challenges.” (Chip Gettinger)

* “A little transparency about your background and experiences can go a long way.” (Anne Gentle)

For someone who avoided personal opinions and experiences in his writing, this shift was refreshing and welcome, especially amid the dry content management articles.

In grad school, I tried integrating my own experiences and viewpoints into my essays, but – like many aspiring nonfiction writers – I failed because I lacked substance. I didn’t have a professional framework other than my own life to apply a personal lens. As such, I often created memoir essays that had narrative arc and strong images, but in the end were boring, navel-gazing, and superficial.

I didn’t realize that the tension of literary nonfiction comes from the interplay between the personal and the professional. Overdo one or the other – especially the personal – and the essay falls flat.

Without professional substance, an essay lacks force and is empty. It can’t keep readers around too long. This is why someone like Oliver Sacks, who is a neurologist first and an nonfiction essayist second, finds so much success. And it’s why writers like Scott Abel, who focus mainly on professional topics, can pull off a successful essay with just a few simple personal flourishes.

Balance is what’s key. Scott Barney, commenting on Scott Abel’s article, summed it up best when he said:

“At the end of the day it is the personalities of the blog that cause me to return with any frequency. Having said that, I’m still looking for substance over style. As long as the postings continue to have valid content, I will be happy – personality-infused or not.”

In other words, make sure the substance is there first. With that in place, most readers will welcome the personal style.

If you are set on infusing personal elements into your nonfiction essays (or blog posts), exactly how do you go about it? When do you integrate the personal elements? How do you know if you’ve gone overboard, or haven’t done enough? Can you jump back and forth between personal and professional, or should you keep them in clearly different sections?

My answer is that it comes naturally if you begin with substance first. If you set out to explore a topic for the purpose of the topic itself (rather than as a device for injecting your own experiences), your own point of view naturally fills in the right gaps, naturally oozes into the right spaces of the essay. And when you add the personal – often subtly and in small amounts – it ignites what would otherwise put readers to sleep.