My confusion
came from a curious warning. Awash in a sea of writers and would-be writers in
a drab-walled meeting room at the Association of Writers & Writing Programs
Conference a few years ago in Vancouver, B.C., I was listening to author Dinty
W. Moore extol the virtues of creative nonfiction writing when suddenly he
straightened his stout body and leaned across the podium.
"Look out," he cautioned, his tone dire, "the journalists are
coming!"
I didn't know what he meant—why he might see journalists as
adversaries rather than kin of creative nonfiction writers—but I couldn't ask
because he kept on talking, telling the crowd about his online magazine, Brevity, where "form is
more important than content" and nonfiction comes in all kinds of forms, "even
verse."
More baffled than before, I waited impatiently for the
question-and-answer period and then raised my hand. "Nonfiction in verse," I
said. "Isn't that poetry?"
Moore just frowned and
lifted his chin. "We don't want to limit ourselves," he said, "with expectations
and categories."
He may have meant only
that his magazine prefers unusual approaches to form that bring new meaning to
subject matter, rejecting strict definitions of what nonfiction writing can be,
but his fuzzing of lines and devaluing of content made me uneasy. I couldn't
help thinking that his warning about "journalists" had something to do with the
success many self-described journalists (such as Susan Orlean or Jon Krakauer)
have had in recent years, weaving compelling stories from solid reporting.
Instead of choosing form over content or worrying about making art, they've
concentrated on doing their research well and staying true to what they've
discovered. The result has been greater trust in, and growing readership for,
the kind of creative nonfiction that is reported rather than remembered or
constructed—the kind that is focused on facts first and creativity second
while seeking to balance the two.
Although he's attained his own reputation as a creative
nonfiction apostle, Moore was originally a disciple of the man credited with
coining the term creative
nonfiction, Lee Gutkind, who taught a class with those words in its
title at the University of Pittsburgh as early as 1973. I don't know if Gutkind
defined the term in that original syllabus, but he's been explaining and
refining it in prose and in person ever since, focusing primarily on the
"creative" rather than the "nonfiction" component.
In a piece that appeared in 2001, "Becoming the Godfather of
Creative Nonfiction," Gutkind defines it this way: "writing nonfiction using
literary techniques like scene, dialogue, description, while allowing the
personal point of view and voice (reflection) rather than maintaining the sham
of objectivity."
“What distinguishes these New New Journalists from the old New Journalists is a greater awareness of all the ways a story can be reported and the firm belief that any idea can lead to an authentic story if the research is done well.”
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