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Exercises for Writing Creative Nonfiction Help (page 2)

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By — McGraw-Hill Professional
Updated on Sep 14, 2011

I Just Don't Understand You, Another Exercise from Dinty W. Moore

Dinty W. Moore continues:

Too often, we write about other people because we think we know something about that person, or because we feel that we can weigh in with intelligent correctness on their actions or the choices they have made. Too often as well, we end up sounding like mister- or ms.-know-it-all. Whether we are writing about a celebrity or politician, someone who lives just down the street, or a relative—perhaps a seldom-visited grandfather—the assumption that we actually know someone's motives and understand what factors into their behavior is a dicey one at best. Life is complicated, and people are hard to fathom.

So think a moment about the people you do not comprehend, and would never claim to fully understand, even if you thought long and hard about it. My list would include two friends who struggled to keep together a marriage but simply could not. Neither one of them was bad or at fault. They just couldn't find the working formula, and I have no better take on what they should have done instead. Still, it seems a shame.

I also can't understand a friend who repeatedly shoots herself in the foot just when her career is taking off. Clearly, she wants to succeed, just as we all do, but something deep inside is driving her to fail. Though I have observed this behavior for years, it still makes no sense to me at all.

A less serious but equally baffling example are the folks in my neighborhood (and in most neighborhoods, I imagine) who treat their front lawns and driveways as if they were hospital operating rooms, hosing away every leaf and acorn first thing in the morning, painstakingly digging out each dandelion and virtually every green shoot that does not look like perfect Kentucky grass. Now I like my yard to look nice, but I can't see putting eight hours a week into it, and a few leaves and twigs and weeds are, to my mind, inevitable. It's autumn as I'm writing this, and not only is my lawn covered in red oak leaves, but I just noticed a stray leaf in the living room, by the front door. Mother Nature is nothing if not persistent.

Try This

Make your own list of the people who make no sense to you. You aren't firmly against their choices, and you don't have all the answers—they just baffle you. Put some real people on that list, some types of people (the lawn purists), and even famous folks if you'd like.

Now write about what you don't understand, and how unsure you are about what is going on inside the mind and heart of this person. Don't attack or suggest that you know better; just explore.

Worth 1,000 Words, An Exercise by Judith Kitchen

Judith Kitchen, author of the essay collection Distance and Direction, created this exercise for her students, beginning with an epigraph:

A photograph is both a pseudo-presence and a token of absence…

—Susan Sontag, On Photography

Traditionally, photographs have been used in nonfiction as confirmation. Placed in the middle of the biography, they confirm events, give face to people we've met in print. Scattered throughout the memoir, they attest to the truth of what we're being told. This exercise is intended to move beyond the realm of confirmation, making the photograph a part of the text itself.

They say a photograph is worth 1,000 words. Well, this exercise forces you to cut out those 1,000 words and find another 1,000 words that cannot be replaced by the image itself. Your job, then, is contemplation. Speculation. Meditation. You must surround this photograph with the thoughts and feelings that well up in you as you examine it for what it might reveal—about yourself, your memories, your assumptions, what you know you simply cannot know. You must probe its contents, and then move beyond its boundaries, thinking about what it doesn't say, what isn't in the frame.

Try This

She instructs:

The exercise is simple. Begin with a photograph—one that has some personal meaning: maybe a photo of your mother before she was married; your grandfather standing next to his father, a man you never knew; a place where you used to go on vacation; an album you found at a garage sale, a stranger's life sold for a dollar; your childhood pet; yourself at the age of seven, your lost tooth grinning up at you; an odd snapshot from the box on the shelf, someone you vaguely remember, but who?

Now come at the photograph from many angles. Look at it as a physical object. What is there? Look at its subject. Who inhabits its spaces? Examine the emotions it evokes. Ask it questions. What is your relationship to this scene? Who is taking the photograph? And don't forget to observe what is not there—sometimes absence is what it is all about.

Keep in mind that you may know the people in it, or the story behind it, but that your reader does not come to the photograph with any prior knowledge. Your job is to make it matter to readers as much as it matters to you—and in the way that it matters to you. You can write about the photograph, but not mere description, since you must keep in mind the 1,000 words the photograph could make redundant. If you want to tell its story, you will need to find words that do it justice. Bring to your reader what looking will not provide—the smells, the sounds, the texture of the day. You can write from the photograph, using it as a starting point, expanding on it until it comes alive for the reader, as it has for you. You can write to the photograph, speaking directly to the person there (even to your earlier self), or you can write it into being, telling its story right up to the moment of the camera's click. You can write around the photograph, or comment on it, moving in and out of its physical presence, making it a central part of your written text—necessary to it, and yet somehow removed from it as well.

Put in enough descriptive words that, even without the photo, the reader would "see" its sepia tint, the color of rusty water; or the odd angle of the shadow on the old man's face; or the serrated edge of the white frame that cuts across your uncle Henry's silhouette, stranding him half-in, half-out of the scene—as he seems to be in your memories, only half present, kind of ghostly. But move beyond description into the "tone" of the moment. Capture how it felt to slide down that slide, how high it seemed as you climbed those steps that, now that you look at it, was really not very high at all. The exhilarating, free-from-adults playground world. Wonder about your mother as a young woman, before you were born: what were her dreams? Where did they go? Why did she cut her river of hair? Give that stranger a life he may never have lived, but one that connects him to you in the odd, imaginative space that exists between you now that you own a piece of his life. Think about what is gone, how things have changed, what the photo holds for all time. Think about the nature of time.

What this exercise does it unlock your meditative voice and give it a focus. It allows you to step in and out of the "present" of your piece, saying "perhaps," and "I wonder if," and "Now it seems as though." By directing your own attention to the object itself—the photograph—you become a narrating sensibility; in other words, you find a "voice." The reader comes to know you by the way you have been thinking, and that is the very essence of nonfiction essays and memoir.

Find just the right title—something to give what you've written a context, a position or a stance from which you are looking. The final thing you should do is decide whether or not your words actually need the photograph to complete the text; it may just be that you no longer need it at all—that you've written the 1000 words that are worth one photograph.

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