I love when I find a craft book I adore. They seem to fall into one of two categories: a long, rambling slog or lively conversations that inspire me. I’m thrilled to report that Telling True Stories falls into the latter category. Reading the book brings me right back to residency, and makes me feel as though I’m sitting along with a great series of craft talks that deal strictly with my genre.
The book is written by journalists and focuses primarily on writing research, interviewing, media ethics and other issues that are more tailored toward that style. As a nonfiction writer that wants to write personal essays, I found the vast majority of the material applicable. The few essays that were specifically magazine and newspaper advice still provided me insight into the inner workings of these publications. I’m not convinced that I want to write in that environment, but it’s informative to know what other writers that write in similar styles have to know and deal with.
Like any good craft book, Telling True Stories is full of tips to highlight, re-read, staple to your desk and never forget. I have been immersed in editing my piece the last couple of weeks, and I have also taught several memoir classes while trying to convey the importance of editing in distilling an articulate voice. Anne Hull summarized several key virtues I need to always keep in mind while I’m going through my heavy, flamboyant drafts: “Push [details] through a creative sieve. This is the hardest part. You want to weave a sense of place, not just give a laundry list of details” (Hull 42). Her metaphor for chopping unnecessary details is fantastic, and I’m glad that she acknowledges how difficult it can be. As beginning writers, we are encouraged to vomit out every detail we can conjure. Don’t just tell us about where you are/who you’re with/what it looks like. Show us! While in principle this is a good idea, it leads to inevitable overshare. One of the most valuable things I have learned so far this semester is that not every detail, even if it is a well-written and interesting detail, belongs in the story. When you’ve edited and refined your story enough to get a handle on the “aboutness” of it, you’ll start to see what details add and enhance your narrator-character and story theme, and which ones just gussy up the windows. In good writing, which is clear and sleek, red herring frills are unnecessary.
As I am considering concentrating my essay around the thesis that good endings are more important than good beginnings, I found Bruce DeSilva’s Endings a fantastic discussion on the topic. He sums up the idea of a good ending succinctly: “Your ending must do four things: signal to the reader that the piece is over, reinforce your central point, resonate in your reader’s mind after he or she turned the page, and arrive on time. The very best endings often do something else: They offer a twist that readers don’t see coming but nevertheless strikes them as exactly right” (DeSilva 117). As one can see from DeSilva’s description, endings aren’t easy. They take an extensive amount of rewriting and thought to make them successful, along with an instinct to tell when your story has stopped. I am still working on getting this right. There are many times when I’m not sure where to stop. Beginnings are so much more forgiving; they’re important, but they’re not the last word. I plan to refer to his piece next semester as I work on developing my theory.
Hearing these articulate, successful nonfiction writing voices discuss and argue their methods was informative and strangely entertaining. It has earned a place alongside Bird By Bird and The Forest for the Trees as one of the craft books I’ll be flipping through for years.