reflective essay about creative nonfiction

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For the most part, novelists and memoirists use the same set of tools to tell their stories. They both create vivid scenes, develop three-dimensional characters, and evoke a strong sense of place. They rely on dialogue, effective pacing, and themes. But there is one tool that is used almost exclusively in creative nonfiction: reflection, sometimes called “the reflective voice” or “the voice of experience.”

Defining Reflection

The purpose of reflection.

The aim of reflection is to make sense of the story, but it is not used to tell the story. (The voice of innocence does that.) Memoirists use the reflective voice to make meaning—to help readers discover the underlying message of a particular scene or moment from the character’s life. The color-coded passage below, from Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face , illustrates how the voice of innocence (green) and the voice of experience (purple) work together to tell the story in a work of creative nonfiction:

[My mother] borrowed a pair of scissors from the nurse’s desk, and while I sat in a chair she snipped off what remained of my hair, my white, white scalp shining through.  We discovered for the first time that I had a large birthmark above my left ear.

The next morning my mother came in with a hat, a small white sailor’s hat, which I put on and almost never took off for the next two and a half years, even during the periods when my hair was growing back in.  Sometimes it grew several inches and was perfectly presentable as hair, but I knew it was only going to fall out again, and I refused to be seen in public without my hat.  My hat.  It became part of me, an inseparable element of who I thought I was.

My hat was my barrier between me, and what I was vaguely becoming aware of as ugly about me, and the world.  It hid me, hid my secret, though badly, and when [other children] made fun of me or stared at me, I assumed it was only because they could guess what was beneath my hat.  It didn’t occur to me that the whole picture, even with the hat, was ugly; as long as I had it on, I felt safe.  Once, on television, I saw someone lose his hat in the wind and I immediately panicked for him, for his sudden exposure.  It was a visceral reaction.

Here, the voice of innocence communicates the child’s experience—it creates a brief scene that shows the character receiving a haircut and beginning to wear a hat that later becomes central to her identity. Then, the reflective voice takes over to say things the child can’t say because she doesn’t know them yet. The child doesn’t realize her hat acts as a mask or that she is “ugly” even while wearing it. These are the adult’s revelations—things she has learned in the years since she wore a hat to hide from the world.

How to Reflect

Beginning memoirists often fall into the trap of only using the reflective voice or only using the voice of innocence, rather than combining the two. This typically happens because they don’t feel comfortable moving between these distinct voices. However, with a little practice and the use of several effective techniques, it becomes second nature. Below are strategies adapted from memoirist Joyce Dyer’s handout “Techniques to Start Reflection in Creative Nonfiction.” These strategies can be applied in nearly all works of creative nonfiction.

• Ask a question. (Why is to so hard to…?)
• Reject possible explanations. (I don’t believe… It seems unlikely…)
• Imagine or speculate. (I wonder what would have happened if… I like to imagine… I hope my mother knew… Perhaps things would have been different if…)
• Tell an alternative version of events and then reveal the truth. (It didn’t actually happen like that… Unfortunately, that’s a lie…)
• Use timestamps to show distance between the event being described and the present day. (Now, I can see… Today, I understand… Looking back… I didn’t realize it then, but…)
• Use generalizations to explain a key takeaway from a scene. (We don’t often think of justice as…)

The color-coded example below, an excerpt from Richard Hoffman’s memoir Half the House , illustrates the author’s smooth transition from the voice of innocence (green) to the voice of experience (purple) using the “timestamp” technique (underlined).

By the end of football season, I couldn’t bear the shame anymore.  I tried to explain to Coach Tom that as a Catholic I would have to tell the priest about [the sexual abuse] in confession.  I tried to reassure him that he didn’t have to worry, that the priest was bound by “the seal of the confessional.”  Priests had been tortured to death without revealing what was told to them in confession.

“Bullshit,” he said.  “He’d go right to your mother and father.  Think about that, you little moron.  I bet that would go over big, huh?”

After that he avoided me, and only spoke to me when he had to.  It was over.  I remember a boy named Chris was always with him after that.

So when my mother asked about the purple wound on my arm, I told her a dog had bitten me on my afternoon paper route.  She wanted to know whose dog it was.  Did it have a collar on?  There was no telling what kind of germs a stray might be carrying.  As I remember this now , I’m not convinced that she believed me, and thinking of the awful silence that came between us, I sometimes feel as desolate as I did back then, when the winter sky slipped away to dark blue and I hurried to get The Evening Chronicle on a mile and a half of doorsteps before it grew too dark to see.

The word “now” is a signal to the reader, a flashing neon sign showing that the narrative has jumped forward in time from a childhood memory to the adult narrator’s reflection on that memory. This shift from the voice of innocence to the voice of experience doesn’t call attention to itself, but it does allow the memoirist to include knowledge and feelings the child wouldn’t have been able to articulate. It also helps readers to understand the long-term impact of the lie and the feelings it created—again, things the child couldn’t have known in the moment.

Reflection is a key element of most memoirs and personal essays. Therefore, it’s an essential skill for writers of creative nonfiction to develop. When writers move seamlessly between the voice of innocence and the voice of experience, they add depth to their work and help readers connect to the characters’ experiences on a deeper level.

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Creative Nonfiction: An Overview

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The Creative Nonfiction (CNF) genre can be rather elusive. It is focused on story, meaning it has a narrative plot with an inciting moment, rising action, climax and denoument, just like fiction. However, nonfiction only works if the story is based in truth, an accurate retelling of the author’s life experiences. The pieces can vary greatly in length, just as fiction can; anything from a book-length autobiography to a 500-word food blog post can fall within the genre.

Additionally, the genre borrows some aspects, in terms of voice, from poetry; poets generally look for truth and write about the realities they see. While there are many exceptions to this, such as the persona poem, the nonfiction genre depends on the writer’s ability to render their voice in a realistic fashion, just as poetry so often does. Writer Richard Terrill, in comparing the two forms, writes that the voice in creative nonfiction aims “to engage the empathy” of the reader; that, much like a poet, the writer uses “personal candor” to draw the reader in.

Creative Nonfiction encompasses many different forms of prose. As an emerging form, CNF is closely entwined with fiction. Many fiction writers make the cross-over to nonfiction occasionally, if only to write essays on the craft of fiction. This can be done fairly easily, since the ability to write good prose—beautiful description, realistic characters, musical sentences—is required in both genres.

So what, then, makes the literary nonfiction genre unique?

The first key element of nonfiction—perhaps the most crucial thing— is that the genre relies on the author’s ability to retell events that actually happened. The talented CNF writer will certainly use imagination and craft to relay what has happened and tell a story, but the story must be true. You may have heard the idiom that “truth is stranger than fiction;” this is an essential part of the genre. Events—coincidences, love stories, stories of loss—that may be expected or feel clichéd in fiction can be respected when they occur in real life .

A writer of Creative Nonfiction should always be on the lookout for material that can yield an essay; the world at-large is their subject matter. Additionally, because Creative Nonfiction is focused on reality, it relies on research to render events as accurately as possible. While it’s certainly true that fiction writers also research their subjects (especially in the case of historical fiction), CNF writers must be scrupulous in their attention to detail. Their work is somewhat akin to that of a journalist, and in fact, some journalism can fall under the umbrella of CNF as well. Writer Christopher Cokinos claims, “done correctly, lived well, delivered elegantly, such research uncovers not only facts of the world, but reveals and shapes the world of the writer” (93). In addition to traditional research methods, such as interviewing subjects or conducting database searches, he relays Kate Bernheimer’s claim that “A lifetime of reading is research:” any lived experience, even one that is read, can become material for the writer.

The other key element, the thing present in all successful nonfiction, is reflection. A person could have lived the most interesting life and had experiences completely unique to them, but without context—without reflection on how this life of experiences affected the writer—the reader is left with the feeling that the writer hasn’t learned anything, that the writer hasn’t grown. We need to see how the writer has grown because a large part of nonfiction’s appeal is the lessons it offers us, the models for ways of living: that the writer can survive a difficult or strange experience and learn from it. Sean Ironman writes that while “[r]eflection, or the second ‘I,’ is taught in every nonfiction course” (43), writers often find it incredibly hard to actually include reflection in their work. He expresses his frustration that “Students are stuck on the idea—an idea that’s not entirely wrong—that readers need to think” (43), that reflecting in their work would over-explain the ideas to the reader. Not so. Instead, reflection offers “the crucial scene of the writer writing the memoir” (44), of the present-day writer who is looking back on and retelling the past. In a moment of reflection, the author steps out of the story to show a different kind of scene, in which they are sitting at their computer or with their notebook in some quiet place, looking at where they are now, versus where they were then; thinking critically about what they’ve learned. This should ideally happen in small moments, maybe single sentences, interspersed throughout the piece. Without reflection, you have a collection of scenes open for interpretation—though they might add up to nothing.

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The New Outliers: How Creative Nonfiction Became a Legitimate, Serious Genre

Lee gutkind on the birth and surprising history of a different type of narrative form.

Many of my students, and even some younger colleagues, think—assume—that creative nonfiction is just part of the literary ecosystem; it’s always been around, like fiction or poetry. In many ways, of course, they are right: the kind of writing that is now considered to be under the creative nonfiction umbrella has a long and rich history. Many, of course, look to Michel de Montaigne as the father of the modern essay, but, to my mind, the more authentic roots of creative nonfiction are in the eighteenth century: Daniel Defoe’s historical narratives, Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography, Thomas Paine’s pamphlets, and Samuel Johnson’s essays built a foundation for later writers such as Charles Dickens, Edgar Allen Poe, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau.

That is to say, even if the line between fact and fiction was perhaps a little fuzzy in the early days, it’s not hard to find rich nonfiction narratives that predate the use of the word “nonfiction” (1867, according to the Oxford English Dictionary ) and were around long before the first recorded use of the phrase “creative nonfiction” (1943, according to research William Bradley did for Creative Nonfiction some years ago).

But in a lot of important ways, creative nonfiction is still very new, at least as a form of literature with its own identity. Unfortunately, it took a long time—longer than it should have, if you ask me—for the genre to be acknowledged in that ecosystem. And, of course, you’ll still encounter people who are unfamiliar with the term or want to make that dumb joke, “Creative nonfiction: isn’t that an oxymoron?”

Be that as it may, there’s no real doubt at this point that creative nonfiction is a serious genre, a real thing. You probably won’t find a “creative nonfiction” bookshelf at your local bookstore, and maybe it’s not on the menu at Amazon the way “fiction” is, but nonfiction narratives are everywhere. Newspapers, formerly the realm of straight journalism, with its inverted-pyramid, who-what-where-when-why requirements, have welcomed personal essays not only on their op-ed pages but in many different sections. Memoir, labeled a “craze” in the 1990s, is a mainstay of the publishing industry. Twenty or so years ago, almost no one was publishing essay collections, and even the word “essay” was the kiss of death if you wanted a trade publisher to consider your work, but now essay collections are routinely on best-seller lists. And, increasingly, even non-narrative creative nonfiction like lyric essays and hybrid forms have gained legitimacy and commercial viability.

So, you might ask, what happened? How did we get to this era of acceptance and legitimacy? The genre’s success, I believe, a gradual process over almost a half-century, emerged in many important ways from an unlikely and dominant source. I am not at all sure I would be writing this today, or that you would be reading this in an almost thirty-year-old magazine devoted exclusively to creative nonfiction, if not for the academy, and specifically departments of English.

Now, if you’ve been following my writing over the past thirty or so years, you may be surprised to hear me say this. After all, I’ve written a great deal about the power struggles that went on in the early 1970s, when I was teaching at the University of Pittsburgh and to a lesser degree at other universities and trying to expand the curriculum to include what was then called, mostly because of Tom Wolfe, “new journalism.”

I find that many of my students today aren’t very familiar with the New Journalists—Wolfe, Gay Talese, Gail Sheehy, Jimmy Breslin, Barbara Goldsmith, and Jane Kramer, among others—and it’s probably also true that some of the work from that time hasn’t aged terribly well. Sure, sometimes some of these writers went a little overboard, like Tom Wolfe, for example, interrupting his sentences with varoom-varooms and other stylistic flourishes. He was being playful and maybe a bit silly and arrogant, or it might seem so today, but he was also trying to loosen things up, to not be as predictable and sometimes downright boring as journalists then could be, and in that regard, he was quite successful.

You have to realize that the New Journalists were doing some very exciting stuff, seemingly groundbreaking. They were writing in scenes, recreating dialogue, manipulating timelines, and including themselves—their voices and ideas—in the stories they were writing. Stuff we pretty much take for granted now, but back then, with journalists especially hampered and handcuffed by rules and guidelines, so liberating.

Remember this was all happening in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when rule breaking, change, and defying the establishment were in the air everywhere, and the idea of the “new” in journalism captured the tone and spirit of the times. But I am not just talking here about journalism. Other writers, recognized for their literary achievements, were also taking chances, pushing boundaries. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood , his “nonfiction novel,” stunned and obsessed the literary world when it was published first in the New Yorker in 1965 and then, the following year, as a book. In 1969, another novelist, Norman Mailer, was awarded both the Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction and the National Book Award for Arts and Letters for The Armies of the Night , about the Washington, DC, peace demonstrations . Mailer was awarded a second Pulitzer in 1980 for his intense, thousand-plus-page deep-dive into murder, obsession, and punishment, The Executioner’s Song , which became a centerpiece of a national conversation about the death penalty. Mailer’s award for his self-described “true-life novel” was for fiction, but all three books, if published today, would be considered creative nonfiction.

I couldn’t see why this kind of work—which was as exciting to students as it was to me—didn’t belong in the classroom. In an English department. Not just as a one-off work, to be taught once in a while, but as part of the curriculum. Why wasn’t there a category for writing that wasn’t poetry or fiction or essay or journalism but that could bring the various literary and journalistic techniques used in all of those forms together into one unique work of art and craft? Why didn’t this amalgam of literary and journalistic richness belong . . . somewhere?

Thinking back, I didn’t really belong either. I had pushed my way into the English department first as a part-time lecturer and then as tenure-track faculty by campaigning for this new or different way of writing nonfiction. And to be honest, I think I began to succeed, to make inroads, because, for one thing, most faculty at the time did not want to teach this stuff—nonfiction—especially if it was called or related to journalism. It’s also true I was a bit of an interloper—I was a published author in what might be described as a more commercial vein (books about motorcycles, baseball, backwoods America, targeted to general audiences), a rarity in English departments. And worse, I was a lowly BA. No advanced degrees.

But in many ways, I was also fortunate; during this time, with student protests confronting the old guard on campuses, I got by as a token of change, tolerated but not yet completely accepted. I felt like a misbehaving adolescent, rough around the edges and not yet ready to grow up, learn the rules, and pay my dues. I didn’t even know how to pay my dues. There were few options. Creative-writing programs, ubiquitous today, were rare and in many ways faced resistance in English departments.

Of course, part of the resistance to creative-writing courses, generally, was just the kind of turf defending that goes on in any academic department, where resources can be unfortunately scarce. Giving a tenure slot to a novelist or a poet, after all, can mean losing a tenure slot and resources for research and travel for a literature PhD.

But I think the resistance to creative nonfiction as being part of creative writing went even deeper and had something to do with how we define literature. I remember one particularly contentious debate back in the early 1970s, after one of my students had made a presentation arguing for an entire course devoted to new journalism. (I’d been incorporating pieces into my classes, but there was no entire course devoted to the stuff.) One of the English professors slammed a pile of books—classics—down on the table; his argument, I think, was that my student should have to prove he’d read those works before he was remotely qualified to weigh in on the curriculum. Anyway, perhaps predictably, it turned into a heated debate about which particular works were classics, a debate the department chair ended by observing, “After all, gentlemen, we are interested in literature here—not writing .”

(Were there women in the room? Of course there were.)

Now, what was going on here? Why didn’t these professors think of this writing as literary? And I mean not just contemporary works like In Cold Blood but the work that came before it, too—the nonfiction written by H. L. Mencken and Mark Twain, James Baldwin and Jack London, not to forget the father of English journalism, Daniel Defoe. And what about pioneering narrative journalists like Nellie Bly and Ida Tarbell? I guess I have a few theories.

First, the lack of a unifying name—what to call it—was definitely a complicating factor. “New journalism” wasn’t great because (the argument went, in English departments, at least) journalism was a trade, not a literary pursuit. There were other names floated—“the literature of fact,” “literary nonfiction,” “belles lettres” (which is what the National Endowment for the Arts was using at that time). But using the word “literary” to describe contemporary writing, meaning that a person would have to say “I write literary nonfiction” … well, that felt sort of presumptuous, didn’t it? “Creative” sort of had the same problem; who was to say what that meant, and it also sort of implied that other kinds of writing weren’t creative, and that didn’t feel good, especially to the scholars. And to the journalists, “creative” sounded like it meant you were making stuff up. As for “belles lettres,” well . . . it just sounded pretentious.

Even more than that, I think there was something about the writing itself—and the writers—that felt threatening. Not just because of the rule breaking. So much of this new nonfiction was about real people and events and was often quite revelatory. We were really a no-holds-barred crew. Wherever there was a story we were there, boots on the ground, bringing it to life—and often revealing the darkest side of things, of war, of poverty, of inherent societal racism. And revealing our own foibles and flaws along the way. And it wasn’t just Mailer and Capote and Baldwin who were writing this stuff, but real people capturing their own lives and struggles in dramatic detail. The “new” whatever you wanted to call it was truly an awakening.

Students, undergrads mostly, at first, especially recognized and were energized by the appeal. Suddenly the doors were open to other options far more interesting than the inverted pyramid or the five-paragraph essay, and considering these new possibilities for what to write about and, more important, how to write their stories was liberating, challenging, and downright enjoyable. Student interest and subsequent demand invariably led to more courses, and more courses led to more writers and scholars who would agree to teaching what had once seemed so controversial.

I should also point out that as the dialogue and debate about nonfiction began to grow, in the 1980s and early 1990s, I was traveling widely. I got invitations from not just universities, but also book clubs and local conferences, from Wyoming to Birmingham to Boston, and met not only with students but also with many of these “real” people who wanted to write. Some were professionals—doctors, teachers, scientists—but there were also firefighters, ambulance drivers, and what we then called homemakers, all with stories to write. They, too, saw the appeal of this nonfiction form that let you tell stories and incorporate your experiences along with other information and ideas and personal opinions.

These folks cared much less than the academics did about what it was called. But—after the dust had settled to a certain extent in academia; after the English department at Pitt had agreed, first, to a course called “The New Nonfiction” and then, nearly two decades later, to a whole master’s program concentrating on creative nonfiction writing (the first in the country, I believe), which later became an MFA program; and after the NEA, in 1989 or so, also adopted the term “creative nonfiction,” a tipping point for sure—well, it mattered tremendously to those folks that it had a name, this kind of writing they wanted to do. It brought a validation to their work, to know that there was a place or a category where their work belonged. The writing itself wasn’t necessarily anything new—people had been doing it forever, if you knew where to look for it—but now people were paying attention to it, and they had something to call it.

And then, a little later, when this journal (now, this magazine) started publishing, in 1993, that added another form of legitimacy. And, in fact, work from many of those writers I met during those years on the road was published in the first few issues of Creative Nonfiction . In the early issues of the journal, we attracted all kinds of writers who were, perhaps, tired of being locked in or limited. We published journalists and essayists and poets, all of them exploring and reaching.

All of this did not happen overnight. English departments did not jump right in and embrace nonfiction; it was, as I have said, a much more gradual and often reluctant acceptance, but clearly an inevitable—and eventually gracious—one, maybe mostly for practical reasons. Creative writing programs were becoming quite profitable, especially at a time when literature and liberal arts majors were waning. Adding nonfiction brought in an entirely new breed of students, not just literary types, but those interested in science and economics or those students who were just interested in finding a job after graduation. Learning to write true stories in a compelling way could only enhance future opportunities.

It may well be that English departments resisted change for various reasons at the beginning, but they also opened the doors and provided a place—a destination—for all of us creative nonfictionists to come together, dialogue and share our work, and earn a certain legitimacy that had been denied to us at the very beginning. I had no idea at the time I started teaching that creative nonfiction would become such a mainstay, not just in the academy, but as a force and influence in literature and in publishing. That was not my intent, and I was certainly not the only “warrior” who took up the fight. But I don’t think this fight could have taken place anywhere else but in the academy, where intellectual discourse and opportunities for new ideas can so richly flourish and be recognized. I have no idea whether an outsider like me, beating the bushes for support of a genre or an idea that did not seem to exist, could survive in an English department or anywhere else in the academy today; the atmosphere, the politics, the financial pressures, the tone of the times is so very different.

Even then, it was very much a minor miracle that I, uncredentialled and tainted, as some thought, by commercialism, was accorded such an opportunity. And that all of my campaigning and annoying persistence were tolerated. It would have been easy to eliminate me. But as much of an interloper as I was, I was rarely shut down; I could always speak my mind. And even though many of my colleagues were pretty damn unhappy about the new journalism and, later, creative nonfiction, they eventually came to recognize the popularity and potential of this new genre and, I think, to respect and appreciate the dedication and excitement displayed by our nonfiction students.

As the program grew and other universities followed suit, we outliers not only began to fit in, but also began to thrive. We added depth and substance not just to writing programs, but to the entire department. And as our students published, won awards, became popular teachers in their own right, we added more than a little bit of prestige.

What happened at Pitt and later at other English departments isn’t so very different than what happened as our genre evolved. Fifty years ago, we were hardly a blip on the radar, an add-on or an afterthought, a necessary annoyance at best. Today, we are not just a part of the literary ecosystem, we are its most active and impactful contributors—leaders and change makers and motivators where we once did not belong.

__________________________________

This essay originally appeared in Issue #76 of  Creative Nonfiction under the title “ I’d Like to Thank the Academy .”

Lee Gutkind

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Last updated on Feb 20, 2023

Creative Nonfiction: How to Spin Facts into Narrative Gold

About the author.

Reedsy's editorial team is a diverse group of industry experts devoted to helping authors write and publish beautiful books.

About Savannah Cordova

Savannah is a senior editor with Reedsy and a published writer whose work has appeared on Slate, Kirkus, and BookTrib. Her short fiction has appeared in the Owl Canyon Press anthology, "No Bars and a Dead Battery". 

About Rebecca van Laer

Rebecca van Laer is a writer, editor, and the author of two books, including the novella How to Adjust to the Dark. Her work has been featured in literary magazines such as AGNI, Breadcrumbs, and TriQuarterly.

Creative nonfiction is a genre of creative writing that approaches factual information in a literary way. This type of writing applies techniques drawn from literary fiction and poetry to material that might be at home in a magazine or textbook, combining the craftsmanship of a novel with the rigor of journalism. 

Here are some popular examples of creative nonfiction:

• The Collected Schizophrenias by Esmé Weijun Wang
• Intimations by Zadie Smith
• Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
• The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
• Translating Myself and Others by Jhumpa Lahiri
• The Madwoman in the Attic by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar
• I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
• Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino

Creative nonfiction is not limited to novel-length writing, of course. Popular radio shows and podcasts like WBEZ’s This American Life or Sarah Koenig’s Serial also explore audio essays and documentary with a narrative approach, while personal essays like Nora Ephron’s A Few Words About Breasts and Mariama Lockington’s What A Black Woman Wishes Her Adoptive White Parents Knew also present fact with fiction-esque flair.

Writing short personal essays can be a great entry point to writing creative nonfiction. Think about a topic you would like to explore, perhaps borrowing from your own life, or a universal experience. Journal freely for five to ten minutes about the subject, and see what direction your creativity takes you in. These kinds of exercises will help you begin to approach reality in a more free flowing, literary way — a muscle you can use to build up to longer pieces of creative nonfiction.

If you think you’d like to bring your writerly prowess to nonfiction, here are our top tips for creating compelling creative nonfiction that’s as readable as a novel, but as illuminating as a scholarly article.

Write a memoir focused on a singular experience

Humans love reading about other people’s lives — like first-person memoirs, which allow you to get inside another person’s mind and learn from their wisdom. Unlike autobiographies, memoirs can focus on a single experience or theme instead of chronicling the writers’ life from birth onward.

For that reason, memoirs tend to focus on one core theme and—at least the best ones—present a clear narrative arc, like you would expect from a novel. This can be achieved by selecting a singular story from your life; a formative experience, or period of time, which is self-contained and can be marked by a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

When writing a memoir, you may also choose to share your experience in parallel with further research on this theme. By performing secondary research, you’re able to bring added weight to your anecdotal evidence, and demonstrate the ways your own experience is reflective (or perhaps unique from) the wider whole.

Example: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking , for example, interweaves the author’s experience of widowhood with sociological research on grief. Chronicling the year after her husband’s unexpected death, and the simultaneous health struggles of their daughter, The Year of Magical Thinking is a poignant personal story, layered with universal insight into what it means to lose someone you love. The result is the definitive exploration of bereavement — and a stellar example of creative nonfiction done well.

📚 Looking for more reading recommendations? Check out our list of the best memoirs of the last century .

Tip: What you cut out is just as important as what you keep

When writing a memoir that is focused around a singular theme, it’s important to be selective in what to include, and what to leave out. While broader details of your life may be helpful to provide context, remember to resist the impulse to include too much non-pertinent backstory. By only including what is most relevant, you are able to provide a more focused reader experience, and won’t leave readers guessing what the significance of certain non-essential anecdotes will be.

💡 For more memoir-planning tips, head over to our post on outlining memoirs .

Of course, writing a memoir isn’t the only form of creative nonfiction that lets you tap into your personal life — especially if there’s something more explicit you want to say about the world at large… which brings us onto our next section.

Pen a personal essay that has something bigger to say

Personal essays condense the first-person focus and intimacy of a memoir into a tighter package — tunneling down into a specific aspect of a theme or narrative strand within the author’s personal experience.

Often involving some element of journalistic research, personal essays can provide examples or relevant information that comes from outside the writer’s own experience. This can take the form of other people’s voices quoted in the essay, or facts and stats. By combining lived experiences with external material, personal essay writers can reach toward a bigger message, telling readers something about human behavior or society instead of just letting them know the writer better.

Example: The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison

Leslie Jamison's widely acclaimed collection The Empathy Exams  tackles big questions (Why is pain so often performed? Can empathy be “bad”?) by grounding them in the personal. While Jamison draws from her own experiences, both as a medical actor who was paid to imitate pain, and as a sufferer of her own ailments, she also reaches broader points about the world we live in within each of her essays.

Whether she’s talking about the justice system or reality TV, Jamison writes with both vulnerability and poise, using her lived experience as a jumping-off point for exploring the nature of empathy itself.

Tip: Try to show change in how you feel about something

Including external perspectives, as we’ve just discussed above, will help shape your essay, making it meaningful to other people and giving your narrative an arc. 

Ultimately, you may be writing about yourself, but readers can read what they want into it. In a personal narrative, they’re looking for interesting insights or realizations they can apply to their own understanding of their lives or the world — so don’t lose sight of that. As the subject of the essay, you are not so much the topic as the vehicle for furthering a conversation.

Often, there are three clear stages in an essay:

• Initial state 
• Encounter with something external
• New, changed state, and conclusions

By bringing readers through this journey with you, you can guide them to new outlooks and demonstrate how your story is still relevant to them.

Had enough of writing about your own life? Let’s look at a form of creative nonfiction that allows you to get outside of yourself.

Tell a factual story as though it were a novel

The form of creative nonfiction that is perhaps closest to conventional nonfiction is literary journalism. Here, the stories are all fact, but they are presented with a creative flourish. While the stories being told might comfortably inhabit a newspaper or history book, they are presented with a sense of literary significance, and writers can make use of literary techniques and character-driven storytelling.

Unlike news reporters, literary journalists can make room for their own perspectives: immersing themselves in the very action they recount. Think of them as both characters and narrators — but every word they write is true. 

If you think literary journalism is up your street, think about the kinds of stories that capture your imagination the most, and what those stories have in common. Are they, at their core, character studies? Parables? An invitation to a new subculture you have never before experienced? Whatever piques your interest, immerse yourself.

Example: The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan

If you’re looking for an example of literary journalism that tells a great story, look no further than Michael Pollan’s The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World , which sits at the intersection of food writing and popular science. Though it purports to offer a “plant’s-eye view of the world,” it’s as much about human desires as it is about the natural world.

Through the history of four different plants and human’s efforts to cultivate them, Pollan uses first-hand research as well as archival facts to explore how we attempt to domesticate nature for our own pleasure, and how these efforts can even have devastating consequences. Pollan is himself a character in the story, and makes what could be a remarkably dry topic accessible and engaging in the process.

Tip: Don’t pretend that you’re perfectly objective

You may have more room for your own perspective within literary journalism, but with this power comes great responsibility. Your responsibilities toward the reader remain the same as that of a journalist: you must, whenever possible, acknowledge your own biases or conflicts of interest, as well as any limitations on your research. 

Thankfully, the fact that literary journalism often involves a certain amount of immersion in the narrative — that is, the writer acknowledges their involvement in the process — you can touch on any potential biases explicitly, and make it clear that the story you’re telling, while true to what you experienced, is grounded in your own personal perspective.

Approach a famous name with a unique approach 

Biographies are the chronicle of a human life, from birth to the present or, sometimes, their demise. Often, fact is stranger than fiction, and there is no shortage of fascinating figures from history to discover. As such, a biographical approach to creative nonfiction will leave you spoilt for choice in terms of subject matter.

Because they’re not written by the subjects themselves (as memoirs are), biographical nonfiction requires careful research. If you plan to write one, do everything in your power to verify historical facts, and interview the subject’s family, friends, and acquaintances when possible. Despite the necessity for candor, you’re still welcome to approach biography in a literary way — a great creative biography is both truthful and beautifully written.

Example: American Prometheus  by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin

Alongside the need for you to present the truth is a duty to interpret that evidence with imagination, and present it in the form of a story. Demonstrating a novelist’s skill for plot and characterization, Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin’s American Prometheus is a great example of creative nonfiction that develops a character right in front of the readers’ eyes .

American Prometheus follows J. Robert Oppenheimer from his bashful childhood to his role as the father of the atomic bomb, all the way to his later attempts to reckon with his violent legacy.

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The biography tells a story that would fit comfortably in the pages of a tragic novel, but is grounded in historical research. Clocking in at a hefty 721 pages, American Prometheus distills an enormous volume of archival material, including letters, FBI files, and interviews into a remarkably readable volume. 

📚 For more examples of world-widening, eye-opening biographies, check out our list of the 30 best biographies of all time.

Tip: The good stuff lies in the mundane details

Biographers are expected to undertake academic-grade research before they put pen to paper. You will, of course, read any existing biographies on the person you’re writing about, and visit any archives containing relevant material. If you’re lucky, there’ll be people you can interview who knew your subject personally — but even if there aren’t, what’s going to make your biography stand out is paying attention to details, even if they seem mundane at first.

Of course, no one cares which brand of slippers a former US President wore — gossip is not what we’re talking about. But if you discover that they took a long, silent walk every single morning, that’s a granular detail you could include to give your readers a sense of the weight they carried every day. These smaller details add up to a realistic portrait of a living, breathing human being.

But creative nonfiction isn’t just writing about yourself or other people. Writing about art is also an art, as we’ll see below.

Put your favorite writers through the wringer with literary criticism

Literary criticism is often associated with dull, jargon-laden college dissertations — but it can be a wonderfully rewarding form that blurs the lines between academia and literature itself. When tackled by a deft writer, a literary critique can be just as engrossing as the books it analyzes.

Many of the sharpest literary critics are also poets, poetry editors , novelists, or short story writers, with first-hand awareness of literary techniques and the ability to express their insights with elegance and flair. Though literary criticism sounds highly theoretical, it can be profoundly intimate: you’re invited to share in someone’s experience as a reader or writer — just about the most private experience there is.

Example: The Madwoman in the Attic by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar

Take The Madwoman in the Attic by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, a seminal work approaching Victorian literature from a feminist perspective. Written as a conversation between two friends and academics, this brilliant book reads like an intellectual brainstorming session in a casual dining venue. Highly original, accessible, and not suffering from the morose gravitas academia is often associated with, this text is a fantastic example of creative nonfiction.

Tip: Remember to make your critiques creative

Literary criticism may be a serious undertaking, but unless you’re trying to pitch an academic journal, you’ll need to be mindful of academic jargon and convoluted sentence structure. Don’t forget that the point of popular literary criticism is to make ideas accessible to readers who aren’t necessarily academics, introducing them to new ways of looking at anything they read. 

If you’re not feeling confident, a professional nonfiction editor could help you confirm you’ve hit the right stylistic balance .

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• Creative Nonfiction

Creative nonfiction is a genre that employs literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives, making it both informative and engaging. This genre includes memoirs, biographies, personal essays, and other forms that prioritize creativity while maintaining truthfulness. By blending factual content with narrative flair, creative nonfiction connects readers to real-life experiences in a compelling way, encouraging both critical thinking and empathy.

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What is a Creative Nonfiction Essay?

How does Creative Nonfiction differ from fiction?

What elements are commonly used in Creative Nonfiction?

What is essential when writing a Creative Nonfiction Essay?

What is the primary focus of Creative Nonfiction?

What role do themes play in Creative Nonfiction?

How does non-linear storytelling enhance Creative Nonfiction?

What narrative strategy is used in 'The Things They Carried' by Tim O’Brien?

Which work by Joan Didion is known for its exploration of grief through Creative Nonfiction?

What is Creative Nonfiction primarily characterized by?

What makes the structure of a Creative Nonfiction Essay unique?

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Creative Nonfiction Definition

Creative Nonfiction is a genre of writing that blends creative expression with factual accuracy. It aims to engage the reader using literary styles and techniques while staying true to the facts.

What is Creative Nonfiction

Creative Nonfiction encapsulates a wide range of writing styles that strive to convey real-life events using vivid narration and structure. Unlike traditional nonfiction, Creative Nonfiction encourages the use of literary elements such as imagery, metaphor, and dialogue to bring stories to life. By employing these techniques, writers can compose engaging essays, memoirs, and personal narratives.

Here are some characteristics of Creative Nonfiction:

• It must be grounded in fact and truth, unlike fiction which can be entirely imaginary.
• Emphasizes storytelling techniques that are commonly found in fiction writing.
• Involves personal reflection or interpretation.
• Contains a narrative arc or structure similar to a novel or short story.

An excellent example of Creative Nonfiction is a memoir where the author shares their life experiences using descriptive language and scenes that unfold like a story. For instance, 'The Glass Castle' by Jeannette Walls is a popular memoir that uses creative nonfiction techniques to tell a compelling life story.

In Creative Nonfiction, accuracy is crucial. Always check your facts!

Creative Nonfiction vs Fiction

The key distinction between Creative Nonfiction and fiction lies in their relationship with truth . While both genres use storytelling elements , their foundations differ significantly. Creative Nonfiction is committed to truthfulness in its depiction of events, characters, and dialogues, while fiction gives the author freedom to invent and alter reality.

Here are some differences:

An interesting aspect of Creative Nonfiction is its evolution alongside the rise of new journalism in the mid-20th century. This form of journalism embraced narrative storytelling methods, influencing how stories in Creative Nonfiction are told today. Writers like Tom Wolfe and Gay Talese incorporated these techniques, challenging the status quo of objective reporting and inspiring a new wave of writers who blend factual reporting with an immersive narrative style .

Creative Nonfiction Essay

A Creative Nonfiction Essay merges factual events with creative storytelling to captivate and inform readers. It focuses on presenting true events in a style that employs literary devices, resulting in an engaging narrative. Writing an essay in this genre requires balancing creativity with factual integrity.

Structure of a Creative Nonfiction Essay

The structure of a Creative Nonfiction Essay typically follows a loose framework that includes an introduction, body, and conclusion. However, its unique appeal lies in how it creatively weaves truth through narrative techniques .

• Introduction: Sets the scene and hooks the reader.
• Body: Develops the narrative with a sequence of events , literary devices, and factual information.
• Conclusion: Wraps up the essay with reflections or resolutions that emphasize the essay's main themes.

Unlike academic essays, this genre thrives on flexibility in structure, allowing for varied presentation styles.

Suppose you're writing a Creative Nonfiction Essay about a significant personal experience, like a family reunion. You would chronicle moments and interactions, infuse sensory details , and reflect on the emotions experienced, combining them seamlessly to form a cohesive narrative.

Use dialogue where necessary to add depth and realism to your essay!

Writing a Creative Nonfiction Essay

Crafting a Creative Nonfiction Essay involves a blend of research, personal reflection, and storytelling. Here are steps to guide your writing process:

• Choose a Topic: Select a subject or experience that resonates personally and offers factual grounding.
• Research: Gather factual information that supports your narrative and ensures accuracy.
• Outline the Plot: Plan the flow of your story, including major events, characters, and turning points.
• Develop Characters: Write about real-life individuals vividly, highlighting their unique traits and interactions.
• Use Literary Devices: Employ techniques like metaphor , imagery , and dialogue to enrich the narrative.
• Revise and Edit: Polish your essay by refining language, checking facts, and ensuring a coherent narrative.

Crafting Creative Nonfiction requires sustaining a delicate balance between creativity and accuracy. The challenge lies in how one might tackle events such as historical happenings or personal anecdotes. For example, if writing about a historical event, a writer may introduce perspectives that humanize the event, enhancing the connection to the readers. While employing creative techniques , authors must remain transparent about any embellishments or interpretations. The use of creative freedom must never alter the core truths underlying the narrative, as adherence to facts is the defining feature that distinguishes Creative Nonfiction from fictional works.

Creative Nonfiction Examples

In understanding Creative Nonfiction, examining exemplary works gives insight into how authors merge factual storytelling with creative techniques. These examples highlight the genre's diversity and its ability to engage readers with true stories delivered in a compelling manner.

Famous Creative Nonfiction Works

Numerous Creative Nonfiction works have made a significant impact, showcasing the potential of this genre to narrate true stories with literary flair. Some renowned works in this genre have remained staple reads for their storytelling finesse and factual integrity.

• 'In Cold Blood' by Truman Capote: This masterpiece revolutionized the genre by narrating the true crime story of a family's murder with novelistic elements.
• 'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion: A profound memoir exploring grief with lyrical prose and narrative techniques that evoke authentic emotional experiences.
• 'The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks' by Rebecca Skloot: Skloot intricately blends scientific facts with narrative storytelling to reveal the story behind important medical breakthroughs.

In 'Into the Wild' by Jon Krakauer, the author recounts the journey of Chris McCandless. Through interviews, research, and detailed narrative, Krakauer presents an engaging exploration of McCandless's life and the standout choices he made.

Finding themes of human experience—like struggle, joy, or resilience—can help readers connect deeper with nonfiction works.

Analyzing Creative Nonfiction Examples

Analyzing Creative Nonfiction involves looking at how authors craft stories while adhering to factual truths. By evaluating examples, you can see the effective use of narrative strategies and literary techniques that distinguish this genre.

• Character Development: Even in nonfiction, authors vividly portray real individuals by capturing their dialogues, emotions, and evolutions over the narrative.
• Structure and Flow: Creative Nonfiction pieces use varying structures—from chronological to thematic approaches—to maintain reader interest.
• Use of Literary Devices: Metaphors, similes, and imagery enhance the narrative by adding depth and meaning.

For a more nuanced understanding of Creative Nonfiction, consider the innovative narrative structures that some authors employ. In 'The Things They Carried' by Tim O’Brien, although often debated due to its fictional elements, O’Brien intertwines elements of Creative Nonfiction by presenting scenes that blur the lines between truth and fiction, provoking readers to question the nature of truth. This exploration offers a remarkable study in how individuals recollect their experiences. Such works showcase an experimental approach to storytelling, challenging conventional frameworks and encouraging readers to explore the boundary between fiction and nonfiction critically.

Creative Nonfiction Techniques

To write engaging Creative Nonfiction , writers employ a range of techniques that add depth and intrigue to real-life narratives. These techniques help bring factual stories to life, making them as compelling as fictional tales while maintaining accuracy and truth.

Narrative Techniques in Creative Nonfiction

Narrative techniques are crucial in Creative Nonfiction as they structure the story and guide readers through the facts. These techniques transform real events into engaging narratives capable of captivating an audience.

• Scene-by-Scene Construction: Breaks down events into detailed scenes, creating vivid moments for readers.
• Characterization : Builds complex personalities from real-life individuals, enhancing relatability.
• Dialogue: Reflects authentic speech while conveying character and advancing the plot.
• Point of View: Employs a consistent perspective to shape the narrative's voice and direction.

In Lauren Hillenbrand's 'Unbroken,' the narrative technique of suspense is used masterfully. She presents each challenge faced by the protagonist with anticipation, building tension and compelling readers to continue.

A common narrative technique in Creative Nonfiction is the use of non-linear storytelling. This approach, often seen in notable works like 'Educated' by Tara Westover, allows authors to weave various timelines and perspectives strategically. By doing so, it creates a complex tapestry of events that mirror the intricacies of real life. Non-linear narratives may include flashbacks or forward jumps, which can provide context and heighten emotional impact. This structure keeps readers engrossed, as understanding the full story requires piecing together moments presented out of chronological order.

Literary Devices in Creative Nonfiction

Literary devices play an essential role in adding layers of meaning and artistic flair to Creative Nonfiction. These tools embellish factual stories and help to communicate deeper truths and emotions.

• Imagery: Uses descriptive language to create vivid mental pictures, enhancing reader immersion.
• Metaphor and Simile: Compare ideas and objects to convey meanings symbolically.
• Symbolism: Encapsulates ideas or themes through objects, actions, or characters, adding depth.
• Foreshadowing: Hints at future events, building anticipation and connection across the narrative.

In 'The Color of Water' by James McBride, vivid imagery captures the hustle of urban life, evoking a sense of place and supporting the memoir's theme of identity.

Using literary devices sparingly ensures that the narrative remains clear and impactful.

Creative Nonfiction Themes

Themes in Creative Nonfiction unify the narrative and offer readers insightful exploration of real-world topics. These themes often reflect universal experiences and emotions, fostering connection between the writer and reader.

• Identity: Explores concepts of self, culture, and belonging.
• Memory: Delves into the subjective nature of recalling the past.
• Resilience: Highlights human strength and endurance in overcoming challenges.
• Truth and Perception: Examines the nuances between truth and how it is perceived.

Exploring themes in Creative Nonfiction allows writers to tap into shared human experiences. Identity, for example, is a prevalent theme as it relates to everyone and invites exploration of questions such as 'Who am I?' and 'Where do I belong?'. Works like 'Becoming' by Michelle Obama explicitly delve into the multifaceted evolution of one's identity, offering readers reflection on their journeys. Additionally, by portraying resilience, authors inspire and motivate their audience, demonstrating that even in the face of adversity, persistence can lead to triumph. This exploration can offer profound emotional resonance as it mirrors the readers' experiences.

Creative Nonfiction - Key takeaways

• Creative Nonfiction blends creative expression with factual accuracy, aiming to engage readers while remaining truthful.
• It uses literary elements like imagery, metaphor, and dialogue to narrate real-life events in an engaging way.
• Creative Nonfiction Essays merge factual storytelling with creative narration, utilizing literary devices and structure.
• Examples of Creative Nonfiction include works like 'The Glass Castle' by Jeannette Walls and 'In Cold Blood' by Truman Capote.
• Creative Nonfiction techniques involve scene-by-scene construction, characterization , and the use of literary devices to enhance narratives.
• Themes in Creative Nonfiction often explore identity, memory, resilience, and the nuances of truth and perception.

Flashcards in Creative Nonfiction 12

It emphasizes data and statistics without narrative.

Revolves around altering known facts and events.

Strictly fact-only writing.

Presenting only factual data without narrative.

Presenting purely academic and factual reports

They distract from the factual basis to add fantasy.

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Teaching, Writing, and Reflecting

The winner of Creative Nonfiction's "How We Teach" essay contest discusses her first teaching experience and the lessons she learned from it

Margaret Downey is a trained secondary English teacher who spent the past few years living in rural, upstate New York. She now resides in Copenhagen, where she works in a child development office at a study abroad institution for American college students. She spends her spare time reading, writing, traveling, and playing with her coworkers’ children. “The Month That I Taught English…” is her first publication.

CNF:  You seem to use this essay about your experience substitute teaching high school English to help process how that summer impacted you and how you affected your students. Did writing about the experience help you to understand it differently or on a deeper level? Do you often use writing to get a better understanding of your experiences?

Downey: Julia Alvarez wrote, “Unless I write things down I never know / what I think, no less feel, about the world…” and I couldn’t agree more. I have always had a hard time fully processing experiences, but once I begin writing about something, I suddenly understand how I think and feel about that event.

CNF:  What led you to realize you wanted to be a teacher in the first place?

Downey: Throughout most of my childhood, I wanted to be a writer. When I got old enough to realize that “only” being a writer wasn’t completely feasible, I decided to combine my love for writing with my love for school (I proudly won “Teacher’s Pet” in my high school yearbook). Becoming an English teacher seemed like a good compromise because I loved working with students, and I was really interested in helping others love writing as much as I do. The current curriculum mostly teaches students to regurgitate sentences or fill in boxes, like the graphic organizer for ACE-IT my English teacher gave me in 9th grade. Writing can be so much more than that, though, and I was eager to share my knowledge and excitement about it with students.

I’ve realized in the past few years that I also enjoy working in higher education—still working with students, but more one-on-one than teaching. And I will of course always be a writer on the side of whichever career I choose.

CNF:  How did the knowledge that there were escaped convicts in the school’s vicinity impact the atmosphere of learning? Was it harder for the kids to focus? Was the mood of the school fearful, excited, anxious?

Downey:  No one could stop talking about the prison escape. Most people expressed excitement because we were in a tiny town in rural upstate New York, where almost nothing happens. A few of my students had dreams of being the hero—of finding and shooting the convicts on their own. Although no one talked about it, I know there was a lot of anxiety surrounding the escape, especially for the few days we had to go through roadblocks and open the trunks of our cars for armed policemen, just so we could get past the stoplight outside the school.

I would say that yes, the students probably had a harder time focusing in school during the prison escape, but it was also the last three weeks before summer vacation, so many students were already feeling the weird combination of sleepiness and rowdiness that comes from not wanting to do any work but also feeling happily antsy because the sun is out. What made the learning atmosphere most bizarre, I think, was my arrival. I was a new teacher in a classroom full of students who hadn’t learned anything all year, and even though they were ready for summer and excited or stressed out about the prison escape, my arrival automatically put them into “First Day of School” mode. They had great behavior, followed all my directions, participated in discussions, and didn’t check their phones in class. It was an interesting dynamic stepping into my classroom, compared to walking through the rest of the school, where everyone seemed ready to chase prisoners and then sit on the beach.

CNF:  Your story combines several stories that aren’t necessarily connected: the escaped chinchilla, the escaped convicts, and teaching essay-writing. What is it that made you weave those components of the story together? Did you struggle with making the story lines work with each other?

Downey:  I was only a teacher at this school for a short amount of time, and yet everything about the experience seemed like it was straight out of a movie. The stories students told me about their previous teacher, the way the school came together when the chinchilla escaped, the nearby prison break…. Each new day, I had to question, “Is this really happening?” The truth about why I wove the chinchilla, the prison escape, and the essay writing together is that those are the main events that took place in my three weeks at the school. I can’t imagine how many other crazy stories I would have to choose from if I had stayed longer.

In terms of making the stories work together, at first I really wasn’t sure how they were connected—I just knew, when I finished teaching, that I needed to write something about my time there. I’m pretty sure the earliest draft of the essay was just a giant, boring narrative of my three-week adventure, something no one should have to read. I didn’t think anything would come of it, but with time, I couldn’t stop thinking about my experience, and I especially couldn’t stop thinking about the chinchilla, when it seemed like everyone else was still focused on Richard Matt and David Sweat. I spoke with some teachers from the school after I moved back home to ask if anyone found the chinchilla, and they almost didn’t remember that he ever escaped. I felt so sad thinking about this small creature’s valiant escape from the science lab going unnoticed, just as I felt sad thinking about how little time I spent with my students, compared to all the other weeks they would be in school without me. I knew I would forever remember teaching them, but would they remember me?

And then the essay was born.

CNF:  Did your summer of teaching affect your attitudes and expectations as you started graduate school that fall?

Downey:  This subbing experience boosted my confidence and improved my ability to go with the flow. Packing up my belongings on short notice, moving into a house with strangers in a town where I knew no one, and taking over an immense amount of planning, teaching, and grading is a feat that not everyone can accomplish. It’s also the type of experience that makes you think, “If I can do that, I can probably do anything.” I’m not sure if it directly impacted any of my attitudes or expectations while in graduate school, but keep in mind that this past May, I packed up my belongings and moved across the world work at a higher education institution in Copenhagen. Certainly that decision was made possible by the confidence and adventure that this subbing experience provided me.

CNF:  Many young teachers struggle in the classroom, and it requires a sort of bravery to write about those first teaching experiences. After processing the experience through writing about it, how do you think those three weeks influenced you the most?

Downey:  I think that the experience impacted my professionality and my ability to “play it by ear.” I learned that no matter how well-thought-out a lesson or unit plan might be, you simply can’t predict what will happen every day. It’s important to be able to think creatively and adapt to the situation—not just in teaching, but with all aspects of life. These are skills that, if I were to be an English teacher again, I would promote in my classroom.

CNF:  Have you written anything else inspired by teaching? What other life experiences and events fuel your writing?

Downey:  I wrote a memoir in college about my connection to education. Under the mentorship of Dr. William Bradley, this independent study explored highlights of the semester I spent student teaching at a rural school with a 22% Native American population, as well as my life-long love of teachers.

For the most part, though, my writing is inspired by the everyday. I have certainly had some noteworthy moments in my current job working with college students in Copenhagen, for example, which I’m sure will blossom into personal essays over time. So stay tuned, one day, to read about the violent intruder panic alarm one of my students accidentally set off in an extremely impoverished preschool in London, or about the professor whose life I saved by performing heart massage and mouth-to-mouth, or even about the barefoot woman begging for change outside my office.

There are stories everywhere, if you just pay attention.

* Illustration by Mary Dorfner Hay

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