Creative Nonfiction

We all get tired of being ourselves, sometimes. That’s one of the reasons we read, in any genre—to be transported beyond our own experiences, to consider others’ perspectives and ways of going through life, and then, to come back with a fresh outlook. It’s why we write, too: to discover unexpected truths or previously unarticulated ideas. But sometimes there are ideas or truths that feel too complicated or too dangerous to approach head-on. Fortunately, writers have a range of tools at our disposal, and one of those is voice. While assembling this issue, our editors were drawn to works with unconventional narrators: a cancer story narrated by a sardonic tumor; a profile collaged from a month’s worth of conversation; a confession—or is it?—that could crack a decades-old cold case, among others. We…

We all get tired of being ourselves, sometimes. That’s one of the reasons we read, in any genre—to be transported beyond our own experiences, to consider others’ perspectives and ways of going through life, and then, to come back with a fresh outlook. It’s why we write, too: to discover unexpected truths or previously unarticulated ideas. But sometimes there are ideas or truths that feel too complicated or too dangerous to approach head-on. Fortunately, writers have a range of tools at our disposal, and one of those is voice. While assembling this issue, our editors were drawn to works with unconventional narrators: a cancer story narrated by a sardonic tumor; a profile collaged from a month’s worth of conversation; a confession—or is it?—that could crack a decades-old cold case, among…

I have just finished writing a book that tells the story of the evolution of creative nonfiction, as I saw it and lived it. And now, as I write this in late July, a couple of weeks after sending the manuscript off to my publisher, I am beginning to feel like myself again. I mean, I am ready to re-enter the world—as a person, as Lee Gutkind, a guy who lives in the Shadyside section of Pittsburgh and has a family (small), friends (a few), and interests aside from writing (the Steelers, golf, hanging out at bars)—all gradually left behind as I was writing this book. There’s an isolation, what becomes an obsessed single-mindedness, that comes with committing to a book project. The book takes over your life. This doesn’t happen…

I have just finished writing a book that tells the story of the evolution of creative nonfiction, as I saw it and lived it. And now, as I write this in late July, a couple of weeks after sending the manuscript off to my publisher, I am beginning to feel like myself again. I mean, I am ready to re-enter the world—as a person, as Lee Gutkind, a guy who lives in the Shadyside section of Pittsburgh and has a family (small), friends (a few), and interests aside from writing (the Steelers, golf, hanging out at bars)—all gradually left behind as I was writing this book. There’s an isolation, what becomes an obsessed single-mindedness, that comes with committing to a book project. The book takes over your life. This doesn’t happen…

“Finding your voice”—or, even better, your voices—on the page is more than a craft challenge; it’s the key to claiming your story When you’re inside a piece of writing that hums and crackles and sparks, when a real person is talking to you from the page, you’ve encountered a voice. “Voice” is what writing feels like. It sets off sympathetic vibrations in readers. It gives us a sense of connection to another live human presence, creating a real and complex moment of communication. As the poet Adrienne Rich put it, words written with voice have “the sheer heft/of our living behind” them. We already have voices, so the guidance to “find” one’s voice is often confusing for writers. If you’ve read about voice, you might have encountered the idea that…

“Finding your voice”—or, even better, your voices—on the page is more than a craft challenge; it’s the key to claiming your story When you’re inside a piece of writing that hums and crackles and sparks, when a real person is talking to you from the page, you’ve encountered a voice. “Voice” is what writing feels like. It sets off sympathetic vibrations in readers. It gives us a sense of connection to another live human presence, creating a real and complex moment of communication. As the poet Adrienne Rich put it, words written with voice have “the sheer heft/of our living behind” them. We already have voices, so the guidance to “find” one’s voice is often confusing for writers. If you’ve read about voice, you might have encountered the idea that it is…