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Creative Nonfiction: An Overview

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This resource provides an introduction to creative nonfiction, including an overview of the genre and an explanation of major sub-genres.

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.

What is creative nonfiction? Despite its slightly enigmatic name, no literary genre has grown quite as quickly as creative nonfiction in recent decades. Literary nonfiction is now well-established as a powerful means of storytelling, and bookstores now reserve large amounts of space for nonfiction, when it often used to occupy a single bookshelf.

Like any literary genre, creative nonfiction has a long history; also like other genres, defining contemporary CNF for the modern writer can be nuanced. If you’re interested in writing true-to-life stories but you’re not sure where to begin, let’s start by dissecting the creative nonfiction genre and what it means to write a modern literary essay.

What Creative Nonfiction Is

Creative nonfiction employs the creative writing techniques of literature, such as poetry and fiction, to retell a true story.

How do we define creative nonfiction? What makes it “creative,” as opposed to just “factual writing”? These are great questions to ask when entering the genre, and they require answers which could become literary essays themselves.

In short, creative nonfiction (CNF) is a form of storytelling that employs the creative writing techniques of literature, such as poetry and fiction, to retell a true story. Creative nonfiction writers don’t just share pithy anecdotes, they use craft and technique to situate the reader into their own personal lives. Fictional elements, such as character development and narrative arcs, are employed to create a cohesive story, but so are poetic elements like conceit and juxtaposition.

The CNF genre is wildly experimental, and contemporary nonfiction writers are pushing the bounds of literature by finding new ways to tell their stories. While a CNF writer might retell a personal narrative, they might also focus their gaze on history, politics, or they might use creative writing elements to write an expository essay. There are very few limits to what creative nonfiction can be, which is what makes defining the genre so difficult—but writing it so exciting.

Different Forms of Creative Nonfiction

From the autobiographies of Mark Twain and Benvenuto Cellini, to the more experimental styles of modern writers like Karl Ove Knausgård, creative nonfiction has a long history and takes a wide variety of forms. Common iterations of the creative nonfiction genre include the following:

Also known as biography or autobiography, the memoir form is probably the most recognizable form of creative nonfiction. Memoirs are collections of memories, either surrounding a single narrative thread or multiple interrelated ideas. The memoir is usually published as a book or extended piece of fiction, and many memoirs take years to write and perfect. Memoirs often take on a similar writing style as the personal essay does, though it must be personable and interesting enough to encourage the reader through the entire book.

Personal Essay

Personal essays are stories about personal experiences told using literary techniques.

When someone hears the word “essay,” they instinctively think about those five paragraph book essays everyone wrote in high school. In creative nonfiction, the personal essay is much more vibrant and dynamic. Personal essays are stories about personal experiences, and while some personal essays can be standalone stories about a single event, many essays braid true stories with extended metaphors and other narratives.

Personal essays are often intimate, emotionally charged spaces. Consider the opening two paragraphs from Beth Ann Fennelly’s personal essay “ I Survived the Blizzard of ’79. ”

We didn’t question. Or complain. It wouldn’t have occurred to us, and it wouldn’t have helped. I was eight. Julie was ten.

We didn’t know yet that this blizzard would earn itself a moniker that would be silk-screened on T-shirts. We would own such a shirt, which extended its tenure in our house as a rag for polishing silver.

The word “essay” comes from the French “essayer,” which means “to try” or “attempt.” The personal essay is more than just an autobiographical narrative—it’s an attempt to tell your own history with literary techniques.

Lyric Essay

The lyric essay contains similar subject matter as the personal essay, but is much more experimental in form.

The lyric essay contains similar subject matter as the personal essay, with one key distinction: lyric essays are much more experimental in form. Poetry and creative nonfiction merge in the lyric essay, challenging the conventional prose format of paragraphs and linear sentences.

The lyric essay stands out for its unique writing style and sentence structure. Consider these lines from “ Life Code ” by J. A. Knight:

The dream goes like this: blue room of water. God light from above. Child’s fist, foot, curve, face, the arc of an eye, the symmetry of circles… and then an opening of this body—which surprised her—a movement so clean and assured and then the push towards the light like a frog or a fish.

What we get is language driven by emotion, choosing an internal logic rather than a universally accepted one.

Lyric essays are amazing spaces to break barriers in language. For example, the lyricist might write a few paragraphs about their story, then examine a key emotion in the form of a villanelle or a ghazal. They might decide to write their entire essay in a string of couplets or a series of sonnets, then interrupt those stanzas with moments of insight or analysis. In the lyric essay, language dictates form. The successful lyricist lets the words arrange themselves in whatever format best tells the story, allowing for experimental new forms of storytelling.

Literary Journalism

Much more ambiguously defined is the idea of literary journalism. The idea is simple: report on real life events using literary conventions and styles. But how do you do this effectively, in a way that the audience pays attention and takes the story seriously?

You can best find examples of literary journalism in more “prestigious” news journals, such as The New Yorker , The Atlantic , Salon , and occasionally The New York Times . Think pieces about real world events, as well as expository journalism, might use braiding and extended metaphors to make readers feel more connected to the story. Other forms of nonfiction, such as the academic essay or more technical writing, might also fall under literary journalism, provided those pieces still use the elements of creative nonfiction.

Consider this recently published article from The Atlantic : The Uncanny Tale of Shimmel Zohar by Lawrence Weschler. It employs a style that’s breezy yet personable—including its opening line.

So I first heard about Shimmel Zohar from Gravity Goldberg—yeah, I know, but she insists it’s her real name (explaining that her father was a physicist)—who is the director of public programs and visitor experience at the Contemporary Jewish Museum, in San Francisco.

How to Write Creative Nonfiction: Common Elements and Techniques

What separates a general news update from a well-written piece of literary journalism? What’s the difference between essay writing in high school and the personal essay? When nonfiction writers put out creative work, they are most successful when they utilize the following elements.

Just like fiction, nonfiction relies on effective narration. Telling the story with an effective plot, writing from a certain point of view, and using the narrative to flesh out the story’s big idea are all key craft elements. How you structure your story can have a huge impact on how the reader perceives the work, as well as the insights you draw from the story itself.

Consider the first lines of the story “ To the Miami University Payroll Lady ” by Frenci Nguyen:

You might not remember me, but I’m the dark-haired, Texas-born, Asian-American graduate student who visited the Payroll Office the other day to complete direct deposit and tax forms.

Because the story is written in second person, with the reader experiencing the story as the payroll lady, the story’s narration feels much more personal and important, forcing the reader to evaluate their own personal biases and beliefs.

Observation

Telling the story involves more than just simple plot elements, it also involves situating the reader in the key details. Setting the scene requires attention to all five senses, and interpersonal dialogue is much more effective when the narrator observes changes in vocal pitch, certain facial expressions, and movements in body language. Essentially, let the reader experience the tiny details – we access each other best through minutiae.

The story “ In Transit ” by Erica Plouffe Lazure is a perfect example of storytelling through observation. Every detail of this flash piece is carefully noted to tell a story without direct action, using observations about group behavior to find hope in a crisis. We get observation when the narrator notes the following:

Here at the St. Thomas airport in mid-March, we feel the urgency of the transition, the awareness of how we position our bodies, where we place our luggage, how we consider for the first time the numbers of people whose belongings are placed on the same steel table, the same conveyor belt, the same glowing radioactive scan, whose IDs are touched by the same gloved hand[.]

What’s especially powerful about this story is that it is written in a single sentence, allowing the reader to be just as overwhelmed by observation and context as the narrator is.

We’ve used this word a lot, but what is braiding? Braiding is a technique most often used in creative nonfiction where the writer intertwines multiple narratives, or “threads.” Not all essays use braiding, but the longer a story is, the more it benefits the writer to intertwine their story with an extended metaphor or another idea to draw insight from.

“ The Crush ” by Zsofia McMullin demonstrates braiding wonderfully. Some paragraphs are written in first person, while others are written in second person.

The following example from “The Crush” demonstrates braiding:

Your hair is still wet when you slip into the booth across from me and throw your wallet and glasses and phone on the table, and I marvel at how everything about you is streamlined, compact, organized. I am always overflowing — flesh and wants and a purse stuffed with snacks and toy soldiers and tissues.

The author threads these narratives together by having both people interact in a diner, yet the reader still perceives a distance between the two threads because of the separation of “I” and “you” pronouns. When these threads meet, briefly, we know they will never meet again.

Speaking of insight, creative nonfiction writers must draw novel conclusions from the stories they write. When the narrator pauses in the story to delve into their emotions, explain complex ideas, or draw strength and meaning from tough situations, they’re finding insight in the essay.

Often, creative writers experience insight as they write it, drawing conclusions they hadn’t yet considered as they tell their story, which makes creative nonfiction much more genuine and raw.

The story “ Me Llamo Theresa ” by Theresa Okokun does a fantastic job of finding insight. The story is about the history of our own names and the generations that stand before them, and as the writer explores her disconnect with her own name, she recognizes a similar disconnect in her mother, as well as the need to connect with her name because of her father.

The narrator offers insight when she remarks:

I began to experience a particular type of identity crisis that so many immigrants and children of immigrants go through — where we are called one name at school or at work, but another name at home, and in our hearts.

How to Write Creative Nonfiction: the 5 R’s

CNF pioneer Lee Gutkind developed a very system called the “5 R’s” of creative nonfiction writing. Together, the 5 R’s form a general framework for any creative writing project. They are:

• Write about r eal life: Creative nonfiction tackles real people, events, and places—things that actually happened or are happening.
• Conduct extensive r esearch: Learn as much as you can about your subject matter, to deepen and enrich your ability to relay the subject matter. (Are you writing about your tenth birthday? What were the newspaper headlines that day?)
• (W) r ite a narrative: Use storytelling elements originally from fiction, such as Freytag’s Pyramid , to structure your CNF piece’s narrative as a story with literary impact rather than just a recounting.
• Include personal r eflection: Share your unique voice and perspective on the narrative you are retelling.
• Learn by r eading: The best way to learn to write creative nonfiction well is to read it being written well. Read as much CNF as you can, and observe closely how the author’s choices impact you as a reader.

You can read more about the 5 R’s in this helpful summary article .

How to Write Creative Nonfiction: Give it a Try!

Whatever form you choose, whatever story you tell, and whatever techniques you write with, the more important aspect of creative nonfiction is this: be honest. That may seem redundant, but often, writers mistakenly create narratives that aren’t true, or they use details and symbols that didn’t exist in the story. Trust us – real life is best read when it’s honest, and readers can tell when details in the story feel fabricated or inflated. Write with honesty, and the right words will follow!

Ready to start writing your creative nonfiction piece? If you need extra guidance or want to write alongside our community, take a look at the upcoming nonfiction classes at Writers.com. Now, go and write the next bestselling memoir!

Sean Glatch

Thank you so much for including these samples from Hippocampus Magazine essays/contributors; it was so wonderful to see these pieces reflected on from the craft perspective! – Donna from Hippocampus

Absolutely, Donna! I’m a longtime fan of Hippocampus and am always astounded by the writing you publish. We’re always happy to showcase stunning work 🙂

[…] Source: https://www.masterclass.com/articles/a-complete-guide-to-writing-creative-nonfiction#5-creative-nonfiction-writing-promptshttps://writers.com/what-is-creative-nonfiction […]

So impressive

Thank you. I’ve been researching a number of figures from the 1800’s and have come across a large number of ‘biographies’ of figures. These include quoted conversations which I knew to be figments of the author and yet some works are lauded as ‘histories’.

excellent guidelines inspiring me to write CNF thank you

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University Writing Center

University writing center blog, on writing creative nonfiction, part 1: what is creative nonfiction.

By: Nathan M.

From our marvelous consultant Nathan, here is the first of three installments on writing creative nonfiction!

When I first started writing creative nonfiction, I had the same anxieties that all my classmates seemed to: I didn’t think that my life was interesting enough that anyone would want to hear about it. I was a sophomore in college the first time I took a creative nonfiction class, and knew just enough about the world to understand how much I didn’t know. How could I possibly write essays about my life? The man who invented the word “essay,” one of the founding minds of the genre, Michel de Montaigne, shared similar misgivings ; in 1580, he said “I am myself the matter of my book…You would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject.” So why did I feel so drawn to write in this genre?

One of my creative writing professors told me to “stick the finger into the wound” and write whatever what came out. I wrote like this for a while, but eventually concluded that if picking open old wounds is what made me interesting, then I’d much rather be boring. At the same time though, I was at a loss: if not the things that have happened to me, what was possibly interesting enough to write an essay about?

The more creative nonfiction I read, the more I understood that “creative nonfiction” is not just a fancy term for “memoir.” Memoir is a type of creative nonfiction, certainly, but Montaigne’s assessment of the form was somewhat reductive. Creative nonfiction encompasses everything that fiction isn’t ; anything that’s true about the world, structured in any form. It can lean so heavily into lyricism that it’s rubbing shoulders with poetry, as James Agee Knoxville’s “Summer of 1915” does, or it can tell the intimate details of someone’s life in a largely narrative form—and there’s a seemingly endless expanse between these two extremes to explore.

The thing that really set me free in the creative nonfiction world, however, was understanding that creative nonfiction doesn’t have to be about me; it merely has to be true. For example, Roxanne Gay’s acclaimed essay collection Bad Feminist is framed by her experiences, but it’s more broadly about what it means to be a feminist than it is about her as an individual. David Sedaris’s humorous essays are notable because of the perspective he brings to everyday events rather than because of the events themselves. Even Montaigne, whose reductive definition of creative nonfiction had at first terrified me, wrote essays that reached far outside the self. His famous essay “Of Cannibals”  is a grappling with morality and social norms; it’s about society, about humanity, and not at all about Montaigne’s life.  

Even works of creative nonfiction that fall into the memoir category don’t have to stick to one linear style of storytelling. Carmen Maria Machado’s 2019 collection In The Dream House is a series of essays in different styles that all point back to her abusive relationship with her ex in different ways. She incorporates aspects of literary criticism and poetry. She writes about Dr. Who and queer villains in movies and a number of other things, and she combines it flawlessly with personal narrative. Francisco Cantú’s The Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border tells the story of his time as a border patrol agent and what compelled him to leave, but it also works in surreal lyrical segments about his nightmares.

Creative nonfiction is just as much about how the story is told as it is about what the story is. It can be as much or as little about yourself as you want it to be. I’ve come to understand this genre not as another box to fit into but rather as the open space between poetry, fiction, literary criticism, and every other kind of writing I can think of. Anyone, regardless of what kind of life they’ve lived or what kind of writing they prefer, can make a space for themselves in creative nonfiction. The only restriction to the genre is that it has to have some foundation in truth—if not in lived experience, at least in things that are real, that have happened.

Stay tuned for part two, where I’ll talk more specifically about determining what “truth” means in creative nonfiction!

Catch Nathan’s next installment on creative nonfiction, coming February 25th!

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Creative Nonfiction: How to Spin Facts into Narrative Gold

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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Eastern Washington University

Creative Writing

Creative nonfiction.

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Within the world of creative writing, the term creative nonfiction encompasses texts about factual events that are not solely for scholarly purposes. Creative nonfiction may include memoir, personal essays, feature-length articles in magazines, and narratives in literary journals. This genre of writing incorporates techniques from fiction and poetry in order to create accounts that read more like story than a piece of journalism or a report. The audience for creative nonfiction is typically broader than the audiences for scholarly writing.

The term creative nonfiction is credited to Lee Gutkind, who defines this genre as “true stories well told.” However, the concept of literary nonfiction has its roots in ancient poetry, historical accounts, and religious texts. Throughout history, people have tried to keep a record of the human experience and have done so through the vehicle of story since the invention of language. For more about the origins of the term creative nonfiction, see the article What is Creative Nonfiction ?

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Learning Objectives

By the end of this chapter, students will be able to:

• define Creative Nonfiction and understand the basic features of the genre
• identify basic literary elements (such as setting, plot, character, descriptive imagery, and figurative language)
• perform basic literary analysis
• craft a personal narrative essay using the elements of Creative Nonfiction, using MLA-style formatting
• 2.1: What is Creative Nonfiction?
• 2.2: Elements of Creative Nonfiction
• 2.2: Featured Creative Nonfiction Author- Frederick Douglass
• 2.3: How to Read Creative Nonfiction
• 2.4: Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi "The Danger of a Single Story" (2009)
• 2.4: Elements of Creative Nonfiction
• 2.5.1: Descriptive Imagery Worksheets
• 2.5.2: Creative Nonfiction Reading Discussion Questions
• 2.5.3: The Personal Narrative Essay
• 2.5: Featured Creative Nonfiction Author- Frederick Douglass
• 2.6: Douglass, Frederick. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass (1845)
• 2.7: Cantú, Francisco "Bajadas" (2015)
• 2.8: Anderson, Karen "Six Short Essays" (2017)
• 2.9: Bierce, Ambrose "What I Saw of Shiloh" (1881)
• 2.10: DuBois, W.E.B. "Of Our Spiritual Strivings" from The Souls of Black Folk (1903)
• 2.11: Oomen, Anne-Marie "The Blue" (2018)
• 2.12: Plato "The Allegory of the Cave" excerpt from The Republic (360 BC)
• 2.13: Sun Tzu. The Art of War (5th Century B.C.)
• 2.14: Swift, Jonathan. "A Modest Proposal." (1729)
• 2.15: Wordsworth, Dorothy "Daffodils" entry from Grasmere journal (1802) Excerpt from Dorothy Wordsworth's journals for April 15, 1802, showing her description of daffodils related to her brother William Wordsworth poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud."
• 2.16: Descriptive Imagery Worksheets
• 2.17: Creative Nonfiction Assignments, Questions, and Resources
• 2.18: The Personal Narrative Essay
• 2.19: Creative Nonfiction Reading Discussion Questions

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7 Essential Tips on How to Write Creative Nonfiction (A Step-by-Step Guide!)

“The essay becomes an exercise in the meaning and value of watching a writer conquer their own sense of threat to deliver themself of their wisdom.” ― Vivian Gornick, The Situation and the Story: The Art of Personal Narrative

We offer a lot of classes that will help you write Creative Nonfiction . But what makes creative nonfiction different from other types of essays? In creative nonfiction, personal details and anecdotes are used to make the story more relatable and interesting for the reader. Creators often use this style to share their personal thoughts, experiences, or beliefs in a way that can’t be achieved through fiction alone. With a little practice and the right tools, virtually anyone can write creative nonfiction. These tips will help you get started!

Introduction to Creative Nonfiction

Creative nonfiction is a detailed, thoughtful style of writing that allows the author to share their experiences with the reader. It’s similar to a memoir, but it doesn’t have to be a literal account of events. In creative nonfiction, personal details and anecdotes are used to make the story more relatable and interesting for the reader. There are many ways to break down the different types of nonfiction, but broadly speaking, all nonfiction uses the truth, either remembered or researched, to braid together a compelling narrative.

Excellent examples of Creative Nonfiction Include:

• In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
• The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls
• Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi
• Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert
• Night Trilogy by Elie Wiesel
• Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez
• I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
• Silent Spring by Rachel Carson
• The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
• Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America by Barbara Ehrenreich
• Dust Tracks on a Road: an autobiography by Nora Zeale Hurston

Select a Topic That You’re Passionate About

Most importantly, choose a topic that you’re passionate about. The topic doesn’t even have to be something that interests you “professionally”—it just has to be something you’re interested in. Begin your research by asking yourself what you’re curious about and what you’ve always wanted to know more about. This can be about yourself, someone else, or the wider world. It could be a current event happening in the world, an everyday activity that many overlook, or a piece of history that has always fascinated you. If you’re struggling to come up with a topic, consider what’s important to you. Your passions, beliefs, and interests can all be great topics to explore in creative nonfiction.

Come Up With Several Ideas for Your Piece

Once you’ve settled on a topic, put together a list of ideas for your creative nonfiction piece. If you’re writing about a current event, you’ll want to make sure that it’s relevant and timely. This way, your readers will be able to connect with your work. You may want to focus on a specific part of the event that interests you. Try to come at your topic from a different angle, or with a new perspective.

Research Your Subject Thoroughly

Once you’ve decided on your topic and idea, it’s time to start researching. In addition to personal experience and anecdote, researching is one of the fundamental parts of writing nonfiction, even if you're writing creatively. If you want to make your research more interesting and engaging for the reader, include anecdotes and personal details.

Now that you’ve put together an outline and researched your topic, it’s time to start writing! It might seem simple, but the hardest part of writing is just getting started. Once you’ve got your thoughts down on paper, the rest is smooth sailing.

Try writing a messy first draft in first person as if you’re speaking directly to your reader. To tap into your voice, don't shy away from using slang, jargon, or other kinds of expression that might be only be understood by a niche audience; you can always layer in more context in a subsequent draft. But whatever you do, don't edit out your style from the beginning. Be you on the page first and polish later.

It is okay to be messy in this draft. Write as naturally as possible so that you aren't sanding away the kind of observations and perspective that amplify your voice and lived experience.

Tips to Help You Write Creatively

Here are a few tips that can help you write creatively:

Read. This may seem obvious, but when you read, you're exposed to a wide range of styles and techniques that can help you understand and use different writing styles. If you're not reading, you're missing out on opportunities to learn from people who've done what you want to do, and that can be invaluable.

Experiment. Experimenting with different writing styles, topics, and approaches will help you to find your voice and discover the types of creative nonfiction that come most naturally to you.

Learn from your peers. Look to your peers and colleagues to learn from them—both their successes and their mistakes.

Find inspiration. Inspiration can come from anywhere, so make sure that you're open to observing new experiences, even in mundane day-to-day activities. Inspiration is everywhere if you're looking for it.

Don't be afraid to fail. This is most import! We learn from our mistakes and experiences, and that's true of writing, too.

Be yourself. The most authentic and interesting writing comes from the heart.

Have fun! Writing should be enjoyable, and trying to write creatively while feeling pressured and stressed out will only make it more difficult.

Discover a Creative Nonfiction Class that is just right for you!

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Meet the Teaching Artist: Mastering Characterization to Elevate Your Writing with Nadia Uddin

Meet the Teaching Artist: How to Write Commercially Viable Historical Fiction with L.M. Elliott

The Essential Guide to Starting Your First Novel

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Chapter 6: Creative Writing

6.3 Creative Nonfiction

There is lots of creative writing that, unlike a short story, contains factual elements. I may write about “Carellin Brooks,” who has had the same past experiences as me and lives the same kind of life today. However, “Carellin Brooks” is a construct. I am writing about her, so she is a character, even though she shares my name and life.

In creative nonfiction, the lines between reality and what you make up can get quite blurry. That is because, however much we set out to write the exact truth, it still needs shaping into a narrative if anyone is going to be interested in reading it.

You will already know this if you have ever listened to people speaking and written down exactly what they say. Unlike in stories, plays, or other forms of writing, people’s speech is littered with phrases like “um,” “you know,” and “well, ah.” Sentences trail off halfway instead of finishing: “Well, then, I guess we’ll just, um, yeah. That makes sense.” It actually does make sense, in the context of the conversation, but if we accurately recorded such dialogue, either we, or the characters we wrote about, would sound like idiots.

In creative nonfiction, you’re also usually setting out to make a point. Your blog post about the latest great book you read is not going to spend time describing what you had for breakfast (unless it’s a cookbook). Instead, you’ll select and order your details to build toward the point you’re making. You could describe all the books you’ve read lately that haven’t been great, for example, and all the things you did to avoid reading them because you were bored, exaggerating for comic effect, perhaps, to emphasize that you couldn’t put this particular book down for even a minute.

Review Questions

• Write a blog post or journal entry describing a particular day that is significant to you. Try to choose something of personal significance, rather than a national holiday or general celebration, like graduation. (Hint: For ways to make your writing come alive, review Chapter 3.1 Descriptive Paragraphs , which gives you lists of words relating to the five senses and explains how to show, not tell, readers about your subject.)

Points to Consider

• Trade your writing with a classmate. Use the peer review process described in Chapter 7.2 Peer Review to give each other feedback. Revise your writing based on the feedback you received. Do substantial revisions first. As a last step, proofread.
• Find a blog you like, and see if you can figure out how the writer creates comic effect or stokes your interest. After identifying some of the blogger’s strategies, can you use them when you revise your own blog post or journal entry?

Building Blocks of Academic Writing Copyright © 2020 by Carellin Brooks is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License , except where otherwise noted.

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Creative writing prize: WOW Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest 2024

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Follow the links in the schedule below or scroll down for the full program of  presenters, which includes their bios and abstracts.

• 3:00-3:15: Welcome and Opening Remarks
• 3:15-4:10: Spotlight Panel (fiction, nonfiction, and poetry)
• 4:15-5:00: Session 1 – Panel A (fiction) and Panel B (nonfiction)
• 5:15-6:00:   Session 2 – Panel C (poetry)

From 3:00-6:00 pm. all attendees are encouraged to make time to peruse the adjoining Vanderbilt Undergraduate Arts Showcase .

Additional Event Links

• Coming Soon! Read all featured creative writing pieces on the UCWS 2024 Online Creative Writing Gallery
• Coming Soon! Visit the Arts Showcase’s portfolio page to view the incredible works created by undergraduate students.

Full Schedule: Undergraduate Creative Writing Symposium (Wednesday, April 10)

When: Wednesday, April 10, 3:00-6:00 PM | Where: Alumni Hall, 2nd Floor

3:00-3:15 : Opening Remarks by Major Jackson , Professor of English & Director of Creative Writing Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Chair in the Humanities

3:15-4:10 : spotlight panel (alumni hall, room 206).

• Faculty Panel Chair: Justin Quarry (English)
• Panelists: Liam Betts  ’24  (poetry), Elyse Sparks  ’24  (nonfiction), Avery Fortier  ’24  (fiction)

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Spotlight Panel - Abstracts and Author Bios

Liam betts ’24:  the waves of light.

• Presenter Bio :  Liam Betts is a senior double majoring in computer science and english. He is originally from Portugal, but now lives in Pleasanton, California. He is the president of VandyWrites and prose editor for The Vanderbilt Review. His story The Waves of Light was selected as First Runner-Up for The Dell Magazines Award for Undergraduate Excellence in Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing in 2024.
• Abstract: The Waves of Light is a neo-Victorian story that reimagines Charles Darwin’s voyage aboard The Beagle to include his two young children, William and Anne. When circumstances thrust both siblings into an odyssey from the Atlantic to London, Anne is forced to reckon with a strange metamorphosis. While William performs street magic to keep them alive, Anne studies and experiments, dreaming of becoming a natural philosopher in nineteenth century England, a world where every door is closed to her. The story is told in the form of a letter from Anne to her father.

Elyse Sparks ’24:  The Golden Child

• Presenter Bio : Elyse Sparks in a member of the class of 2024.
• Abstract: The Golden Child is centered around my mental health struggles, sexuality, and my relationship with my pastor parents. I explore how my mom, despite her religious views that seemingly contradict loving a gay child, has stood by my side in a decade-long fight with major depression. Through coming out and hospitalizations and hard conversations, I have watched my mother grow into my biggest advocate.

Avery Fortier ’24: A Clean Mind

• Presenter Bio: Avery is a member of the class of 2024.
• Abstract: This is a piece of fictional prose meant to prompt consideration of mental health experiences across contexts and roles. I wanted to reflect the importance of protecting those responsible for treating others’ health as well as those who more obviously fall into the role of “patient.”

4:15-5:00 : Session 1

• Faculty Panel Chair: Fatima Kola (Medicine, Health, and Society)
• Panelists: Sawyer Sussner  ’24 , Shadhvika Nandhakumar  ’24 , Claire Marie Tate  ’24 , Sanat Malik  ’24
• Faculty Panel Chair:  Sandy Solomon (English)
• Panelists: Molly Buffenbarger  ’24, Franklin Udensi ’27 , Sarah Wermuth ’27 , and TaMyra Johnson ’27

Panel A - Abstracts and Author Bios

Sawyer sussner ’24: power to the players.

• Presenter Bio : Sawyer is a member of the class of 2024.
• Abstract: On her last shift as an employee at the failing gaming giant Game Stop, seventeen year old Twitch streamer Cass must navigate uncomfortable conversations with leering customers along with the impossible expectations of her boss, the washed up manager known to customers only as “The Bobcat,” determined to save his failing store. In a reflection of the gaming world’s treatment of women, Power to the Players explores misogynistic cycles of behavior and how to leave them behind.

Shadhvika Nandakumar ’24:  circles

• Presenter Bio:  Shadhvika is a member of the class of 2024.
• Abstract: This realistic fiction short story discusses the experiences of a young girl who finds out that her dad has had a heart attack. Told from the perspective of someone looking back over time, it is filled with various musings about the nature of life and relationships.

Claire Marie Tate ’24: Ocular Mistrust

• Presenter Bio: Claire Marie Tate is a member of the class of 2024 from Baton Rouge, LA. She is studying Neuroscience and Medicine, Health, and Society and will begin medical school this fall. In her free time, she enjoys running, dancing, discovering new music, reading, and, more recently, writing as a creative outlet.
• Abstract: “Ocular Mistrust” is a short piece which was inspired by the notion of the eye as the window to the soul and the unreliable nature of the visual pathway. This piece puts artistic themes of eyes in conversation with the physiology of visual processing.

Sanat Malik ’24:  Ishak’s

• Presenter Bio:  Sanat Malik is a Senior at Vanderbilt University. He was born in Hong Kong, spent some years in his native India, but primarily grew up in Singapore. Sanat is an Economics and English double major who has a passion for short story writing and journalism. He writes mainly about cultural topics with which he has personal experiences and perspectives. After college, Sanat will be working in an Investment Bank as a Raid Defense Consultant. He hopes to continue to grow in his career as a writer beyond college, and ideally would like to pursue investigative journalism in the future.
• Abstract: Ishak’s is a fictional piece about Ishak, an Indian Immigrant who has recently moved to New York to start an Indian fine-dining restaurant with his friend, Jai. Vying to win customers, Ishak creates an open kitchen in hopes that the smells spill onto the streets and draw in customers. In exploring Ishak and Jai’s pursuit of success in the culinary world, the story explores themes of immigration, assimilation, the pursuit of excellence, and the relationship between meticulous Ishak and laid-back Jai.

Panel B - Abstracts and Author Bios

Molly buttenbarger ’24:  night watch.

• Presenter Bio:  Molly is a member of the class of 2024.
• Abstract: I wrote this memoir about the night I spent alone in the hospital with my mother, when I was in sixth grade. After my mother completed chemotherapy for breast cancer, she underwent a double mastectomy and reconstruction. However, her reconstructed implant got infected, which meant she ended up hospitalized after emergency surgery.

Franklin Udensi ’27: The Igbo Anglican Church

• Presenter Bio: Franklin Udensi, a budding author from Lagos, Nigeria, finds deep inspiration in the works of his favorite author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and his piece, “The Igbo Anglican Church,” reflects this influence. Beyond literature, Franklin enjoys diving into the immersive worlds of anime and manga, getting swept in the melodies of Jon Bellion, and delighting in the ever-changing landscape of construction sites, where the promise of unfinished structures sparks his imagination. With each stroke of his pen, he blends his varied influences into narratives that speak to the human experience.
• Abstract: This essay explores the author’s encounter with the Igbo Anglican church, unraveling the intricacies of cultural pride, identity, and the pursuit of connection in a diasporic community. Through reflections on language, tradition, and the clash of two worlds, the piece captures a unique narrative that invites readers to contemplate the dynamics of immigrant experiences and the dialogue between belonging and the complexities of assimilating to a new cultural landscape.“The Igbo Anglican Church” is a piece I wrote based on my own experiences navigating the United States upon my arrival during the summer before Vanderbilt. What began as pent-up emotions that I couldn’t quite explain ended up as a short story narrating my observations and cultural clashes with a segment of the Igbo (an ethnic group in Nigeria) diaspora in the US. Writing this piece showed me that my unique perspective as a literary observer could serve as a platform to explore fresh ideas surrounding cultural crossroads, immigrant perspectives, and the complexities of belonging while strengthening confidence in my storytelling abilities. This process enabled me to think critically about my own sentiments and express these thoughts in both personal and universally relatable ways. The piece engages in dialogue by presenting a narrative that resonates with individuals with similar experiences within immigrant communities. It figuratively converses with the present by exploring contemporary themes like cultural integration and identity. Additionally, it contributes to a broader discourse on the immigrant experience, belonging in a foreign land, and the intricate dance between tradition and assimilation, inviting readers to reflect on their encounters with such cultural crossroads.

Sarah Wermuth ’27: I’m Not (Wilmeth) Smart

• Presenter Bio: Sarah is a member of the class of 2027 majoring in Political Science with minors in Gender Studies and Creative Writing.
• Abstract: In 2023, I took a creative nonfiction English class at Vanderbilt, and an essay prompt was: “Write a personal essay exploring one way your identity has developed in opposition to your family of origin.” As a result, I wrote “I’m Not (Wilmeth) Smart.” It tells the story of how growing up in a family of brilliant individuals while simultaneously struggling in school made it hard for me to see myself as smart despite getting into Vanderbilt, one of the top universities in America.

TaMyra Johnson ’27: Racial Imposter Syndrome: Personal Experience + Interviews

• Presenter Bio: TaMyra Johnson is a part of the class of 2027 from Louisville, Kentucky. She plans on double majoring in Communications and Culture Advocacy Leadership with a minor in film.
• Abstract: This piece talks about my personal experience with racial imposter syndrome. Racial imposter syndrome can be described as being unconnected or feeling inauthentic to parts of their racial identity and culture or as when a person feels internally connected to a racial identity that is not perceived by others which causes doubt in their racial self perception.

5:15-6:00: Session 2

• Faculty Panel Chair:  Mark Schoenfield (English)
• Panelists:  David Lemper ’27 , Nicole Reynaga ’26 , Ilana Drake ’25 , and Eli Apple ’24

Breakout Panel C - Abstracts and Author Bios

David lemper ’27: shakespeare rap.

• Presenter Bio: David is a member of the class of 2027.
• Abstract: This rap was written for an assignment in which students had to cast a scene of a Shakespeare play into rap lyrics. The concept was inspired by Shakespearean rap lyrics from Margaret Atwood’s “Hagseed,” a modern retelling of Shakespeare’s “The Tempest.” Rap as a genre—specifcally an African-American born genre—calls back to the theme of freedom, which is a very prominent theme within both Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” and “Romeo and Juliet,” so using this genre to express these narratives evokes the theme of freedom.

Nicole Reynaga ’26:  In one breath, we escaped together

• Presenter Bio:  Nicole is a member of the class of 2026.
• Abstract:  For this workshop’s penultimate poem, we were tasked with writing a prose poem (a poem not split into verse lines). As prose poems typically lack any rules of poetic form and do not visually appear as poetry, they heavily rely on the use of other poetic elements and metaphorical language. The theme of my piece falls into a more personal/self-aware realm.

Ilana Drake ’25: on rapid decline

• Presenter Bio: Ilana Drake is a junior studying Public Policy Studies and English, and she is a student activist and writer. She serves as a United Nations UNA-USA Global Goals Ambassador for SDG 10 (Reduced Inequalities), and she was selected as a Clinton Global Initiative University Fellow in 2023. This year, Ilana was appointed to the Inaugural Student Advisory Board for the Vanderbilt Project on Unity and American Democracy. Ilana was recognized as one of the forty undergraduate changemakers on Vanderbilt’s campus last year, and she is a Delegate for the 68th Session of the Commission on the Status of Women. Ilana’s writing has been published in Insider ,  Ms.  Magazine, and  The Tennessean , among others, and she has been quoted in  The New York Times ,  The Washington Post , and  Teen Vogue . Her poetry has been published internationally in literary magazines and zines. In her free time, she enjoys swimming, exploring Nashville with friends, and searching for the best iced coffee.
• Abstract: This poem is about the importance of time and health. I wrote this piece following my grandmother’s death in November 2023.

Eli Apple ’24:  Autoimmune (Selected Poems)

• Presenter Bio: Eli Apple is a writer of fiction and poetry. He has lived his whole life in Tennessee and is currently a senior at Vanderbilt University, where he is studying English, Spanish, and Portuguese. In addition to writing, he loves reading, traveling, and going on walks with his dog.
• Abstract: My submission includes eight poems that will appear in my English Honors thesis. My thesis, entitled Autoimmune, is a poetry collection that investigates literal and metaphorical illnesses and their effects on the body. These poems belong in Part Two of the collection, which examines homosexuality and internalized homophobia as illnesses together with the continuing effects of the AIDS epidemic on American society.

Access the UCWS 2024 Online Gallery

Coming Soon! Visit the UCWS 2024 Online Gallery of Creative Writing to read each of this year’s featured works along with a reflection from its author.

Special Thanks and Acknowledgements

The Writing Studio offers special thanks to all those who helped make our event possible and have contributed to its success.

Our Event Co-Host and Partner

The Office of Experiential Learning and Immersion Vanderbilt

Our Event Co-Sponsors

The Martha Rivers Ingram Commons

The Jean and Alexander Heard Libraries

Our Invited Creative Writing Reviewers from the MFA Program in Creative Writing

Langston Cotman

Ajla Dizdarević

Sydney Mayes

Our Writing Studio and Tutoring Services team members

Beth Estes (Assistant Director), Lead Symposium Coordinator

Lucy Kim (Academic Support Coordinator), Assistant Symposium Coordinator

Drew Shipley (Academic Support Coordinator), Assistant Symposium Coordinator

Cameron Sheehy (Peabody), Graduate Assistant Symposium Coordinator

Tim Donahoo, Administrative Specialist for the Writing Studio and Tutoring Services

all Writing Consultants Events Committee Members and all consultants present to support the event today

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The 5 Rs of Creative Nonfiction

What's the Story #06

“The Essayist at Work” is our first special issue. The cover is different, and although it is our habit to center each issue around a general theme, the essays and profiles in “The Essayist at Work” are narrower in scope. In the future, we intend to publish special issues on a variety of topics, but this one is especially important, not only because it is our first, but also because it helps to launch the first Mid-Atlantic Creative Nonfiction Summer Writers’ Conference with the Goucher College Center for Graduate and Continuing Studies in Baltimore, Md., a supportive and enthusiastic summer partner. Many writers featured in “The Essayist at Work” will also be participating at the conference – an event we hope to continue to co-sponsor with Goucher for years to come.

The writers in this issue represent the incredible range of the newly emerging genre of creative nonfiction, from the struggle and success stories of Darcy Frey (“The Last Shot”) and William Least Heat-Moon (“Blue Highways”) to the master of the profession, John McPhee. From the roots of traditional journalism to poetry and fiction, Pulitzer Prize-winner Alice Steinbach, poet Diane Ackerman and novelists Phillip Lopate and Paul West, have helped expand the boundaries of form and tradition. Jane Bernstein, Steven Harvey, Mary Paumier Jones, Wendy Lesser and Natalia Rachel Singer ponder the spirit of the essay (and e-mail!), while I continue to reflect on and define the creative nonfiction form.

From the beginning, it has been our mission to probe the depths and intricacies of nonfiction by publishing the best prose by new and established writers. Creative Nonfiction provides a forum for writers, editors and readers interested in pushing the envelope of creativity and discussing and defining the parameters of accuracy, validity and truth. My essay below, “The 5 Rs of Creative Nonfiction,” is dedicated to that mission. It will appear in “More than the Truth: Teaching Nonfiction Writing Through Journalism,” which will be published in the fall of 1996 by Heineman.

It is 3 a.m., and I am standing on a stool in the operating room at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, in scrubs, mask, cap and paper booties, peering over the hunched shoulders of four surgeons and a scrub nurse as a dying woman’s heart and lungs are being removed from her chest. This is a scene I have observed frequently since starting my work on a book about the world of organ transplantation, but it never fails to amaze and startle me: to look down into a gaping hole in a human being’s chest, which has been cracked open and emptied of all of its contents, watching the monitor and listening to the rhythmic sighing sounds of the ventilator, knowing that this woman is on the fragile cusp of life and death and that I am observing what might well be the final moments of her life.

Now the telephone rings; a nurse answers, listens for a moment and then hangs up. “On the roof,” she announces, meaning that the helicopter has set down on the hospital helipad and that a healthy set of organs, a heart and two lungs, en bloc, will soon be available to implant into this woman, whose immediate fate will be decided within the next few hours.

With a brisk nod, the lead surgeon, Bartley Griffith, a young man who pioneered heart-lung transplantation and who at this point has lost more patients with the procedure than he had saved, looks up, glances around and finally rests his eyes on me: “Lee,” he says, “would you do me a great favor?”

I was surprised. Over the past three years I had observed Bart Griffith in the operating room a number of times, and although a great deal of conversation takes place between doctors and nurses during the long and intense surgical ordeal, he had only infrequently addressed me in such a direct and spontaneous manner.

Our personal distance is a by-product of my own technique as an immersion journalist – my “fly-on-the wall” or “living room sofa” concept of “immersion”: Writers should be regular and silent observers, so much so that they are virtually unnoticed. Like walking through your living room dozens of times, but only paying attention to the sofa when suddenly you realize that it is missing. Researching a book about transplantation, “Many Sleepless Nights” (W.W. Norton), I had been accorded great access to the O.R., the transplant wards, ethics debates and the most intimate conversations between patients, family members and medical staff. I had jetted through the night on organ donor runs. I had witnessed great drama – at a personal distance.

But on that important early morning, Bartley Griffith took note of my presence and requested that I perform a service for him. He explained that this was going to be a crucial time in the heart-lung procedure, which had been going on for about five hours, but that he felt obligated to make contact with this woman’s husband who had traveled here from Kansas City, Mo. “I can’t take the time to talk to the man myself, but I am wondering if you would brief him as to what has happened so far. Tell him that the organs have arrived, but that even if all goes well, the procedure will take at least another five hours and maybe longer.” Griffith didn’t need to mention that the most challenging aspect of the surgery – the implantation – was upcoming; the danger to the woman was at a heightened state.

A few minutes later, on my way to the ICU waiting area where I would find Dave Fulk, the woman’s husband, I stopped in the surgeon’s lounge for a quick cup of coffee and a moment to think about how I might approach this man, undoubtedly nervous – perhaps even hysterical – waiting for news of his wife. I also felt kind of relieved, truthfully, to be out of the O.R,, where the atmosphere is so intense.

Although I had been totally caught-up in the drama of organ transplantation during my research, I had recently been losing my passion and curiosity; I was slipping into a life and death overload in which all of the sad stories from people all across the world seemed to be congealing into the same muddled dream. From experience, I recognized this feeling – a clear signal that it was time to abandon the research phase of this book and sit down and start to write. Yet, as a writer, I was confronting a serious and frightening problem: Overwhelmed with facts and statistics, tragic and triumphant stories, I felt confused. I knew, basically, what I wanted to say about what I learned, but I didn’t know how to structure my message or where to begin.

And so, instead of walking away from this research experience and sitting down and starting to write my book, I continued to return to the scene of my transplant adventures waiting for lightning to strike . . . inspiration for when the very special way to start my book would make itself known. In retrospect, I believe that Bart Griffith’s rare request triggered that magic moment of clarity I had long been awaiting.

Defining the Discussion

Before I tell you what happened, however, let me explain what kind of work I do as an immersion journalist/creative nonfiction writer, and explain what I am doing, from a writer’s point-of-view, in this essay.

But first some definitions: “Immersion journalists” immerse or involve themselves in the lives of the people about whom they are writing in ways that will provide readers with a rare and special intimacy.

The other phrase to define, a much broader term, creative nonfiction, is a concept that offers great flexibility and freedom, while adhering to the basic tenets of nonfiction writing and/or reporting. In creative nonfiction, writers can be poetic and journalistic simultaneously. Creative nonfiction writers are encouraged to utilize fictional (literary) techniques in their prose – from scene to dialogue to description to point-of-view – and be cinematic at the same time. Creative nonfiction writers write about themselves and/or capture real people and real life in ways that can and have changed the world. What is most important and enjoyable about creative nonfiction is that it not only allows, but encourages the writer to become a part of the story or essay being written. The personal involvement creates a special magic that alleviates the suffering and anxiety of the writing experience; it provides many outlets for satisfaction and self-discovery, flexibility and freedom.

When I refer to creative nonfiction, I include memoir (autobiography), and documentary drama, a term more often used in relation to film, as in “Hoop Dreams,” which captures the lives of two inner-city high school basketball players over a six-year period. Much of what is generically referred to as “literary journalism” or in the past, “new journalism,” can be classified as creative nonfiction. Although it is the current vogue in the world of writing today, the combination of creative nonfiction as a form of writing and immersion as a method of research has a long history. George Orwell’s famous essay, “Shooting an Elephant” combines personal experience and high quality literary writing techniques. The Daniel DeFoe classic, “Robinson Crusoe,” is based upon a true story of a physician who was marooned on a desert island. Ernest Hemingway’s paean to bullfighting, “Death in the Afternoon,” comes under the creative nonfiction umbrella, as does Tom Wolfe’s, “The Right Stuff,” which was made into an award-winning film. Other well-known creative nonfiction writers, who may utilize immersion techniques include John McPhee (“Coming Into the Country”), Tracy Kidder (“House”), Diane Ackerman (“A Natural History of the Senses”) and Pulitzer Prize winner Annie Dillard (“Pilgrim at Tinker Creek”), to name only a few of the many authors who have contributed to this burgeoning genre.

Currently, many of our best magazines – The New Yorker, Harper’s, Vanity Fair, Esquire – publish more creative nonfiction than fiction and poetry combined. Universities offer Master of Fine Arts degrees in creative nonfiction. Newspapers are publishing an increasing amount of creative nonfiction, not only as features, but in the news and op-ed pages, as well.

Reading, ‘Riting, ‘Rithmitic – the 3Rs – was the way in which basic public school education was once described. The “5 Rs” is an easy way to remember the basic tenets of creative nonfiction/immersion journalism.

The first “R” has already been explained and discussed: the “immersion” or “real life” aspect of the writing experience. As a writing teacher, I design assignments that have a real-life aspect: I force my students out into their communities for an hour, a day, or even a week so that they see and understand that the foundation of good writing emerges from personal experience. Some writers (and students) may utilize their own personal experience rather than immersing themselves in the experiences of others. In a recent introductory class I taught, one young man working his way through school as a sales person wrote about selling shoes, while another student, who served as a volunteer in a hospice, captured a dramatic moment of death, grief and family relief. I’ve sent my students to police stations, bagel shops, golf courses; together, my classes have gone on excursions and participated in public service projects – all in an attempt to experience or re-create from personal experience real life.

In contrast to the term “reportage,” the word “essay” usually connotes a more personal message from writer to reader. “An essay is when I write what I think about something,” students will often say to me. Which is true, to a certain extent – and also the source of the meaning of the second “R” for “reflection.” A writer’s feelings and responses about a subject are permitted and encouraged, as long as what they think is written to embrace the reader in a variety of ways. As editor of Creative Nonfiction, I receive approximately 150 unsolicited essays, book excerpts and profiles a month for possible publication. Of the many reasons the vast majority of these submissions are rejected, two are most prevalent, the first being an overwhelming egocentrism; in other words, writers write too much about themselves without seeking a universal focus or umbrella so that readers are properly and firmly engaged. Essays that are so personal that they omit the reader are essays that will never see the light of print. The overall objective of the personal essayist is to make the reader tune in – not out.

The second reason Creative Nonfiction and most other journals and magazines reject essays is a lack of attention to the mission of the genre, which is to gather and present information, to teach readers about a person, place, idea or situation combining the creativity of the artistic experience with the essential third “R” in the formula: “Research.”

Even the most personal essay is usually full of substantive detail about a subject that affects or concerns a writer and the people about whom he or she is writing. Read the books and essays of the most renowned nonfiction writers in this century and you will read about a writer engaged in a quest for information and discovery. From George Orwell to Ernest Hemingway to John McPhee, books and essays written by these writers are invariably about a subject other than themselves, although the narrator will be intimately included in the story. Personal experience and spontaneous intellectual discourse – an airing and exploration of ideas – are equally vital. In her first book, “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” which won the Pulitzer Prize, and in her other books and essays, Annie Dillard repeatedly overwhelms her readers with factual information, minutely detailed descriptions of insects, botany and biology, history, anthropology, blended with her own feelings about life.

One of my favorite Dillard essays, “Schedules,” focuses upon the importance of writers working on a regular schedule rather than writing only intermittently. In “Schedules,” she discusses, among many other subjects, Hasidism, chess, baseball, warblers, pine trees, june bugs, writers’ studios and potted plants – not to mention her own schedule and writing habits and that of Wallace Stevens and Jack London.

What I am saying is that the genre of creative nonfiction, although anchored in factual information, is open to anyone with a curious mind and a sense of self. The research phase actually launches and anchors the creative effort. Whether it is a book or essay I am planning, I always begin my quest in the library – for three reasons. First, I need to familiarize myself with the subject. If it is something about which I do not know, I want to make myself knowledgeable enough to ask intelligent questions. If I can’t display at least a minimal understanding of the subject about which I am writing, I will lose the confidence and the support of the people who must provide access to the experience.

Secondly, I will want to assess my competition. What other essays, books and articles have been written about this subject? Who are the experts, the pioneers, the most controversial figures? I want to find a new angle – not write a story similar to one that has already been written. And finally, how can I reflect and evaluate a person, subject or place unless I know all of the contrasting points-of-view? Reflection may permit a certain amount of speculation, but only when based upon a solid foundation of knowledge.

So far in this essay I have named a number of well-respected creative nonfiction writers and discussed their work, which means I have satisfied the fourth “R” in our “5R” formula: “Reading.” Not only must writers read the research material unearthed in the library, but they also must read the work of the masters of their profession. I have heard some very fine writers claim that they don’t read too much anymore – or that they don’t read for long periods, especially during the time they are laboring on a lengthy writing project. But almost all writers have read the best writers in their field and are able to converse in great detail about the stylistic approach and intellectual content. An artist who has never studied Picasso, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, even Warhol, is an artist who will quite possibly never succeed.

So far we have mostly discussed the nonfiction or journalistic aspects of the immersion journalism/creative nonfiction genre. The 5th “R” the “riting” part is the most artistic and romantic aspect of the total experience. After all of the preparatory (nonfiction) work is complete, writers will often “create” in two phases. Usually, there is an inspirational explosion, a time when writers allow instinct and feeling to guide their fingers as they create paragraphs, pages, and even entire chapters of books or complete essays. This is what art of any form is all about – the passion of the moment and the magic of the muse. I am not saying that this always happens; it doesn’t. Writing is a difficult labor, in which a regular schedule, a daily grind of struggle, is inevitable. But this first part of the experience for most writers is rather loose and spontaneous and therefore more “creative” and fun. The second part of the writing experience – the “craft” part, which comes into play after your basic essay is written – is equally important – and a hundred times more difficult.

Writing in Scenes

Vignettes, episodes, slices of reality are the building blocks of creative nonfiction – the primary distinguishing factor between traditional reportage/journalism and “literary” and/or creative nonfiction and between good, evocative writing and ordinary prose. The uninspired writer will tell the reader about a subject, place or personality, but the creative nonfiction writer will show that subject, place or personality in action. Before we discuss the actual content or construction of a scene, let me suggest that you perform what I like to call the “yellow test.”

Take a yellow “Hi-Liter” or Magic Marker and leaf through your favorite magazines – Vanity Fair, Esquire, The New Yorker or Creative Nonfiction. Or return to favorite chapters in previously mentioned books by Dillard, Ackerman, etc. Yellow-in the scenes, just the scenes, large and small. Then return to the beginning and review your handiwork. Chances are, anywhere from 50 to 80 percent of each essay, short story, novel selected will be yellow. Plays are obviously constructed with scenes, as are films. Most poems are very scenic.

Jeanne Marie Laskas, the talented columnist for the Washington Post Magazine, once told me: “I only have one rule from start to finish. I write in scenes. It doesn’t matter to me in which order the scenes are written; I write whichever scene inspires me at any given time, and I worry about the plot or frame or narrative later. The scene – a scene – any scene – is always first.”

The Elements of a Scene

First and foremost, a scene contains action. Something happens. I jump on my motorcycle and go helter-skelter around the country; suddenly, in the middle of July in Yellowstone National Park I am confronted with 20 inches of snow. Action needn’t be wild, sexy and death-defying, however. There’s also action in the classroom. A student asks a question, which requires an answer, which necessitates a dialogue, which is a marvelously effective tool to trigger or record action. Dialogue represents people saying things to one another, expressing themselves. It is a valuable scenic building block. Discovering dialogue is one of the reasons to immerse ourselves at a police station, bagel shop or at a zoo. To discover what people have to say spontaneously – and not in response to a reporter’s prepared questions.

Another vehicle or technique of the creative nonfiction experience may be described as “intimate and specific detail.” Through use of intimate detail, we can hear and see how the people about whom we are writing say what is on their minds; we may note the inflections in their voices, their elaborate hand movements and any other eccentricities. “Intimate” is a key distinction in the use of detail when crafting good scenes. Intimate means recording and noting detail that the reader might not know or even imagine without your particular inside insight. Sometimes intimate detail can be so specific and special that it becomes unforgettable in the reader’s mind. A very famous “intimate” detail appears in a classic creative nonfiction profile, “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” written by Gay Talese in 1962 and published in Esquire Magazine.

In this profile, Talese leads readers on a whirlwind cross country tour, revealing Sinatra and his entourage interacting with one another and with the rest of the world and demonstrating how the Sinatra world and the world inhabited by everyone else will often collide. These scenes are action-oriented; they contain dialogue and evocative description with great specificity and intimacy such as the gray-haired lady spotted in the shadows of the Sinatra entourage – the guardian of Sinatra’s collection of toupees. This tiny detail – Sinatra’s wig lady – loomed so large in my mind when I first read the essay that even now, 35 years later, anytime I see Sinatra on TV or spot his photo in a magazine, I find myself unconsciously searching the background for the gray-haired lady with the hatbox.

The Narrative – or Frame

The frame represents a way of ordering or controlling a writer’s narrative so that the elements of his book, article or essay are presented in an interesting and orderly fashion with an interlaced integrity from beginning to end.

Some frames are very complicated, as in the movie, “Pulp Fiction”; Quentin Tarantino skillfully tangles and manipulates time. But the most basic frame is a simple beginning-to-end chronology. “Hoop Dreams,” for example, the dramatic documentary (which is also classic creative nonfiction) begins with two African-American teen-age basketball stars living in a ghetto and sharing a dream of stardom in the NBA and dramatically tracks both of their careers over the next six years.

As demonstrated in “Pulp Fiction,” writers don’t always frame in a strictly chronological sequence. My book, “One Children’s Place,” begins in the operating room at a children’s hospital. It introduces a surgeon, whose name is Marc Rowe, his severely handicapped patient, Danielle, and her mother, Debbie, who has dedicated her every waking moment to Danielle. Two years of her life have been spent inside the walls of this building with parents and children from all across the world whose lives are too endangered to leave the confines of the hospital. As Danielle’s surgery goes forward, the reader tours the hospital in a very intimate way, observing in the emergency room, participating in helicopter rescue missions as part of the emergency trauma team, attending ethics meetings, well-baby clinics, child abuse examinations – every conceivable activity at a typical high-acuity children’s hospital so that readers will learn from the inside out how such an institution and the people it services and supports function on an hour-by-hour basis. We even learn about Marc Rowe’s guilty conscience about how he has slighted his own wife and children over the years so that he can care for other families.

The book ends when Danielle is released from the hospital. It took two years to research and write this book, returning day and night to the hospital in order to understand the hospital and the people who made it special, but the story in which it is framed begins and ends in a few months.

Back to the Beginning – That Rare and Wonderful Moment of Clarity

Now let’s think about this essay as a piece of creative nonfiction writing, especially in relation to the concept of framing. It begins with a scene. We are in an operating room at the University of Pittsburgh, the world’s largest organ transplant center, in the middle of a rare and delicate surgery that will decide a dying woman’s fate. Her heart and both lungs have been emptied out of her chest and she is maintained on a heart-bypass system. The telephone alerts the surgical team that a fresh and potentially lifesaving set of organs has arrived at the hospital via helicopter. Suddenly the lead surgeon looks up and asks an observer (me) to make contact with the woman’s husband. I agree, leave the operating room and then stop for a coffee in the surgeon’s lounge.

Then, instead of moving the story forward, fulfilling my promise to Dr. Griffith and resolving my own writing dilemma, I change directions, move backwards (flashback) in time and sequence and begin to discuss this genre – immersion journalism/creative nonfiction. I provide a mountain of information – definitions, descriptions, examples, explanations. Basically, I am attempting to satisfy the nonfiction part of my responsibility to my readers and my editors while hoping that the suspense created in the first few pages will provide an added inducement for readers to remain focused and interested in this Introduction from the beginning to the end where, (the reader assumes) the two stories introduced in the first few pages will be completed.

In fact, my meeting with Dave Fulk in the ICU waiting room that dark morning was exactly the experience I had been waiting for, leading to that precious and magic moment of clarity for which I was searching and hoping. When I arrived, Mr. Fulk was talking with an elderly man and woman from Sacramento, Calif., who happened to be the parents of a 21-year-old U.S. Army private named Rebecca Treat who, I soon discovered, was the recipient of the liver from the same donor who gave Dave’s wife (Winkle Fulk) a heart and lungs. Rebecca Treat, “life-flighted” to Pittsburgh from California, had been in a coma for 10 days by the time she arrived in Pittsburgh; the transplanted liver was her only hope of ever emerging from that coma and seeing the light of day.

Over the next half-hour of conversation, I learned that Winkle Fulk had been slowly dying for four years, had been bedbound for three of those years, as Dave and their children watched her life dwindle away, as fluid filled her lungs and began to destroy her heart. Rebecca’s fate had been much more sudden; having contracted hepatitis in the army, she crashed almost immediately. To make matters worse, Rebecca and her new husband had separated. As I sat in the darkened waiting area with Dave Fulk and Rebecca’s parents, I suddenly realized what it was I was looking for, what my frame or narrative element could be. I wanted to tell about the organ transplant experience – and what organ transplantation can mean from a universal perspective – medically, scientifically, personally for patients, families and surgeons. Rebecca’s parents and the Fulk family, once strangers, would now be permanently and intimately connected by still another stranger – the donor – the person whose tragic death provided hope and perhaps salvation to two dying people. In fact, my last quest in the research phase of the transplant book experience was to discover the identity of this mysterious donor and literally connect the principal characters. In so doing, the frame or narrative drive of the story emerged.

“Many Sleepless Nights” begins when 15-year-old Richie Becker, a healthy and handsome teen-ager from Charlotte, N.C., discovers that his father is going to sell the sports car that he had hoped would one day be his. In a spontaneous and thoughtless gesture of defiance, Richie, who had never been behind the wheel, secretly takes his father’s sports car on a joy ride. Three blocks from his home, he wraps the car around a tree and is subsequently declared brain dead at the local hospital. Devastated by the experience, but hoping for some positive outcome to such a senseless tragedy, Richie’s father, Dick, donates his son’s organs for transplantation.

Then the story flashes back a half century, detailing surgeons’ first attempts at transplantation and all of the experimentation and controversy leading up to the development and acceptance of transplant techniques. I introduce Winkle Fulk and Pvt. Rebecca Treat. Richie Becker’s liver is transplanted into Rebecca, while his heart and lungs are sewn into Mrs. Fulk by Dr. Bartley Griffith. The last scene of the book 370 pages later is dramatic and telling and finishes the frame three years later when Winkle Fulk travels to Charlotte, N.C., a reunion I arranged to allow the folks to personally thank Richie’s father for his son’s gift of life.

At the end of the evening, just as we were about to say goodbye and return to the motel, Dick Becker stood up in the center of the living room of his house, paused, and then walked slowly and hesitantly over toward Winkle Fulk, who had once stood alone at the precipice of death. He eased himself down on his knees, took Winkle Fulk by the shoulder and simultaneously drew her closer, as he leaned forward and placed his ear gently but firmly between her breasts and then at her back.

Everyone in that room was suddenly and silently breathless, watching as Dick Becker listened for the last time to the absolutely astounding miracle of organ transplantation: the heart and the lungs of his dead son Richie, beating faithfully and unceasingly inside this stranger’s warm and loving chest.

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Credit: Mark Smith

A Literary Revival

While many journals of its type have perished owing to budget cuts, the reborn 'hopkins review' defies the odds and continues to champion eminent and emerging writers..

By Aleyna Rentz

T he inaugural 1947 issue of Johns Hopkins University's literary magazine, The Hopkins Review , begins with a poem by then undergraduate John Stephen called "Revaluation":

Mightier than swords, They said- a soothing token Of power's impotence When peace has softly spoken; But blades continue keen, And pens too soon get broken.

These lines speak to the frustration of a young writer who's realized that many things are, in fact, mightier than the pen. Off the heels of World War II, Stephen was probably thinking of land mines and atomic bombs, but his words make me think of money. Mightier than the pen and deadlier than the sword, it's the thing that, only six years later, killed The Hopkins Review .

But in those six brief years, The Hopkins Review had an impressive run. It was established by Writing Seminars founder Professor Elliott Coleman, who felt editorial training and publishing experience were essential for the success of his students. It would become the first literary journal published by a degree-granting creative writing department, setting a precedent for others to come. While Coleman's editorial staff took chances on undergraduates like Stephen, they also solicited work from celebrated poets like E.E. Cummings, Richard Wilbur, and Kenneth Burke. The Hopkins Review launched careers, as well; the Fall 1950 edition included John Barth's first published story, "Lilith and the Lion." Like any cultural institution literary journals are a necessary investment for any society that values the humanities. While putting together the Spring/Summer 1953 edition of the journal, editors Robert K. Burns and H.L. Scharf sensed the end was near and braced readers for the worst. In a foreword titled "Last of the Mohicans?" they warned, "It is entirely possible that this will be the last issue of The Hopkins Review , though that is not a certainty." They were frank about why:

The trouble is finances. Like all literary quarterlies, 'The Hopkins Review' cannot pay its own way. Its revenues during the course of a year amount to something less than the printing costs of a single issue of the magazine. Its subsidy from the university has been $1,000 a year, or just over the cost of one of the four annual numbers. … To say that *The Hopkins Review* is a nonprofit publication would be to belabor litotes. It is not only noncommercial; it is nonsalaried. No contributor has ever been paid for his contribution. Not one of the editors and associate editors has ever received a salary for working on the magazine.

Flipping through the original journals chronologically, one gets a sense of mounting financial unease. In a scholarly publication, I hardly expected to find Mr. Boh, the one-eyed cartoon mascot for National Bohemian beer, but there he was, on the inside covers of every issue from 1950 onward, proclaiming, "Oh boy, what a beer!" By contrast, the previous issues had no ads. Through the years, however, they became ubiquitous: beauty salon and soda fountain ads sandwiched between poems, tear-out forms for mail-ordering the latest paperbacks. Whatever money the editors received for these concessions to capitalism was evidently not enough to sustain the publication.

The 1953 issue was indeed the last issue—for the time being, that is. It would be nearly 60 years before they published the next one.

I f swift and early success, coupled with institutional support, could not guarantee The Hopkins Review 's longevity, it's mind-boggling that any literary publication survives more than a few years. As noted in The Hopkins Review 's farewell letter, these journals are nonprofit enterprises in the most literal sense. They do not make money. The people who start them likely expect to lose a few dollars, a worthy exchange for giving writers space to explore and reinvent. Like any cultural institution—art museums, local theaters, graduate programs in film production—literary journals are a necessary investment for any society that values the humanities.

Typically, the survival of university-based literary publications is not contingent on their ability to make money. Writing Seminars professor and Hopkins Review editor-in-chief emeritus David Yezzi emphasized this fact: "No magazine of this type balances the budget based on subscriptions," he said. "It requires institutional commitment to literature and the humanities." Indeed, subscription fees are almost never enough to cover production costs, let alone pay writers and staff, so magazines usually subsist on a mix of grant and institutional funding. But grant applications aren't always successful, and institutional support has become increasingly unreliable. In 2022, Bard College announced the closure of its elite literary journal, Conjunctions , citing its unsustainable production costs, a move that came on the heels of a $500 million endowment. Perhaps letting these journals die with dignity is better than what the University of Nevada at Las Vegas did to The Believer . In 2017, UNLV bought the popular publication from its parent company, McSweeney's, but in 2022, they decided the production costs were too high, so they sold it to a company called Paradise Media. Replacing the magazine's usual online content—Toni Morrison poems, Bob Odenkirk humor writing—were such headlines as "25 Best Hookup Sites for Flings, New Trysts, and Casual Dating." To introduce the internet's newest salacious search engine optimization farm, the new owners tweeted, "Hi, this is the new owner of The Believer " from a subsidiary company's account called the Sex Toy Collective. The literary community's uproar was so great that Paradise Media quickly sold the journal back to McSweeney's. All this so UNLV could pocket a mere $225,000.

Budget shortfalls in higher education are a nationwide trend. An analysis by the National Education Association revealed that 32 states spent less on public colleges and universities in 2020 than in 2008, with an average decline of nearly $1,500 per student. When faced with uneasy decisions about where to cut costs, universities take aim at less formidable targets—like literary journals and, even more dramatically, sometimes the departments that house them. When the University of Alaska Anchorage defunded its creative writing MFA program, it also ceased funding its publication The Alaska Quarterly Review , a prestigious outlet for poets and fiction writers. Purdue University killed the Sycamore Review after dismantling its highly competitive and esteemed MFA program. And Gettysburg College recently overhauled its budget, choosing to shut down the highly successful Gettysburg Review because it did not, in the administration's view, contribute to "student experience" or "outcomes."

D uring John T. Irwin's 19-year tenure chairing the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins, he surely also cared about student outcomes and expectations, but his metrics for measuring them clearly differed from those of today's decision-makers in higher education. From the outset, he was determined to have a campus literary publication for students to work on, arguing that every top-ranking writing program needed one. Ultimately, he would make his vision a reality by reviving The Hopkins Review in 2008, but it took decades—and a lot of fundraising—for him to get there.

Irwin came to Baltimore from Texas, bringing with him a Southern geniality that made him well liked by most everyone. He was known for his infectious humor and boisterous laugh; Writing Seminars Professor Jean McGarry recalls him having "a real knack with people," though students might have been intimidated by him at first glance. He wore a three-piece suit every day to work, liked to spring pop quizzes on unsuspecting students, and could recite countless poems from memory. His choice of office door decoration aptly captured the two poles of his personality: Next to a stoic photograph of Edgar Allan Poe was a banner declaring "Don't mess with Texas."

His first attempt at creating a lit mag resulted in the short-lived Strivers' Row , a joint venture with the English Department that published exactly one issue, in January 1974. It is impossible to know how Irwin, who died in 2019, felt about the fleeting existence of Strivers' Row , but if his next move is any indication, one can guess he was disappointed—that same year, he left Hopkins for the University of Georgia to edit The Georgia Review . His editorial stint there was also brief; according to McGarry, Irwin was dissatisfied by The Georgia Review 's aesthetic.

"He told me it was a very old-fashioned literary magazine," she says. "Even though it was the '70s, it really reflected the '50s. John was interested in modern, very contemporary fiction, critical theory, and psychoanalysis, so he basically went scorched earth. And so, all the oldtimers couldn't publish [in The Georgia Review ] anymore. He told me after a while he had to leave because he had so many enemies. That's what he said. But he came back to Hopkins in 1980 and was hired by John Barth."

Irwin probably felt much more at home working with Barth, a luminary of postmodern fiction, but The Georgia Review must've made an impression on him. Like The Hopkins Review , it debuted in 1947; unlike The Hopkins Review , it never went under. If its traditionalism wasn't inspiring, its longevity must've been.

Why Irwin waited nearly two decades to undertake another editorial venture is a mystery. Nevertheless, in 2005, he announced his intentions to revive The Hopkins Review , which published its first new issue in winter 2008. The three intervening years were spent soliciting funding, securing authors and editors, and coordinating printing with the Johns Hopkins University Press, potentially tricky tasks at which the affable Irwin excelled.

Rob Friedman, A&S '81, who audited Writing Seminars Master of Fine Arts classes during Irwin's tenure and helped relaunch the journal, notes how much the journal's success hinged on Irwin: "I really salute John. He hungered to do this thing, and he did everything he could to make it work. He really pulled in a lot of heavy hitters to give weight to [the journal]. And it is a testament to the respect that people have for John that they gladly came aboard to help him get this thing going."

If the first iteration of the journal ended with a whimper, it returned with a bang. The "new series," as Irwin dubbed it, launched with a mix of fresh and recognizable voices. The first issue included two unpublished stories by the late experimental writer Donald Barthelme, prefaced with a touching note from his longtime friend and peer John Barth. Award-winning poets Mary Jo Salter, John Hollander, and Richard Wilbur appeared in its pages, and future issues would feature venerated literary critics Harold Bloom and Helen Vendler and decorated novelists Alice McDermott and Colm Tóibín. Fifty-five years after the first editors mourned the journal's uncertain future, it was more alive than ever.

Irwin helmed the journal until 2015, when a stroke forced him to scale back his professorial and editorial duties. At that time, poetry Professor David Yezzi was guest editing an issue of the review, a position he hadn't expected to become permanent. But with Irwin unable to continue, Yezzi volunteered to take over.

"I wanted to stabilize everything," Yezzi says, "kind of keep [the journal] on track and grow it from what John had built without doing a major overhaul—extend and innovate within the existing format."

Yezzi upheld the journal's reputation of publishing excellent writers by including the likes of William Logan, Andrew Motion, and Natalie Shapero. Irwin's efforts were not forgotten—when he retired in 2016, the journal honored him with a 36-page Festschrift , a book of tributes for a retiring academic, with contributions (some in poetic form) from 13 of his colleagues.

Yezzi has since passed the torch to poetry Professor Dora Malech, who became editor-in-chief in 2022, just in time for a 15th anniversary redesign. Malech and her editorial team spent a lot of time reimagining the journal for a new generation.

"We had the opportunity to really do some soul-searching," Malech says. "What are we about? What can we be?"

A lot of things, as it turns out. The covers, once uniformly blue and white with a staid black logo, are now full color and full bleed, featuring vibrant art from Baltimore-based artists. Inside, readers will find art folios, visual essays, and a diverse selection of fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and criticism from a roster of esteemed writers including Claudia Rankine, Paul Muldoon, Terrance Hayes, Michael Martone, and John Barth. Each issue also contains works in translation from a variety of languages, from Spanish to Yiddish to Swahili. It's the kind of quarterly that Irwin, wary of traditionalism, would've loved.

The journal is not confined to its physical copies. On its website, readers will find podcast episodes and online exclusive features. In the wider Baltimore community, magazine contributors participate in local literary festivals and gather to recite their work at Bird in Hand, a cafe and bookshop across the street from the Homewood campus.

The new series of the journal has received broad acclaim, especially in the past few years.

Michael Dumanis, editor of Bennington College's literary journal, Bennington Review , praised The Hopkins Review 's precise artistic vision: "I think The Hopkins Review is a terrific reclamation, in a digital age of spontaneous website clicks and a glut of decontextualized literary content floating through the internet, of the value of a bound, tangible, unified art object that carefully selects, compiles, and arranges a spectrum of new fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and criticism through a distinct editorial lens. What you get is a cohesive, engaging volume full of varied literary textures ordered into a beginning, a middle, and an end. Every few months, you can read it like a new book."

Since Malech took over, the number of subscribers has doubled. The editorial team, a mix of undergraduates, graduate students, faculty, and professional editors and writers, cull work from a large pool of unsolicited submissions. Their ability to recognize good writing and collaborate with writers during the editing process has resulted in individual pieces (from each editor-in-chief's tenure) being reprinted in wide-ranging anthologies such as Best American Poetry , Best American Short Stories , Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses , Best Spiritual Literature , and Best Literary Translations . The journal won a 2022 Phoenix Award for Significant Editorial and Design Achievement from the Council of Editors of Learned Journals, with the judges noting: "The design changes have brought this important arts journal into the social stream of twenty-first-century cultural connections."

D espite the larger trend of colleges defunding their literary journals, The Hopkins Review 's future seems secure, in large part because it belongs to an institution that chooses to invest in the humanities. The journal has a three-year partnership with the Alexander Grass Humanities Institute and funding from the Krieger School of Arts & Sciences, in alignment with its five-year strategic plan, Priorities for the Future . Under Dean Christopher Celenza, KSAS outlined four major priorities: revitalize the undergraduate experience, grow the size of our faculty, enhance the graduate student experience, and promote public-facing scholarship and community engagement.

Faculty size aside, this list could easily be presented in answer to any college administrator questioning the purpose of their campus literary magazine. Literary journals might contain the most accessible, and most enjoyable, form of public-facing scholarship, and hands-on editorial work certainly enhances both the undergraduate and graduate experience. Malech called it "one of the more meaningful experiences outside of the workshop that a program can provide for its students."

Phoebe Oathout, A&S '23 (MFA), who is the journal's current senior editor, agreed: "Before I arrived at Johns Hopkins, I was working in a Wyoming town that fluctuated between 20,000 and 30,000 living in it between the seasons," she says. "I knew I wanted to be a writer but had no idea what the publishing process looked like. When I started my MFA, I heard about the opportunity to edit THR through my closest friend in the program, and primarily joined because she said it was fun. Within my first few months as an editor, I learned what the evaluation side of Submittable looks like, the primary tool used by literary magazines to read submissions, along with what helps a piece stand out from the pile. I was given the opportunity to work with an emerging trans author one-on-one about a piece that I really related to, about a nonbinary character in rural North America navigating homelessness. I got to edit work by some of the nation's leading artists, including Terrance Hayes, Claudia Rankine, Vauhini Vara, and Alejandro Varela. It was the kind of responsibility I had no idea I could have access to, and instead only thought I could dream about."

Oathout's experience, coupled with The Hopkins Review 's indelible impact in literary circles, might serve as proof to skeptical college leaders that there is in fact a return on investment in the humanities. For those who remain in doubt, come to the next reading at Bird in Hand. Grab a latte, peruse the bookstore shelves while mingling with Baltimore's literary community, and find a seat among the stacks—maybe you'll change your mind.

"When we had our end-of-year event at Bird in Hand the other day," Malech told me, "I was watching incredible graduate students from Miami, from New Mexico, meeting members of the Baltimore literary community, interfacing, connecting, celebrating one another's work as editors, as writers, getting to know one another, and I just thought that those are the kind of connections that don't show up in a numerical sense. They're qualitative, not quantitative—but they're also, I think, really invaluable."

Aleyna Rentz is a communications specialist at Johns Hopkins University.

Posted in Arts+Culture

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