[stylist] Stopping nonfiction thread

Wed Mar 7 23:38:49 UTC 2012

Bridgit,
You did a good job. What you defined as creative nonfiction is eye opening. 
I think people are confused because some things marketed as CNF are not and 
vice versa. I would keep giving your opinions and not let rudeness get to 
you.
As long as the moderator does not stop a thread, I suggest it can continue 
if members want it to.

Ashley

-----Original Message----- 
From: Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Wednesday, March 07, 2012 4:56 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Stopping nonfiction thread

No need to be condescending because I thought an exchange of thoughts
and opinions were being shared, and since I have quite a bit of
knowledge and experience in nonfiction writing, I've been trying to
explain and demonstrate what it is, but if we want to be rude and
condescending, trust me... Well just ask those who know me well. I've
not been rude to anyone posting on this topic. Do we not constantly say
Stylist is a place to be informed, to learn about writing? That's what
I'm doing. I have a frickin degree in creative nonfiction, (and
graduated with honors) and the Omaha World Herald hired me because of my
background in creative nonfiction; they didn't want a journalist for the
blog, but someone with more experience in creative writing,  so I want
the genre understood, and the post about nonfiction containing lies is
an incorrect view of the genre. At least some stimulating discussion was
happening, but if us so-called writers do not want to learn proper info
about writing, well, I guess it's not my problem. And trying to present
me like the crazy, bad guy is unfair since, again, all I've done is
provide proper definitions and examples of what creative nonfiction is,
and to correct the misinformation that has been posted on Stylist in
regards to the genre. Perhaps some need a time out to learn what
specific writing genres are. Now brand me the bitch if you must, and
don't worry, I will stop this thread since apparently some are unwilling
to actually learn. And in the future, instead of being rude and
condescending, just stop posting if you want a thread to stop. I've only
continued because others were, so it goes both ways people.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/

"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

Message: 11
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 03:28:29 -0500
From: "Lynda Lambert" <llambert at zoominternet.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up material
Message-ID: <39496E0371E643988854B78B09C1424A at Lambert>
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
reply-type=original

I think you need a  "time out." muhahahahahahah
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, March 06, 2012 3:34 PM
Subject: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up material

> So this therefore implies that nonfiction writing is about experiences

> and events that never happened. I do understand what Eve and Lynda are

> trying to say, but lie is the wrong word. "Lie" is not exactly a word
> you can use on a philosophical level; a lie is a false, untrue thing
> that does not exist, never happened, and this is not what creative
> nonfiction is in any way shape or form.
>
> And perhaps some are misunderstanding the "creative" part of creative
> nonfiction; based on many post, creative is being equated to untrue,
> lies, stuff that never happened and is included to provide
> entertainment. Creative only means a writer is using literary
> techniques to bring into a three-dimensional realm as opposed to a
> flat story on the page. Using creative means does not mean a writer is

> pulling in imagined elements, making up people, places and things just

> for the sake of telling a story. This is what Frey did in A Million
> Little Pieces, which has been established as not, N O T, being a
> memoir or any type of creative nonfiction. You are not "creating"
> information but just using creative ways in which to relay true
> information.
>
> The reason nonfiction and fiction have specific names is because one
> is imagined, made-up while the other is about real-life. We all hold
> thoughts and opinions based on our interpretation of life, and this
> may differ from person to person, but this is not the same as a lie.
> I've yet to hear from anyone here how a memoir is about events that
> never happened, which again, is what a lie is. We are not talking
> about historical fiction, fictionalized accounts of one's life or any
> other type of fiction; we are discussing a form of nonfiction that
> often employs literary techniques to bring in the "creative" part of
> creative nonfiction. It's not drawing upon made-up info. It's the
> difference between a one-dimensional painting and a three-dimensional
> painting with layers of shading giving an audience a fuller view of
> the picture.
>
> I can write that Ross and I sit on the couch with our niece watching
> TV. I feel like Penny is our daughter, but she is not. I feel like a
> mother, and it's difficult to reconcile my feelings with reality.
>
> Or I can write:
>
> We sit on the couch, worn and dirty from life, with Ross slumbering
> next to us as a black-and-white movie hums softly in the background.
> Hands folded as if praying, your tiny bulk nestled against me; we are
> like a family. Mother, father, baby, but you are not mine. We are
> connected biologically, but you are not my daughter. Niece by birth,
> you are so much more to us. My heart dissolves with yours, longing to
> know this feeling always. Breathing steady, slowly, surely, and for a
> moment, I am a mother.
>
> I imagine us part of a holiday snow globe as the three of us lounge on

> the couch at two o' clock in the morning. The mist of this fantasy
> shimmers around us, engulfing us in warmth. The rhythm of your
> whispered snoring strides along with the beating of my heart. Sleeping

> in my lap, I try to draw you into me. How can this be? I am not a
> mother, but I bear the heart of a mother like a badge.
>
> Did I make anything up? Is this a lie? Please explain to me how
> nonfiction writing such as memoir and personal essay can be equated to

> containing lies. Again, on a philosophical level, I get where you
> ladies are going, but you are using the wrong word, and there has yet
> to be any explanation in your favor of how this type of writing
> contains lies. In the paras above, are you telling me this did not
> happen, these are not my thoughts and feelings? It makes no sense.
>
> I respect the intelligence, knowledge, wisdom and experience those
> posting on this topic bring to Stylist, but, though I'm only 30, I
> know creative nonfiction even if I know nothing else. There are
> different schools of thought on what constitutes memoir and personal
> essay writing, and what is permissible and how certain information
> should be presented, but across the board, no one would agree that
> creative nonfiction writing contains lies, big or little. Try making
> that statement to some of the big creative nonfiction writers of our
> time-- Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Scot Russel Sanders, David Sedaris,

> Maxine Hong Kingston-- and see what they say. Different
> interpretations, different views-- this is not the same as a lie. My
> perspective is different than yours, it does not render one of our
> perspectives as being untrue and made-up.
>
> Sincerely,
> Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
> Read my blog at: http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
>
> "History is not what happened; history is what was written down." The
> Expected One- Kathleen McGowan
>
> Message: 4
> Date: Mon, 5 Mar 2012 18:42:16 -0700
> From: Eve Sanchez <3rdeyeonly at gmail.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up material
> Message-ID:
>
> <CACdbYKVYK3ivUDm6ixtKHsEPrg3psghnE+h4vXcMWW_qwW5TRg at mail.gmail.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
>
> Sure there is. Even using the word 'tinkering' shows this. Tinkering
> is creating, being creative is creating. Creating is not solely done
> with the truth or it would not need creating. Hence the lies appear..
> It is a lie spoken when one says he never lies. Diolch, Eve:)
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site: http://www.nfb-writers-division.net
> <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
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>
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rnet.net
>
>

------------------------------

Message: 12
Date: Wed, 07 Mar 2012 07:26:44 -0600
From: Brad Duns? <lists at braddunsemusic.com>
To: Writer's Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Wednesday's Word: deglutition
Message-ID: <7.0.1.0.2.20120307072315.04bbfe78 at braddunsemusic.com>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"; format=flowed

Deglutition
dee-gloo-TIH-shun
or
deh-gloo-TIH-shun
(noun)

The act or process of swallowing

?A black holes  deglutition of stars and other
space  material is still quite a mystery.?

or perhaps less metaphoric:

""A deglutition gone wrong can lead to quite a coughing spree."

Brad Duns?

"The naive believes everything, But the sensible
man considers his steps." --Proverbs

http://www.braddunsemusic.com

http://www.facebook.com/braddunse

http://www.twitter.com/braddunse

------------------------------

Message: 13
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 09:12:06 -0600
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Writing Contest in languages other than English
Message-ID: <00d001ccfc74$a9967ec0$fcc37c40$@cox.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"

WOW what a dream that would be! If we could attract a global wide
interest
--- with quality judges and submissions in a variety of languages..
Katie and Gerardo any ideas how we could pull that one off?

Robert Leslie Newman

Personall Website-

Adjustment To Blindness And Visual impairment

http//www.thoughtprovoker.info

NFB Writers' Division, president

http://www.nfb-writers-division.net

Chair of the NFB Newsletter Publications Committee

------------------------------

Message: 14
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 11:15:26 -0500
From: "Lynda Lambert" <llambert at zoominternet.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Tomorrow is the Big Winds Moon
Message-ID: <E54FD338D7714D5EBF3A9EC8EE14F309 at Lambert>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"

Hello friends,

When I look over the things I choose to write about, very often it is
the "moon" and things associated with the moon, past and present. The
moon makes me so happy every time I think of it. I love being outside
late at night with my dogs, when the moon is nearing it's fullness.

I got up at 3 am today, for the day. Why?  The moon!

Tomorrow will be the full moon - I keep track of this. But this one is
very special becaue it is the Big Winds Moon. This moon connects us to
the spiritual realm. Psycnic activities are very strong during this
moon. Our intuition is very much in tune with our higher self. This is a
GREAT week to be working on POETRY - or whatever medium you choose to
work with this week.

Today I am working on a new poem about this moon - and after lunch, I
will be going to the pottery studio to see what delights might be coming
out of the final firing of the kiln. I am expecting something amazing
today - and all week long!

The _Big Winds Moon_ can take you to a place where you can capture your
dreams and visions on the page or in your art making. No wonder I get up
during the night, just to celebrate this event.  Have a high energy day
everyone.

Lynda Lambert
http://lyndalambert.com

------------------------------

Message: 15
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 11:19:23 -0500
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Stylist" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] 'Crying' prompt response
Message-ID: <0B47F7E8AA5C4405894DBDE42F188BD2 at ChrisPC>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"

Johnny Get Your Gun

By Chris Kuell

I sat working at my computer on the morning of April 4, 2011. When the
phone rang, I listened to the caller ID, which gave a familiar 423 area
code. My friend Susan in Tennessee.

"Hey Susan-how's it going?"

Susan answered with her usual, "Hey Chris," drawing out Chris with her
Southern twang until it was almost a three-syllable word. Then she
sniffed and I knew something was wrong. "Jonathan. Jonathan stepped on
an IED."

I can't say with any certainty what she said right after that. It's
absolutely amazing to me how fast the human body can react. Within the
course of a millisecond or two, tears filled my eyes, my blackened
visual cortex turned a translucent gray and a sheen of sweat covered my
back and chest

".two days ago. He's alive, but he's hurt real bad."

I steadied myself enough to try to give my friend some comfort over her
son. I learned that Jonathan had been flown to Germany where doctors
were trying to stabilize him. Despite the military's suggestions that
she sit tight and wait, Susan was getting on a plane to Germany later
that day. She asked that I pray for her son, and to please ask everyone
I knew to pray for him too. I assured her I would, hung up, then fell to
pieces.

In June of 2003, I talked my family into driving me to West Virginia for
a three day writing conference. I had been toying with the idea of
trying freelance writing, and decided to attend the conference to learn,
to network, and meet other writers. My wife drove the 680 miles, and as
I got out of the car and stretched my back, a woman got out of the car
next to us.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Susan."

We exchanged pleasantries over the course of the conference, Susan being
one of only a handful of people not put off by my blindness.

And then she sat across from me at the Saturday evening banquet and we
really got a chance to chat. She was working on a novel about a strong
Southern woman in a bad relationship, and after attending a seminar for
first time novelists, I felt juiced up to start a novel about a
working-class family dealing with Alzheimer's. I learned that Susan had
two kids, a boy and a girl like me, and our sons were both eleven.

After the conference we emailed each other and critiqued each other's
work. We developed a weekly writing challenge to urge each other on, and
became good friends in the process. I saw Susan again at the 2004 West
Virginia Writer's conference, where I consumed a little too much
authentic West Virginia moonshine and she helped pilot me back to my
room. We talked on the phone, and I heard about her husband losing his
job, her daughter's pregnancy, and her son Jonathon advancing belt by
belt through his karate classes. At the 2007 conference, we both pitched
our novels to a New York literary agent. He shot me down, but Susan was
one of only three people out of 52 to get a full manuscript request.

The following year, as summer approached, Susan called me in tears. Her
son's best friend had been found that morning dead in his room. He had
died from something called Robo-trippin', which I'd never heard of.
Apparently, he and Jonathan had both downed an entire bottle of
Robitussin cough syrup, which is purported to give the consumer a buzz.
He was fine when Jonathan and he parted ways the previous evening, but
his heart failed in the night.

This was the start of a downward trend for Jonathan. His grades dropped,
he quit karate, he started staying out late and partying with the type
of friends Susan and her husband wanted him to stay away from.

He managed to graduate high school, barely, and was continually fighting
with his parents. As a graduation gift I sent him a copy of Cormack
McCarthy's 'The Road' and 'What Color is My Parachute' in hopes he might
get some direction in life. I also sent him a seven page personal
letter, which he probably threw out without reading. The truth is, I
wasn't all that different than Jonathan when I was his age. I once
talked my best friend out of killing himself on a long, dark night, and
I always had the drive to get myself through college, but I wasn't
exactly law-abiding with Rhodes Scholars for friends.

Jonathan went to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville for a semester
in the fall-his parent's choice, not his. He was sent home after one
semester and asked not to return.

The following spring the cops pulled him over and busted him with beer
and an ounce of weed in his car. He spent the night in jail, then Susan
and her husband bailed him out. In court he was found guilty of
possession with the intent to distribute, driving under the influence,
possession of alcohol while underage, and a handful of assorted traffic
violations. The judge fined him $2500 plus 100 hours of community
service. Jonathan told the judge that what he really wanted to do was
join the service. The judge agreed that if Jonathan did, he'd waive the
fine. Jonathan completed his community service, and a month later was a
United States marine.

This seemed to have a positive impact. When he came home from boot camp,
he was a changed man. He was proud and respectful and except for picking
up the habit of smoking cigarettes he was the perfect son. When he
returned for more training, he found, as is the case with many a country
boy used to shooting squirrels out of trees with a .22 at a hundred
yards, he was a good shot. A real good shot. Uncle Sam decided to turn
Jonathan into a sniper.

He trained, learned about the latest weaponry, laser scopes and where to
place a kill shot. On January 18, 2011, he and the rest of his regiment
left the good old USA and landed in Afghanistan. Seventy-four days
later, as Jonathan himself said, "I was walking a path where 200 other
guys had walked before me, and I was the unlucky sum-bitch to step on
the mine."

Although I'd never met Jonathan, I couldn't get the image of him out of
my mind. Susan had said he'd lost most of his left foot, and all the
bones in both legs and his right foot were shattered. As I dwelled on
that image, the sadness would hit me like an iron mallet and I'd find
myself crying again. When my wife came home from work, I couldn't get
through the story without losing it yet again. Why was I having such a
powerful reaction to this kid, this punk really, who I'd never even met?

Firstly, it wasn't just any kid, but it was the son of a good friend. He
was my own son's age, and while they were walking very different paths
in life, I could still imagine the pain of every mother and father who
had lost or nearly lost a son or daughter in this terrible war. As of
August 2011, there were 4,700 deaths and nearly 33,000 American troop
casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan, most of them soldiers between the
ages of 18 and 22. And for what? Is the world a better place? If so,
only slightly. Any gains are precarious at best, and certainly not worth
the cost.

As a parent, I can imagine no greater pain than the suffering or death
of my children. Give me cancer, Parkinson's, muscular dystrophy, chop
off my legs, but please God, leave my kids alone. I know that tragedy
knocks on everyone's door, but I'd bargain anything I could to keep it
from my kid's porches as long as possible. As I'm sure most parents
would.  And when I open my heart to it, I can feel all those parents
pain and sorrow.

I thought about Jonathan, a mere nineteen years old, and the entire
trauma that he's already experienced. First was the death of his best
friend, which he must feel guilty over, yet never received the mental
health therapy he undoubtedly needed. This caused him to act out, and
his folks, being Bible-belters, tried the 'spare the rod and spoil the
child' approach to parenting-which of course, failed miserably. Jonathan
rebelled, got into deeper trouble and took what I thought at the time
was a reasonable step by joining the Marines. Then, just as he was
feeling like his life was on track again, he found himself thrust into
the horror of war. By early May, he was at Walter Reed Medical Center in
Washington, his left leg amputated below the knee, his right leg full of
screws and rods, both legs and hips encased in plaster while he healed.
At least, physically.

There is a small ray of sunshine amid the bleakness of this story. By
all accounts, the medical attention Jonathan has received from the US
Military has been superb. Unlike the horror stories of wounded soldiers
lying in their own waste, infected wounds left untreated at Walter Reed
during the bush administration, Susan was invited to come and stay with
her son, which she did for three months. That gave them time to heal
their personal wounds and grow closer. Despite his protests, Jonathan
had long sessions of physical therapy every day. Two custom prosthetics
were made for him-one for everyday use and one for doing athletic
activities. When he was able, a group of wounded soldiers and their
families got to sit in the first row behind the plate at a Washington
Nationals game. They went to New York City for a weekend to tour and see
a Broadway show. They were flown to Las Vegas for a weekend. Jonathan
has had his picture taken with a dozen or more celebrities. Tim Allen
makes it a practice to stop by Bethesda Naval hospital (Walter Reed was
officially closed last August) as do Holly Hunter and Gary Sinise. They
walk around and chat with the wounded soldiers, which really makes their
days. I can't say how proud I am that my tax dollars are used to help
and care for our wounded veterans.

Three weeks ago Jonathan was skiing in Colorado when he got a phone call
from one of his Marine buddies. At boot camp, during training and for
his short stint in Afghanistan, Jonathan had made two close
friends-Harrison and Mathews. Harrison was the first person to get to
Jonathon and applied the tourniquet which probably saved his life. The
other guys had completed their yearlong tour and returned to Camp
Merrill in Georgia in early February, 2012. A week later, safe on US
soil, Harrison shot himself in the head. The phone call was from
Mathews. Jonathon caught the first plane he could and attended the
funeral in full military uniform.

At this point, Jonathan is patiently waiting for his discharge. Despite
his parents urging, he doesn't believe he needs to talk to a
psychiatrist or therapist. He is thinking again about attending college,
or perhaps a trade school to learn to be an electrician.

What happened to Jonathon, who turned twenty last fall, wasn't ordinary

y. Yet, it was truly devastating, and I'm not sure he's dealt with all
the ramifications. It's also not a huge leap to worry what might befall
my own son, although there's no danger of him stepping on an IED. Last
year two students died at UConn (where he goes to school); one was
stabbed at a party and another was hit by a shuttle bus. A few years ago
my friend Becky's son died at 19 of a drug overdose. A few weeks ago
another friend's son was hit by a car while riding his bicycle home from
a party. He's still in a coma, but doctors have said they anticipate he
will be fully paralyzed. He's just twenty-four years old.

These kids, these beings we love into existence and then give them our
hearts. We do our best to watch over them, to teach them, to urge them
to be smart. but there's only so much we can do. Entropy, or chaos, is
part of what keeps this planet going no matter how much I fear or loathe
it. Tears will come, they'll be wiped away, and somehow we have to find
the strength to carry on.

7 March 2012

------------------------------

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End of stylist Digest, Vol 95, Issue 13
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