An Elusive Genre: The Challenges of Writing Creative Nonfiction

I wrote this for the opinions section of The Hawk newspaper (March 23 issue), but it did not get published since it is about a class that I am currently taking (no hard feelings, it was for the best). Thankfully, I have this blog where I can post whatever I please, so I hope you enjoy reading this piece about my grappling with the elusive genre of creative nonfiction.

I never thought writing creative nonfiction would be this hard. Apparently, there are rules for being creative. Stories that have to evoke abstraction and timelines that have to follow a pattern. However, nothing in my head follows either of these requirements while writing.

In my creative nonfiction class, we’re asked to have texture by adding in specific details and writing about moments with such sublime descriptions that the meaning of the piece disappears into oblivion. How do I imbue my piece with feelings that cannot be put into words and experiences that I’ve yet to fully comprehend? What if my whole life is private, and I’m not interested in sharing anything more than what I’m giving up?

Creative nonfiction is an enigmatic genre. Many writers encounter difficulty when defining it, and I certainly am not exempt from this fact.

It is a form of storytelling based in truth — an accurate retelling of a person’s life experiences (to the best of their ability). However, the “creative” part encompasses the use of creative writing techniques of literature, like poetry, fiction and craft. There are very few limits to how creative nonfiction is defined, which shows how frustrating and elusive the writing process can be.

Letting people into these vignettes of my life by sharing my creative-nonfiction-dubbed pieces is like pulling back the curtain when I said I wasn’t ready. I’ll never be ready, but that doesn’t mean I should be pushed on stage, standing in the limelight staring at an audience that’s ready for a show.

While no one is asking me to share things that I don’t want to share, it’s impossible not to write from the heart. These stories are often raw, vulnerable and simply don’t make sense. Maybe writing creative nonfiction is supposed to be the time when I organize and deeply consider my own experiences, but what if my life actually does happen in a blur? What if I can’t describe the past in full detail because I’ve never had the time to properly dwell on it?

I don’t need to share moments of my life that are vulnerable, but I’ve learned that those are the moments that matter the most. If I choose to write about it, it’s because it matters to me. I’ve failed at trying to add the recommended texture and detail and pattern because I’m still articulating my story writing.

In September 2021, my basement was flooded by Hurricane Ida. Things from my past were unearthed and floating in contaminated brown water. When it all happened, I was 20 miles away on campus crying helplessly as I thought about how half my life was stored down there.

I spent the weekend cleaning out my basement. Sorting through what could be saved, what had to be trashed and what was now trash, but for some reason I had to save it. For a moment I thought to myself, “Why am I trying to save the past when it’s taking away from my present?”

My mind is like my flooded basement. It’s flooded with chaos that cannot be contained, made sense of or controlled. And even though writing creative nonfiction has been interesting to write within a genre that encourages me to consider the often overlooked details of my stories, it has been challenging to say the least. Therefore, I don’t expect a reader to understand any of my creative nonfiction pieces because they come from an utterly confused mind that is still processing every aspect of each moment.

Perhaps I’m just really bad at writing creative nonfiction, and I’m open minded enough to believe that that’s true. However, I can’t help but think that writing creative nonfiction is like cleaning out a flooded basement. It’s nice to reminisce and swim in the details of the past, but if you stay there too long, then you might drown — and I’m trying to stay afloat.