They've Got It Easy
Fiction
writers have it so easy!
They can
grab readers, squeeze them, shake them, hold them upside-down over a lava pit,
and the emotional content of their writing will make a connection that keeps
the pages turning.
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| Some favorite fiction |
Non-fiction
writers generally don't have such tools. Imagine you were writing a manual
covering the operations on a spreadsheet. Heart-stopping, right? Or suggesting
that a gardener consider a group of plants that might be small, but look good
on a border. You could say, “And they really look good along the border!” Kinda
grabs you right here, doesn't it?
Fiction
writers can put the buzz in our emotions. Love (of any type), fear (the
monster's chasing me!), hunger (those pancakes …), devotion (my life is
dedicated to ...), hope (things will get better), angst (oh, what will
become of me?), pain (that really hurt!), loss (my life has no meaning
now …), and a few others that they are happy to use to manipulate our attention
span.
As a
non-fiction writer I'm frustrated (an emotion!) by the smaller number of arrows
in my quiver.
This
futility has to stop. Starting now, my essays will display a full range of
emotions and connect with the readers on a deeper level, or at least jack up
their hormone levels. Wait, that last is too technical and unemotional. Note to
editor: scratch that last line.
To put the
new me on display, I offer the following non-fiction essay about my garden,
annotated for ease of study:
Approaching
the tall row of azaleas in full flower, the sun over my right shoulder catches
them in a montage of blaze and shadow. It warms them from the cool morning into
the sparkling day, as I am warmed by their beauty. (That's LOVE being
demonstrated now, for those of you whose attention has wandered.)
As I look
up to follow the flight of a chickadee, I'm shocked to see a large, dead branch
hovering over hosta, scheming to mash the mortals below. (That's FEAR.
Are you taking notes?) Maybe it won't ever fall. (FALSE HOPE)
I should go
in and call a tree surgeon, but stomach-rumblings remind me that breakfast is
waiting, so first things first. (And now, HUNGER.) Trapped between the
strong chords that pull me toward the phone to save the hosta I've slaved over
for so many of my days (DEVOTION) and the equally strong desire to have
some pancakes with butter and syrup (Yeah, that's HUNGER again) I'm
frozen between incisive action and indigestion. Oh, what will become of my poor
plants? (ANGST)
Clearly,
both paths require turning back toward the house, but as I stride purposefully
onward to do one of those two things, the ground rises to meet me and smacks me
in the face! (PAIN) I've tripped over my hose! No, not my socks, the other
kind. Who put that there? (QUERULOUS) Yeah, I did. (SHAME)
I'm going to feel really embarrassed (EMBARRESSMENT) when people see how
I'll have to go through life with all of those scars on my nose. (LOSS)
Who knows? But I'll face up to it! (RESOLUTE). So I pick myself up, dust
myself off, and start all over again! (REMINISCENCE from an old Sinatra
song.)
After such
a taxing, but fractionally enjoyable, morning I'm euphoric (EUPHORIA)
and head back inside, trying to remember what I was going to do there. (QUERULOUS
again; or, maybe advancing age.) Ah, yes, breakfast. But …
“I burnt my
pancakes!” (DISBELIEF, LOSS, ANGST, HUNGER and especially,
SOUL CRUSHING HORROR!”)
And then,
adding insult to my previous injuries, I remember the original purpose of my
morning's journey:
Marching
over to the 'Red Ruffles' azalea, I choose a flower, wipe off some pollen from
its anther, then rub that pollen on the pistil to make seeds for planting next
year. (You've been waiting so long for: SEX!)
