They've Got It Easy

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.

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!)