Peace Corps volunteers are in unique positions. They are not travelers – they live in one place for somewhere around two years. They are not anthropologists – they are untrained. They are not professional development workers – they are unskilled and inexperienced. They are not writers. Most are just out of college with little or no work experience of any kind. They are young Americans who put themselves under the care of the government to send them to a developing country for two years to perform jobs they have little training for and for which they are provided few resources. There is nothing else like it, at least in the States (other countries, Japan for one, have similar programs). I think the subgenre of RPCVs books deserves a closer look – as deserves any subgenre. What I hope to provide is a very minimum of what a PC memoir – just one form of writing that could come out of the experience – should offer to a reader. The rest is up to the writer’s creative mind. I do not mean to create any formal laws, merely guidelines worthy of reflection.
To begin, I’ll quote from Lee Gutkind’s guide The Art of Creative Nonfiction. In the quote, Gutkind refers to ‘readers’, a general term encompassing all levels of readers. But I would rather narrow it down to readers with an eye for good literature. So, with that in mind, it is the following which drives my paper:
Remember first and foremost, you are writing for the reader. You are undoubtedly
also writing for yourself, but the reader is not concerned with whether you
perceive the experience with satisfaction. Rather, readers care about whether
the time and effort they have invested in your writing will bear fruit. (70)
My Nine Conclusions
1) Provide probing personal reflection.
Steinberg wrote, “A lot of nonfiction writers are narrating only the literal story of the experience, and leaving out the ‘inner story,’ that is, the story of their thinking. . . How, I ask, did this experience shape you? How did it change you? What were the costs? What was at stake?” (185-7) From personal experience I know that trying to answer these questions is a lot like training for soccer. One can not easily execute a skill at first. It takes many hours of trial and error and lots of energy. Just as a footballer will physically tire after a session, so will a reflecting writer mentally tire. Yet the goal is that with practice the task becomes easier. One may never master the art but can continue to improve to the point where it appears mastered to others.
The PC Memoirs I read lacked deep reflection, though there were flashes of brilliance. For example, in The Village of Waiting, Packer recalls a time where he was sure he was having a stroke, only to find that he was instead having a nervous breakdown. Here, Packer reveals a time when he drove himself over the brink. He makes himself vulnerable to our interpretation of him – he takes a risk, and wins. The reader feels for him. The reader continues reading.
Later, Packer reveals that he quit the Peace Corps. He went home without telling anyone. As an RPCV myself, I know how hard a decision that was to make. My wife and I contemplated quitting many times. Here Packer opens himself again. This is how he ends, in his sister’s apartment in New York City, suddenly realizing what he’s done:
Lee Gutkind has said that no one under a certain age, around 50 or so, should attempt to write a memoir. One of the main attractions of a good memoir is its depth of reflection: the writer must spend time pondering his or her life or certain parts of it and be able to see, with 20/20 hindsight, what really happened and why, how events were related, and how he or she really felt about it all.
I think I know what Gutkind meant. With time and with age comes experience. A young person may not know the joy of truly loving and being loved, or the grief of losing a loved one. Or the joy of parenthood. Or the fear that comes with responsibility. It’s true that the Peace Corps experience can mature volunteers – they see death, poverty and illness like they never have before and feel the spectrum of emotions that go with it – but the writers are still young and may not have the capacity to understand exactly what they saw or felt. Packer published his book the year after his return, at the age of twenty four. Though I could not verify their ages, Tidwell published his a year after his return, and Erdman three years after hers. Holloway had the most time, sixteen years, though I feel she fell short of conveying her reflection because she did not have the artistic skill to express it in words.
One could say that these Peace Corps writers did not write with deep reflection because they were not trying to write pure memoirs. Perhaps they were writing hybrids – say, three-fourths travel writing, one-sixth ethnography and one-twelfth memoir.
But I say this. The intention of each was to convey their experiences, to tell the readers what it was like. I don’t think anyone could argue with that. No matter what they were writing, hybrid or not, if they want us to know what it was like, they must reach deep inside and reveal what it was like to them.
I believe reflection is the most important yet least utilized tool for these memoirist, and I want to be clear here. I emphasize that a writer should admit how he or she felt. That’s somewhat vague. To be more specific, I’ll compare a memoir to a simple journalistic report. A journalist answers six questions: who, what, where, when, why and how. So must a memoirist, lest the reader ask questions. Most of these questions are answered in the books I read, but it is the question ‘Why’, which correlates to reflection, that is most neglected. Why did the protagonist join the Peace Corps in the first place? Why did he stay? Why did she knowingly ignore a local taboo? Why did she invite her friend to visit her in the States?
Like a writer of fiction would do for a character he created, a writer of nonfiction must know everything about his own character: motivations, thoughts, beliefs, wants, fears. This character will not be the writer exactly – a single book could not contain an entire character – but it must be exactly like some parts of him. A writer of fiction would not hide his character’s flaws. That revelation is what readers look for. Neither should a nonfiction writer hide his own character’s flaws. Yet, this is not as easy to do with oneself. It’s much easier to see the flaws in others – fictional or not – than it is in oneself. Then, after one’s accepted the flaws, one must then admit them to the world.
This admittance makes the writer vulnerable to the reader’s judgment of the writer. Kitchen wrote:
This vulnerability is daunting, especially to young writers, like these PC writers. I think this fear played a part in why the PC writers admitted so few of their flaws. The writers who reflected on their flaws did so in a moment, a sort of, “Look, I’ll tell you a secret, but after I tell you let’s not ever bring it up again.” This was the case for Tidwell’s admittance that he had been drinking too much. Erdman only revealed her strong side, hiding away her flaws and weaknesses. Packer provided a better example. As I’ve written, he spent a long time explaining how he felt sick, how he thought he was dying only to find he was having a mental breakdown, and then how he quit the program. Yet even with Packer the introspection only goes so deep.
Joan Didion wrote in “On Keeping a Notebook”, “We are brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, are by definition more interesting than ourselves.” (133) Thusly, the general public tends to be more humble than revealing, more shy than outgoing. They do not admit their flaws or illnesses nor do they admit their sadness, love or adoration. But before that they need to know these things about themselves. They must reflect.
From my own writing:
2) Express one’s feelings using comparison.
The PC Memoirs I read lacked deep reflection, though there were flashes of brilliance. For example, in The Village of Waiting, Packer recalls a time where he was sure he was having a stroke, only to find that he was instead having a nervous breakdown. Here, Packer reveals a time when he drove himself over the brink. He makes himself vulnerable to our interpretation of him – he takes a risk, and wins. The reader feels for him. The reader continues reading.
Later, Packer reveals that he quit the Peace Corps. He went home without telling anyone. As an RPCV myself, I know how hard a decision that was to make. My wife and I contemplated quitting many times. Here Packer opens himself again. This is how he ends, in his sister’s apartment in New York City, suddenly realizing what he’s done:
When I wake up, I have no idea where I am. Then, remembering, I sit up and
struggle for a way to undo everything and get back to the village and the people
who are waiting for me. (316)
Lee Gutkind has said that no one under a certain age, around 50 or so, should attempt to write a memoir. One of the main attractions of a good memoir is its depth of reflection: the writer must spend time pondering his or her life or certain parts of it and be able to see, with 20/20 hindsight, what really happened and why, how events were related, and how he or she really felt about it all.
I think I know what Gutkind meant. With time and with age comes experience. A young person may not know the joy of truly loving and being loved, or the grief of losing a loved one. Or the joy of parenthood. Or the fear that comes with responsibility. It’s true that the Peace Corps experience can mature volunteers – they see death, poverty and illness like they never have before and feel the spectrum of emotions that go with it – but the writers are still young and may not have the capacity to understand exactly what they saw or felt. Packer published his book the year after his return, at the age of twenty four. Though I could not verify their ages, Tidwell published his a year after his return, and Erdman three years after hers. Holloway had the most time, sixteen years, though I feel she fell short of conveying her reflection because she did not have the artistic skill to express it in words.
One could say that these Peace Corps writers did not write with deep reflection because they were not trying to write pure memoirs. Perhaps they were writing hybrids – say, three-fourths travel writing, one-sixth ethnography and one-twelfth memoir.
But I say this. The intention of each was to convey their experiences, to tell the readers what it was like. I don’t think anyone could argue with that. No matter what they were writing, hybrid or not, if they want us to know what it was like, they must reach deep inside and reveal what it was like to them.
I believe reflection is the most important yet least utilized tool for these memoirist, and I want to be clear here. I emphasize that a writer should admit how he or she felt. That’s somewhat vague. To be more specific, I’ll compare a memoir to a simple journalistic report. A journalist answers six questions: who, what, where, when, why and how. So must a memoirist, lest the reader ask questions. Most of these questions are answered in the books I read, but it is the question ‘Why’, which correlates to reflection, that is most neglected. Why did the protagonist join the Peace Corps in the first place? Why did he stay? Why did she knowingly ignore a local taboo? Why did she invite her friend to visit her in the States?
Like a writer of fiction would do for a character he created, a writer of nonfiction must know everything about his own character: motivations, thoughts, beliefs, wants, fears. This character will not be the writer exactly – a single book could not contain an entire character – but it must be exactly like some parts of him. A writer of fiction would not hide his character’s flaws. That revelation is what readers look for. Neither should a nonfiction writer hide his own character’s flaws. Yet, this is not as easy to do with oneself. It’s much easier to see the flaws in others – fictional or not – than it is in oneself. Then, after one’s accepted the flaws, one must then admit them to the world.
This admittance makes the writer vulnerable to the reader’s judgment of the writer. Kitchen wrote:
The writer must choose how to represent his or herself. He must realize that the
reader is going to question his preconceptions, the choices he makes (actual and
aesthetic choices), and the reader will judge the moral implications of the
choices. (182)
This vulnerability is daunting, especially to young writers, like these PC writers. I think this fear played a part in why the PC writers admitted so few of their flaws. The writers who reflected on their flaws did so in a moment, a sort of, “Look, I’ll tell you a secret, but after I tell you let’s not ever bring it up again.” This was the case for Tidwell’s admittance that he had been drinking too much. Erdman only revealed her strong side, hiding away her flaws and weaknesses. Packer provided a better example. As I’ve written, he spent a long time explaining how he felt sick, how he thought he was dying only to find he was having a mental breakdown, and then how he quit the program. Yet even with Packer the introspection only goes so deep.
Joan Didion wrote in “On Keeping a Notebook”, “We are brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, are by definition more interesting than ourselves.” (133) Thusly, the general public tends to be more humble than revealing, more shy than outgoing. They do not admit their flaws or illnesses nor do they admit their sadness, love or adoration. But before that they need to know these things about themselves. They must reflect.
From my own writing:
I am afraid of writing this book. I fear readers will dismiss it as childish
musings. I fear I will be accused of ineptitude and fraud - of pretending I
don’t know how inept I am. I am afraid of falling short. I am afraid of reaching
deep inside and producing something that moves no one. I am afraid of reaching
deep inside and finding nothing.
2) Express one’s feelings using comparison.
Once the writer has successfully reflected on a subject, he or she must go about putting his or her thoughts into words. If reflecting is like soccer training, then writing is like the game-day match. The exhibition. The art. The writer must express these feelings in a way readers can understand, so that they relate.
Didion wrote, “Might not Mrs. Minnie S. Brooks help me to remember who I am? Might not Mrs. Fox help me to remember who I am not?” (133) Didion was asking herself if the notes she took about those women were of any use to her. For the purposes of this paper I would like to alter her quote: “Might not a villager help the reader understand who I am? Might not a fellow volunteer help the reader understand who I am not?”
First, as an artist, the writer must come up with the most fitting words to describe feelings or scenes, characters or places. This idea is nothing new, but it should be taken seriously here, especially with PC memoirs, because the subjects are many times exotic and unfamiliar to readers. They need a description they can understand. From my own writing: “The bua trees pointed up straight into the sky like a jungle of street lights. Yet at the top the light gave way to a crown of palms. The tree’s fruit, the betel nut, hung from the crown like browned and swollen bunches of grapes.”
The writer can compare his feelings to emotions felt in the past. Once again, from my own writing:
Writing this paper, I realized, is nerve-wracking because I’m afraid readers
will think my ideas are stupid. Or that they’ve already been thought of. I get
excited when I come upon what I think is an original idea, but when it comes to
telling others, the fear sets in. I feel naked, completely vulnerable. I can
compare it to the soccer and baseball tryouts of my youth. I could only hope the
coaches saw in my performance what I saw in myself. But it’s at the end, when
the players are all gathered and the coaches call out the names or numbers of
the players they’ve chosen, and the crowd gets smaller, and I see I’m still
unpicked. It’s not making the cut that hurts the most. It’s putting myself out
there yet failing to gain acceptance.
If there is nothing the writer can compare to, he or she can speculate. That works brilliantly. Packer used this well, as did Thubron.
3) A writer should make use of pertinent research.
A researched history of the people and places helps the reader understand how things got the way they are. All of the writers I read this summer used this, some more than others. That’s probably the one area where all the PC memoirists got it right.
For example, Tidwell explained why there were fish ponds in Zaire. He reaches back into the history of the country, back to when Belgians moved in and forced the people to plant cotton. The Belgians then decided to make the people dig fish ponds in an effort to give back and maybe give the workers more protein, but they did not teach the people how to maintain the ponds, so the ponds fell out of use. In steps the Peace Corps and Tidwell.
These paragraphs of background information also act as breaks from the action. Gutkind. called the breaks ‘commercials.’ If the action is the television show, the background is the commercials in between. The pause in the action gives the reader time to reflect. From my own writing:
4) Write with a theme in mind.
For example, Tidwell explained why there were fish ponds in Zaire. He reaches back into the history of the country, back to when Belgians moved in and forced the people to plant cotton. The Belgians then decided to make the people dig fish ponds in an effort to give back and maybe give the workers more protein, but they did not teach the people how to maintain the ponds, so the ponds fell out of use. In steps the Peace Corps and Tidwell.
These paragraphs of background information also act as breaks from the action. Gutkind. called the breaks ‘commercials.’ If the action is the television show, the background is the commercials in between. The pause in the action gives the reader time to reflect. From my own writing:
The Indonesians, who themselves had built all of Timor’s infrastructure, paving
roads, connecting villages with electricity and phone lines, building public
buildings, blew up and burned down what they could on their way out. That
explained the shells of buildings and poles without wires along the roads
leading south. In Same there was a roofless, whitewashed structure overtaken by
trees and grass. We could still read the faint lettering that proclaimed it a
post office.
4) Write with a theme in mind.
Gutkind has written, “Your presence. . . provides a personal context to a larger subject or issue.” (70) A story should have a theme of some sort. I’ve read that a theme need not be something one could easily articulate, but it should be easily identifiable. With PC Memoirs, the theme should relate to what the writer got out of the experience, what he or she learned, what they wanted, what they feared. It’s okay to meander in the book, discovering different feelings along the way, but the writer should concentrate these feelings into an all-encompassing idea. Else the reader come away unsure of how the writer really felt. And isn’t that what a reader wants to know? Not just what happened but how it affected the writer. This is more than a history.
How did Tidwell change? Not sure. Did he come to any significant realizations? I don’t think so. Same goes for all the PC memoirists. Thubron (Behind the Wall), on the other hand, is honestly interested in the people of China and the reader feels that Thubron was fulfilled by his journey. Writing with a theme in mind is not an easy task. It involves, first, deep reflection. The writer must reflect on his or her experience and then identify a single idea that describes the overall feeling. Perhaps it was a feeling of ineptitude, or a feeling of wonder. This has been one of my problems. Readers come away from my work saying the writing was good but they did not understand what it was about. My theme was unclear to them because it was unclear to me. Perhaps these PC memoirists had the same problem. As I’ve mentioned, I think one’s capacity to understand one’s feelings comes with age and experience.
Next, once the writer has indentified the theme, he or she must craft the book in a way that ties the many experiences together by this theme. It will probably require many drafts and rewrites as the writer discovers sections that do not fit the theme as written. Or perhaps the sections will not fit the theme at all and do not belong. This skill comes with writing experience, which these PC memoirists lacked.
5) Compelling characterization is a must.
How did Tidwell change? Not sure. Did he come to any significant realizations? I don’t think so. Same goes for all the PC memoirists. Thubron (Behind the Wall), on the other hand, is honestly interested in the people of China and the reader feels that Thubron was fulfilled by his journey. Writing with a theme in mind is not an easy task. It involves, first, deep reflection. The writer must reflect on his or her experience and then identify a single idea that describes the overall feeling. Perhaps it was a feeling of ineptitude, or a feeling of wonder. This has been one of my problems. Readers come away from my work saying the writing was good but they did not understand what it was about. My theme was unclear to them because it was unclear to me. Perhaps these PC memoirists had the same problem. As I’ve mentioned, I think one’s capacity to understand one’s feelings comes with age and experience.
Next, once the writer has indentified the theme, he or she must craft the book in a way that ties the many experiences together by this theme. It will probably require many drafts and rewrites as the writer discovers sections that do not fit the theme as written. Or perhaps the sections will not fit the theme at all and do not belong. This skill comes with writing experience, which these PC memoirists lacked.
5) Compelling characterization is a must.
According to Hildebrand, when the author Tracy Kidder researched his book about schools, “He wasn’t looking for the best teacher. He was looking for the best character.” (175) A story of any genre needs memorable characters, and here, as in many areas, PC memoirists can learn from writers of fiction. Character development is extremely important yet was too often overlooked in the PC memoirs. The reader must have a reason to feel for the characters if they are to read on. These feelings come from getting to know the characters.
Dufresne has written, “Characters speak and they become.” (197) They also act and become. This is what a writer wants, for his or her characters to become, to live. Writers want these characters to affect the reader.
Looking at all the books, Packer does a good job of self-characterization and Holloway is second best, better for her characterization of Monique and then for herself. Yet, Holloway is the only writer to introduce a fellow PCV (it happens to be her romantic interest, who she ends up marrying and acknowledging as her “Consulting Editor” for the book). As a reader I want to get to know these characters, and as a RPCV I know how large a part these people played in the experience. Leaving them out or underdeveloped leaves the reader wanting more. When I finished each of these books, I tried to think back to what stuck, what stories and characters stayed with me. Few characters ‘survived’ the books. Instead there are only bits and pieces of a young man here, a baby there. I could not recall their names or faces. A writer of a PC memoir should want their characters to live on – that is why he or she writes.
6) Remember pacing and structure.
Dufresne has written, “Characters speak and they become.” (197) They also act and become. This is what a writer wants, for his or her characters to become, to live. Writers want these characters to affect the reader.
Looking at all the books, Packer does a good job of self-characterization and Holloway is second best, better for her characterization of Monique and then for herself. Yet, Holloway is the only writer to introduce a fellow PCV (it happens to be her romantic interest, who she ends up marrying and acknowledging as her “Consulting Editor” for the book). As a reader I want to get to know these characters, and as a RPCV I know how large a part these people played in the experience. Leaving them out or underdeveloped leaves the reader wanting more. When I finished each of these books, I tried to think back to what stuck, what stories and characters stayed with me. Few characters ‘survived’ the books. Instead there are only bits and pieces of a young man here, a baby there. I could not recall their names or faces. A writer of a PC memoir should want their characters to live on – that is why he or she writes.
6) Remember pacing and structure.
Harvey wrote in Fourth Genre, “The facts, the events, the invented flights of fancy do not make up a work of art. The shapeliness of the author’s composition takes us to that level.” (140) A story of any genre, including nonfiction, needs effective pacing and structure.
Looking back, Erdman has the poorest overall structure. More than the others, she jumped back and forth without connecting ideas. Holloway had a problem with pacing. There were a few times where she slowed the action – I can recall when she spills coffee on herself and when she and John get on a motorcycle – but she slows down to describe minute details in meaningless situations. This technique worked better when she described women in labor and other dramatic scenes. Most of the time the writers tended to write with one speed: fast. Months were brushed over in a paragraph, as if the writers were eager only to finish. Instead of telling the reader everything that happened, one should decide which stories are worth retelling and retell those stories only, taking one’s time, slowing the pace to focus the reader.
Gutkind champions the use of frames to structure nonfiction. I mentioned the ‘commercials’ earlier. In between the ‘commercials’ are stories. Gutkind also likes to begin each section with a scene near the end of a story, then backtrack to earlier events before ending with the end of the story. He says this keeps the reader engaged, wanting to know what happens.
7) For Pete’s sake, write with a sense of humor.
Looking back, Erdman has the poorest overall structure. More than the others, she jumped back and forth without connecting ideas. Holloway had a problem with pacing. There were a few times where she slowed the action – I can recall when she spills coffee on herself and when she and John get on a motorcycle – but she slows down to describe minute details in meaningless situations. This technique worked better when she described women in labor and other dramatic scenes. Most of the time the writers tended to write with one speed: fast. Months were brushed over in a paragraph, as if the writers were eager only to finish. Instead of telling the reader everything that happened, one should decide which stories are worth retelling and retell those stories only, taking one’s time, slowing the pace to focus the reader.
Gutkind champions the use of frames to structure nonfiction. I mentioned the ‘commercials’ earlier. In between the ‘commercials’ are stories. Gutkind also likes to begin each section with a scene near the end of a story, then backtrack to earlier events before ending with the end of the story. He says this keeps the reader engaged, wanting to know what happens.
7) For Pete’s sake, write with a sense of humor.
I’m not saying this just because I like to laugh, but because I know that laughter was a part of PC life. If PCVs didn’t laugh – daily – then they would go crazy or go home. Usually both. It’s such a stressful experience that you have to counteract the extremely frustrating with the unbelievably funny. If the writer is going to be honest (and he or she should, as I’ve written), then the writer must have a sense of humor.
But the humor should not be used at the expense of the experience. I recently read a piece by travel writer Redmond O’Hanlon called “Amazon Adventure”. His over-use of humor took away from the experience of the journey. It seemed he didn’t take anything seriously, though he was constantly putting his friend’s life and the lives of his guides in danger. Similarly, Theroux (Dark Star Safari) cynically joked so much that I began to loathe the read. I think Bill Bryson and Thubron provide better examples of how to use humor. It’s self-deprecating and light hearted and used in the right amount.
Holloway, like the others, jokes here and there, but their books were far too sober, far too stoic. There’s one hilarious account; I only wish there were more like it:
The tale begins with workers driving off a feisty donkey, but one projectile
found a most surprising target. It stuck in the beast’s anus. The donkey gulped
in mid-bray. . . John and the workers fell to the ground and slapped themselves
as they exploded with laughter. The more the donkey worked at dislodging the
stone, the more the men responded. They had trouble breathing. Some coughed. . .
For months, John heard the men recounting the story to one another, picking up
stones as props and mimicking the donkey’s actions. (141)
PC memoirs are downers already to the reader – PCVs are living with the poor and dying people of the most underdeveloped countries on the planet – the least we can do as writers is give them a break from the sadness:
We took Jay and Aaron to meet our new Aussie friends, Emma and Phil. We joined
them on the second floor balcony of the home they were renting. They had thick
Aussie accents and were always making jokes, and Bekah and I took to them like
thirsty travelers to a spring. Emma was short and stout with a prominent cleft
in her chin and Phil was tall and lanky and his head was forever crooning
forward. He had dark black hair that he styled with a wooshing curl at the
front.
Later, when we took our leave and were down the road Jay said:
“I couldn’t understand a word they said. The whole time all I could do
was stare at his hair.”
And that’s how I remember Phil. With a grin and that
wooshing curl.
8) Make a grand entrance.
The writer should grab the reader early and never let go. The memoirs I read had intriguing beginnings, but my interest waned as I read on. This entrance should set a tone that will carry throughout the book. Perhaps it is sad, or funny, perhaps the character is contemplative or nervous. It can be debated whether or not these books set and maintained those tones.
Here’s a personal example of a grand entrance:
That was me and my wife, Bekah. The crowd in the airport was my parents and brothers, Bekah’s mom, sisters, brother and niece, and my former supervisor. We were headed to Los Angeles for Peace Corps Staging.
9) Leave the reader with a lasting image.
Here’s a personal example of a grand entrance:
There is a small plane that flies back and forth from Lake Charles’ Regional
Airport to Houston’s Bush Intercontinental. There are two rows of seats on one
side and a single row across the aisle. The airport is also small. The
passengers are mostly business people who fly back on the evening flight, so
there are few people in the airport to see them off.
But today there was
a crowd. Some of the crowd were in tears.
They watched as the plane
began to taxi.
Inside the plane, on the fourteenth row, on the side with
two rows of seats, a young married couple huddled together. They cried softly.
The man wiped his eyes and squeezed his wife’s arm. He could see her eyes were
red.
“What are we doing?” she said softly.
“I don’t know,” the
man said.
They looked at each other and laughed.
The man wiped
his eyes again and pulled a white paper bag from under the seat in front of him.
Grease spots at the bottom. It was a bag of donuts from the man’s former
supervisor, who had been part of the crowd seeing them off.
“Do you want
one?” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
The man took a bite.
That was me and my wife, Bekah. The crowd in the airport was my parents and brothers, Bekah’s mom, sisters, brother and niece, and my former supervisor. We were headed to Los Angeles for Peace Corps Staging.
9) Leave the reader with a lasting image.
The book should end with something for the reader to remember – an image that represents the entire experience. Some endings become more famous than the story itself. The end of Romeo and Juliet, for example, or Thelma and Louise. The PC memoir obviously won’t end with a dramatic suicide, as these examples did, and they need not end with a surprise, but they should have an impact.
I’d like to look at Tidwell’s ending. For me, this is the best Tidwell’s book has to offer:
Erdman’s ended well herself:
I could give an example of my own, but I don’t want to give it away. The endings I copied here are only a paragraph, but a lasting image can be longer.
Final Thoughts
Perhaps I should end on this note. It’s from Pearson’s “The Other Creative Writing”:
Just because these PC memoirs were published doesn’t mean they were well-written. Publishers do not care about the quality of the writing but about whether they think the story will sell. It was not my intention to provide a guide to writing merely a publishable PC memoir but one that excels in artistic quality. I chose to insert some of my own writing because I could not always find good examples from these books. Yet, both Tidwell and Packer are successful writers today, and I am sure that if they re-wrote their PC memoirs the books would be much more to my liking.
I stressed personal reflection the most because I felt the books thrived when the reflection came through and faltered when it didn’t. It may or may not have come through to you, the reader, but my overall feeling was of disappointment. I wanted much more out of my fellow PC volunteers. I feel they did not do the experience the justice it deserves. Perhaps they rushed themselves, eager to get it all down before they forgot. Or maybe it was too much to process, too many feelings to understand. Either way, I think if they had been more patient, spent more time with their stories, they would have created something lasting and invaluable to the world of literature. I can only hope to live up to my own ideals.
Works Cited
Didion, Joan. “On Keeping a Notebook.” Slouching Towards Bethlehem. New York: Farrar, 1990.
Dufresne, John. The Lie That Tells the Truth. New York: Norton, 2003.
Erdman, Sarah. Nine Hills to Nambonkaha. New York: Picador, 2003.
Gutkind, Lee. The Art of Creative Nonfiction. New York: Wiley, 1997.
Harvey, Steven. “The Art of Self.” Fourth Genre Spring 1999: 140-142.
Hildebrand, John. “Roundtable: Character in Nonfiction.” Fourth Genre: 169-186.
Holloway, Kris. Monique and the Mango Rains. Long Grove, Il: Waveland, 2007.
Kitchen, Judith. “Roundtable: Character in Nonfiction.” Fourth Genre: 169-186.
Packer, George. The Village of Waiting. New York: Farrar, 2001.
Pearson, Michael. “The Other Creative Nonfiction.” The Writer’s Chronicle September 2000: 31-33.
Steinberg, Michael. “Finding the Inner Story in Memoirs and Personal Essays.” Fourth Genre Spring 2003: 185-188.
Theroux, Paul. Dark Star Safari. New York: Penguin, 2003.
Thubron, Colin. Behind the Wall. New York: Penguin, 1987.
Tidwell, Mike. The Ponds of Kalambayi. Guilford, Connecticut: Lyons, 1988.
Ward, Martha. Nest in the Wind. Long Grove, Il: Waveland, 2005.
I’d like to look at Tidwell’s ending. For me, this is the best Tidwell’s book has to offer:
Near Tshibumba Creek, it began to rain. Mbaya got into the Land Rover, and I put
on my raincoat and kept riding, raindrops popping against my chest and arms.
Beads of water gathered on the speedometer glass as I rode. I glanced down at
the beads. They were clear and empty. There were no fish inside them as Kayemba
had once believed; no baby tilapia falling from the sky. There was just water.
Just empty rainwater. (276)
Erdman’s ended well herself:
My lamplight wavers. For two years it has lit my nights, lit my students
crouched around their shivery rows of letters, lit dinner in pots on the stove,
lit faces outside my screen. I lift my pen from the page. The fire sputters and
stretches, searching for fresh wick. Then with a soft sigh, the flame goes out.
(309)
I could give an example of my own, but I don’t want to give it away. The endings I copied here are only a paragraph, but a lasting image can be longer.
Final Thoughts
Perhaps I should end on this note. It’s from Pearson’s “The Other Creative Writing”:
The best nonfiction bestows a range of pleasures: it offers both information and
stories, the specific size and shape of experiences and a glimpse of its
mysterious soul. . . Nonfiction writers can use words with the force of poetry,
they can shape characters syllable by syllable until we feel that we know them
better than we know ourselves, they can carve landscapes out of blank space:
artistic nonfiction can reach into us as deeply as any literature. And it has
the added power of being about actual people and real events. (31-2)
Just because these PC memoirs were published doesn’t mean they were well-written. Publishers do not care about the quality of the writing but about whether they think the story will sell. It was not my intention to provide a guide to writing merely a publishable PC memoir but one that excels in artistic quality. I chose to insert some of my own writing because I could not always find good examples from these books. Yet, both Tidwell and Packer are successful writers today, and I am sure that if they re-wrote their PC memoirs the books would be much more to my liking.
I stressed personal reflection the most because I felt the books thrived when the reflection came through and faltered when it didn’t. It may or may not have come through to you, the reader, but my overall feeling was of disappointment. I wanted much more out of my fellow PC volunteers. I feel they did not do the experience the justice it deserves. Perhaps they rushed themselves, eager to get it all down before they forgot. Or maybe it was too much to process, too many feelings to understand. Either way, I think if they had been more patient, spent more time with their stories, they would have created something lasting and invaluable to the world of literature. I can only hope to live up to my own ideals.
Works Cited
Didion, Joan. “On Keeping a Notebook.” Slouching Towards Bethlehem. New York: Farrar, 1990.
Dufresne, John. The Lie That Tells the Truth. New York: Norton, 2003.
Erdman, Sarah. Nine Hills to Nambonkaha. New York: Picador, 2003.
Gutkind, Lee. The Art of Creative Nonfiction. New York: Wiley, 1997.
Harvey, Steven. “The Art of Self.” Fourth Genre Spring 1999: 140-142.
Hildebrand, John. “Roundtable: Character in Nonfiction.” Fourth Genre: 169-186.
Holloway, Kris. Monique and the Mango Rains. Long Grove, Il: Waveland, 2007.
Kitchen, Judith. “Roundtable: Character in Nonfiction.” Fourth Genre: 169-186.
Packer, George. The Village of Waiting. New York: Farrar, 2001.
Pearson, Michael. “The Other Creative Nonfiction.” The Writer’s Chronicle September 2000: 31-33.
Steinberg, Michael. “Finding the Inner Story in Memoirs and Personal Essays.” Fourth Genre Spring 2003: 185-188.
Theroux, Paul. Dark Star Safari. New York: Penguin, 2003.
Thubron, Colin. Behind the Wall. New York: Penguin, 1987.
Tidwell, Mike. The Ponds of Kalambayi. Guilford, Connecticut: Lyons, 1988.
Ward, Martha. Nest in the Wind. Long Grove, Il: Waveland, 2005.
