I have always been all about fiction. Fantasy, normally, but I have written other types, as well. I wrote a piece that was published locally about a high school girl who gets panic attacks. I wrote a story for my first ever creative writing class about a girl who discovers that her brother is really her half brother from an affair her mother had before she and her father were officially married. I have tried mysteries and horror stories and comical stories.
But I don’t write about anything real.
I want to rephrase that – there is reality in fiction. In order to make it worth reading, you need real emotions, things people can relate to. But the story itself is usually almost entirely untrue. I don’t like rules, and fiction doesn’t have any, so I’m good.
But…writing about myself? Nonfiction. Narrative?
Goodness gracious, no. Gag me. I never do anything interesting, right? What do I have to write about? No one would care.
Or would they?
I took a nonfiction creative writing class in college, because I needed more elective credits to get my English degree and had taken all of the fiction courses except poetry, and I hate poetry. I respect poets, but I don’t want to read poems, let alone write them. Poetry frustrates me as much as math does, and I have been known to cry because of upcoming math tests…in my high school days, I mean. And maybe in college, too. Maybe.
Therefore, nonfiction writing was what I had to take. I signed up with a friend or two so it wouldn’t be too terribly painful, and they were friends from my fiction class who also didn’t write much nonfiction if I remember correctly. Awesome, I thought, I won’t be the only one struggling.
Well, let me tell you…I really fought against this class. I was determined to dislike it. I didn’t want to put any effort into it. I wanted to get all of the assignments over with. Similar to math classes, again, but the difference was that I actually did the homework for the writing class and pretty much never even tried math homework.
First we had to write a review of something…a movie or book. I chose book, and I hated writing it. I didn’t care about the feedback I got during workshop, and there was one girl in my class who acted like the queen of nonfiction just because she ran an unsuccessful website. I didn’t like nonfiction, but I didn’t want some girl I barely knew acting like I knew nothing about writing.
Whether it was the competitiveness in my spirit – when it comes to writing, I don’t want anyone to act like they know more than me – or maybe I just finally embraced the type of writing we were learning, but I got much more enthusiastic about the final two papers we wrote.
The first was supposed to be a step-by-step guide to something. I decided to write one about becoming a super enthusiastic fan of Korean pop music. Success. My class thought it was hilarious – and it was supposed to be. I wrote about the silliness of the music and videos, which is really what makes it so wonderful to being with.
The last paper was my biggest triumph, though. It was to be a personal narrative…and I think those were the only specifications. I chose to write about a Korean guy I met on a language sharing website that I had been friends with for two years and who I would meet when I moved to Korea that summer. It ended up being twenty-two pages, and I remember apologizing when I gave it to my class for workshop. I felt bad subjecting them to over twenty pages of writing when they had other homework.
Wow…though, when they returned with their comments on my paper, everyone was so excited. One girl told me she read snippets aloud to her mother and even got teary at some parts. The response was better than I could ever have imagined a response to my writing could be. Yeah, people enjoyed my stuff in our fiction writing classes, but that was fiction. I already knew I could write fiction. I had no idea I could write nonfiction.
The reason I’m writing about this is because recently my grandmother suggested I write a book about my time in Korea. She reminded me that I already had practically enough material…I had kept a blog in Korea, and it was actually quite well-received. This isn’t the first time I have had someone suggest this to me, though.
I tend to look at the world in a strange way, which I think is important for writers. My strange way comes in the form of comedy. I had some hilarious, awkward, embarrassing experiences in Korea, and I think they would be enjoyable to read about.
But here’s my problem.
I have never taken on a project this long that is not fiction. Are the rules different? I know that fiction plot lines move in an arc, but real life doesn’t. It’s just a bunch of events strung together. Where do I start? I don’t want to start when I’m on the plane or arriving in Korea. Boring! I need to be interesting. Then there’s the old standby question – will anyone give a crap about anything that has happened to me? Will people be able to relate to me?
But my source of motivation right now is people like Mindy Kahling – see previous post – who are just honest about who they are and what they’ve done. I started reading her book and it’s hilarious. I hope that I can write something that people want to read. Who knows, maybe I’m meant to write nonfiction. Though, it frightens me because it’s so personal. People can say they hate the main character of my fiction novels, but if they say that about this one, they’re saying they hate me.
Hm. Things to ponder.
Aspiring Author Amber 