Maria Faulkner examines ‘truth and lies’ in her narrative non-fiction book Glee-maidens.
Maria Faulkner examines the controversial subject of ‘truth and lies’ in creative non-fiction and includes a scene from her own non-fiction book Glee-maidens: female clowns- burlesque to sacred.
Creative non-fiction often creates a stir in the literary world, especially when it comes to ‘truth and lies’. Lee Gutkind’s most recent blog entry is a defence of the creative non-fiction method and he invites the reader to look at his own definition of this controversial area. He describes creative non-fiction stories as “dramatic, true stories that use scene, dialogue and close, detailed descriptions--techniques usually employed by poets and fiction writers--to examine and explore a variety of subjects”.
In creative non-fiction then, the writer is employing techniques used by writers of fiction in order to enhance the reader’s experience. It requires, however, a responsible representation of the truth, where the writer remains true to the people, events and facts he is drawing from.
On his website www.leegutkind.com, Lee Gutkind continues to describe this complex method:
“Gay Talese demonstrated how extensively a writer could stretch the traditional boundaries of the form by capturing people in scenes and situations that were not only compelling in content and dramatic effect, but at the same time reflected who they were--a magic moment of action or a nugget of personality, captured the essence of their personal or professional life. Talese referred to this essence as the larger truth, which is what the creative nonfiction writer is doing.”
Whilst doing primary research for my book, Glee-Maidens, female clowns, burlesque to sacred, I have been exploring how to unveil the truth through creative non-fiction. I was visiting my parents’ house and a rummage through two huge boxes revealed photo albums, scripts, letters and diaries of the past, one that included a very famous person: Charlie Chaplin on a list of Vaudeville notes written by my Auntie Phyl. In order to capture the essence of the drama and stay true to the information I was given I decided to write a scene in which I was a participant. All I had were these pieces of information:
1. My own memories of Phyl telling me stories of her and Charlie Chaplin riding on a cart whilst they handed out leaflets for her Father’s theatre company.
2. My parent’s account of the ‘lobster’ Phyl and Charlie apparently chased around a market after it got loose.
3. A list (below) written by my Aunt when she was collating her memories about her life in theatre – it is the most vital piece of evidence I have. Note the ‘crab’ has now become a ‘lobster’ in my parent’s version. I decided to stick to a lobster as I felt it had more dramatic potential than a crab, even though it is not a truth.
List written by my Auntie Phyl:
Crab in Notts market
Age 5 TR Notts panto
Charlie Chaplin bells
Walking on ceiling
Stout exploding
Working turns
Marg Ciders
Emile Littler
I then wrote the scene as if I was there observing it. As a writer it was a moving and exciting experience, at one point I felt as if I too had had the same connection with Chaplin that my Aunt was privileged to have. My intention is to achieve what Lee Gutkind says creative non-fiction writers seek to do:
“It is what the creative nonfiction writer is always seeking, both the literal journalistic fact-oriented truth and the three dimensional truth or the meaning of what it is they have observed and experienced.” Lee Gutkind
Walking on ceilings
We’re in Nottingham market and I’m watching as two kids try to stuff a lobster back in a hamper that has a broken leather strap. They’re giggling and the boy keeps shoving it in but it fights back and crawls half way out again, claws snapping. The boy’s got startling eyes, his dark curly hair dropping over his forehead. She’s smaller than him and she’s rolling in merriment. She’s landed on her backside as the lobster crawls out and heads for the nearest stall. He pulls her up, she leaps to her feet nimble as a dancer.
They yell to the stall holder, the boy grabbing an apple as they duck under the stall after the escaped prisoner. I run to catch up but they’re fast and the lobster is quicker. A woman screams as it scuttles up to her baby’s pram. The boy doffs his cap as they pass, crunching the juicy apple as he runs. The girl’s arms are clutching two bottles of stout.
“They’ll explode before we get there,” she squeals, ducking quickly under another stall dragging a bag of trout with her.
“We’ll have done the act then,” the boy calls back, grinning as a beefy looking man does a jig to avoid the irate creature that is snapping at all in its way.
The crowd parts as the two children leap into a ring of shouting adults who have surrounded the purple, angry monster. I stand on the edge admiring their performance. She circles with the basket, having deposited the stout and trout near my feet. The fish stink; all around me cover their noses but can’t leave the amusing spectacle before them. The boy turns a cartwheel, much to the delight of the crowd and then chucks his cap right over the lobster’s claws.
“Hurrah!” The crowd cheers.
The girl moves in and slides the basket over it. He grabs the lid, whips out his cap and ‘slam’ - it’s all over. The crowd applauds and he bows, winks at me and picks up the bottles and smelly fish. He wrinkles his nose.
“Bells Charlie,” the girl shouts.
She smiles at me whilst holding the lid of the hamper down. He turns and walks to her side. I move slowly away watching them, heads bowed over a set of bells, haggling over the price, serious faces, his touched with the pathos we will all come to love one day.
