In 1909, G. K. Chesterton published a short piece of writing in which he rails against philosophers or agents of productivity who cast judgement upon those who like to lay in bed. As a weary junior, I myself must confess that I enjoy the occasional midafternoon nap. However, each time I allow my weary eyes to close during the day, I wake up with overwhelming guilt for the time I wasted not being productive. If you are not familiar with Chesterton, he was an English author, philosopher, and comedic essay-writer. For the purposes of this article, we will use him as an example of a superb author of creative nonfiction.
Creative nonfiction (CNF) is an elusive genre that is not always easily defined. It is, however, one of the best ways that I have found to learn how to appreciate the world around us. CNF is a literary genre in which elements of creative writing are applied to create narratives about true events. Using stylistic tools typically employed in creative writing, CNF seeks to tell true stories that read like fiction.
Well, that’s nice in theory. But what does that vague definition mean? And why should (as I have insinuated by the title) you care about it?
Well, let us look to Chesterton and his defense of laying in bed doing absolutely nothing: “On Lying in Bed.” If you are like me, every Saturday morning you tell yourself that today you’ll get up early and today you won’t lazily stare at the ceiling for literal hours as you desperately push the mountains of homework awaiting you out of your mind. Well, Chesterton’s witty essay not only encourages slow, slothful mornings, but also makes fun of early risers.
This essay is a prime example of creative nonfiction. Not only does Chesterton demonstrate ultimate control over things like metaphor and dramatization, he uses those tools to justify taking extra-long naps. He uses CNF to justify lazing in bed doing absolutely nothing. I don’t know about you, but I can get behind using a creative writing genre to condone napping.
This is a common practice in the CNF; beginning with a very specific moment or situation and then applying it to a larger situation or event. Chesterton illustrates this — he begins his essay by reflecting on how much he likes taking naps, and ends up commenting on toxic work culture, creativity, and theology.
So at a fairly basic level, you should care about creative nonfiction because it gets a point across in a subtle yet incredibly convincing way. But why else would CNF matter to someone who isn’t a fan of creative writing in general?
Well, have you ever written a birthday post for one of your friends in which you try to simultaneously explain to the world what makes them incredibly special, share an inside joke, and describe what they mean to you? Sometimes I am faced with writing a birthday post or appreciation post and I am utterly overwhelmed with love and fondness that I struggle to create a fitting tribute. These kinds of posts, too, are works of CNF.
Noticing tiny things you love about the world and struggling to describe them is a common occurrence I’ve noticed in my discipline (which is English — can you tell?). I could tell you that I love the way my friend Vangi Mitchell loves coffee, but that does not paint an accurate picture to the way that I love how coffee as a ritual and a beverage brings Vangi an incredible amount of joy. Sometimes words don’t feel like they’re enough.
Here’s where CNF comes into play. If I can incorporate stylistic elements from fiction or poetry into my writing, I have a better chance of summing up on paper how I love Vangi. Like Chesterton, I can write a simple, everyday event (like Vangi making coffee) and apply it to larger themes I see in her life; I can write about her love of fellowship, or her eye for aesthetics, or her love of serving others and connect it back to the central image of making coffee. Thus using CNF would not only give me the chance to explain how I love Vangi’s love of coffee, it would also give me a chance to write about what a true friend looks like.
This world we live in is so complex, beautiful, and intrinsically hard to describe. How should I put into words the way I love my three roommates who watch me like a hawk and take care of me every day? I can’t. But I can tell you that Mally cleans my to-go boxes because she knows I can’t, and leaves me notes reminding me of my worth and value. I can tell you that Elysse listens to “Bella’s Lullaby” from Twilight with me on infinite repeat, and I can tell you that Oli makes me iced honey and lavender lattes and brings them to me when I can’t stay awake in class.
These small details are not the foundations of our relationships, but they are the best ways I can think of to tell you how my roommates care for me. Telling you that my friend Becca loves her family can’t explain the deep connection she has with them, but telling you about how much she and her cousin enjoy road tripping together paints a pretty good picture on its own.
So, just as Chesterton uses a humorous essay about napping to advocate for allowing our finite selves rest, I argue that it is through creative thinking and attention to detail that we connect with the world around us. Isn’t it by listening to other people’s stories and connecting them to our own a major way that we relate to one another? The way that we share stories and remind each other of things we’ve forgotten is the most basic way we connect with each other. That is why you should care about creative nonfiction — because it is about connection.