Is it for me? Cecilia Peartree tries creative non-fiction

Not long before my recent unplanned trip to hospital via the sea wall at Silverknowes (see picture), I completed a short series of sessions which involved writing 5 very short stories in 5 days in a genre I’d never consciously attempted before – creative non-fiction. It did occur to me that maybe my family history account would ideally fall into that category, though as the 5 days progressed, I realised this seemed like a different thing altogether. Most of the stories I saw copied to the associated Facebook group as the week progressed seemed to be based on memoir, sometimes with a lot of emotion and soul-searching, though as far as I know these are not essential to the genre. But perhaps that was because the writing prompts steered us towards this kind of thing.

There was a theme for each of the 100-word stories. The word count was very precise – I realised afterwards that I had written a number of Drabbles of that same length, but they were fiction, which I found much easier.

I must admit to being slightly alarmed when I read the list of themes for the stories, and I wondered if this was really the right challenge for me. The idea seemed to be to dredge up lost or forgotten emotions and half-formed beliefs from the murky pond of your life, and somehow write a more or less coherent 100 words about each of them. I won’t list the actual themes here, but the event was run by people who do this professionally, and the video tutorials that accompanied the challenge were extremely helpful. I had never before thought about what creative non-fiction was, but I could see that some of the techniques might well be applied to fiction. One benefit for me was that I was forced to focus on one thing at a time, and to think about it in detail, whereas normally looking at details makes my brain hurt as I prefer to see a wider picture.

Anyway, here are some examples I came up with. The first refers to an object from my childhood, which I happen still to have in my possession. There's a picture to go with this one!

 Sally

Sally sits on a shelf. She wears a tiara, a dress I knitted for her, and tartan trousers sewn by my mother.

I first saw Sally the day before my 5th birthday, at the toy-shop. She wore a red and white striped frock. I brushed her hair so much that it fell out - but her new hair was better.

I abandoned Sally when I moved away, and she sat in my mother's cupboard until my sons included her in games.

I 've seen Sally's sister in a museum. They look after her well, but she doesn't have a tiara.

 

Next we have a very emotional scene, by my standards!

 

The Last Goodbye

 I didn’t weep when saying goodbye to my mother. I had to wriggle out from under the weight of shared grief.

I had a ticket for the night train. As I approached my compartment, a steward came out and stopped me from entering.

‘I’m moving you to another berth. The lady here’s a bit upset – going through a divorce.’

I wanted to yell at him, ‘I’m upset too. My father has died.’

But I followed him meekly to the other berth, and settled down there. By morning I was numb enough to get on with the rest of my life.

 

I was bored with emotion after this, and instead described the start of one of my favourite ever journeys, across the Baltic from Stockholm to Helsinki by ferry.

 

Transport of the Moomins [one of the ferry companies brands its ships like this]

 I found a chair on deck as the ferry threaded its way among the islands of the Swedish archipelago. On that June evening the sky was clear and blue, the sunlight sparkling on the deep blue sea. Smaller boats created flurries of white in the water as they chased each other round the islands.

I heard the distant hum of the engines and chatter from other passengers, but there was little to distract me from the changing views. I ordered a drink. The liquid slid down my throat as smoothly as the ferry sailed on.

I was completely at peace.

 

And then a fun occasion, taking my grandson to the pantomime.

 Laughing as we go

 ‘We’re going to the pantomime – oh no, we’re not! Oh yes, we are!’

He wriggles perilously on his father’s shoulders, laughing, as we get off the bus. His laughter warms us despite the freezing weather. We all wear woolly hats and gloves, and I have to pick my way down the hill through the half-melted snow.

Every time we see him he’s somehow different. Growing. He’s in a fine mood today, looking forward to eating in a cosy café and then going on to the theatre.

‘Look out – I’m behind you!’ I say as I follow them through the slush.

 

Magic is definitely not my scene, but I did remember a magical moment near Loch Tay in the Highlands.

 Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

 The castle wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

From the car park we had followed a narrow path, brambles and nettles and wild grass encroaching on both sides. Light woodland surrounded us now – birch saplings rising above older, fallen trees in a silent, still world that seemed to be poised for something to happen. As still as the grave. A magical place, out of time and beyond our comprehension.

Without any warning, a deer burst out from among the trees, bounded past us and down the hill. We knew then. This was a place for nature, not for castles.

 I'm not sure that I will attempt creative non-fiction again, but it was an interesting exercise, particularly for a minimalist writer like me. I hope I will use it to remind myself to describe things properly instead of rushing on to the next bit of action. Quite possibly I won't, but I think it's worth a try!