Today we continue the series in which award-winning nonfiction authors discuss the joys and challenges of writing narrative nonfiction and expository nonfiction with an essay by Deborah Heiligman. Thank you, Deb.
I’ve written a lot about why and how I write
narrative nonfiction. I write nonfiction because I love truth and facts, and am
passionate about research, especially primary source research. I want to know
what makes people tick so I learn about my subjects in their own words, from
letters, diaries, journals, interviews. (And then I doublecheck as much as is
humanly possible because memory is not flawless.) I connect with my subjects,
and then I work hard so my readers connect with them, too.
I write nonfiction that reads like fiction
because I love to read stories. I use the elements of fiction–plot, theme, and
character development. But I never make anything up: no invented dialogue, no messing
with the timeline, no composite characters, no invented details.
So, when Melissa asked me if I would contribute
to this blog, I said yes, because I always say yes to Melissa, and because I love
this topic. But then I had misgivings. Would I have anything new to say?
Haven’t I said everything already?
I had to think about it. As I researched the
books I’m working on, walked my dog, cooked, etc., I kept this essay in the
back of my mind. I have many notebooks going at once, one for each project, in
different colors. I also have a morning pages notebook, and a notebook for “miscellaneous
inspiration,” including for shorter projects like this one. So, for a couple of
months, I had my blue inspiration notebook near me, keeping the invitation
open.
One day I was looking at the calendar and made
a connection I’d never made before. My beloved sister-in-law Essie had a big
birthday coming up. As I thought about her, and how I would commemorate her
birthday, I realized with a jolt that she’s a huge reason I write nonfiction
for kids, and why I write it the way I do. I reached for my notebook.
Growing up I spent most of my family time with
adults. My sister and brother were much older than I was, and out of the house
by the time I was old enough to notice. I spent most of my family time with my
parents and grandparents. The adult world was full of mysteries, and I was
desperate to understand them.
I’d discovered that if I was very quiet the
grown-ups would forget I was there. I’d hear all the juicy stuff: medical complaints
about mysterious body parts; long-held grudges; character analyses. Aunt R. married
Uncle L. even though she was much smarter than he was because he was her last
chance. Last chance for what, I wondered.
Sometimes I couldn’t stop myself from asking a
question. But as soon as I spoke, the adult conversation usually shut down, or
my question was handled quickly and not answered to my satisfaction. How would
I ever learn about people and the real world?
The answer was Essie. She married my brother,
Phil, when I was nine years old, and became my conduit to the real world. Once,
not long after they married, we visited a relative who was very sick. I rode back
in the car alone with Essie. I asked her if S. was going to die, and she told
me the truth (yes). She explained why (cancer, untreatable). But why is
everyone pretending he’s not going to die? I asked. Essie didn’t brush away my question
or turn on the radio. She mused about the people involved, and why they were
acting the way they were. She told me a couple of stories about them. She
talked with me, not down to me, but in a way that I could understand. I
learned so much in that car ride, not just about human nature, and illness, but
also something I’d take with me to my career later: Find the people who will explain
hard things.
In my blue notebook I scribbled all of this,
and as I wrote I realized that all these years writing for children, I’ve been emulating
Essie. I want to be the conduit to the real world for my readers.
I do my
research, figure things out, and then share my insights about Charles and Emma
Darwin, Vincent and Theo van Gogh, the people on the Benares, Clara
Lemlich, whomever, on the page. I tell the story as if my readers and I are
riding in a car together, or walking side by side, just like Essie did for me
throughout my childhood—and into my young adulthood.
While working on this essay, I asked Essie why
she talked to me the way she did. At first didn’t know; she hadn’t even realized
what she’d done. But as we talked, she realized that because her siblings were
also a lot older than she was, she knew what I needed: a conduit to the truth.
Of course all children need this, and thanks to Essie, this has become my
passion.
How could I possibly thank Essie? To paraphrase
Billy Collins’ poem, “The Lanyard,”: Essie, you opened the
world to me, you led me to a career I love. I owe you—everything.
I hope you liked the flowers.
Deborah Heiligman is the author of 33 books, most of them nonfiction. Her
latest is Clara Lemlich, She Persisted series (Philomel, 2021). Her
books include Torpedoed: The True Story of the World War II Sinking of “The
Children’s Ship”, Vincent and Theo: The Van Gogh Brothers, The Boy who Loved
Math: The Improbable Life of Paul Erdos, and Charles and Emma: The
Darwin’s Leap of Faith.
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6 Responses
This is so inspiring! Every child needs an Essie! TY, Deborah! Love this quote,"I tell the story as if my readers and I are riding in a car together, or walking side by side, just like Essie did for me throughout my childhood—and into my young adulthood." Aww.
Deborah, your words are paintings. Thank you!
Thank you, Kathy!
Thank you, Joyce.
What a beautiful story! (How did I not know this about you?) I love all of your books and now I love Essie, too. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Jen. I love Essie, too. As is obvious.