WHAT ARE THE TYPES OF CREATE NONFICTION?
1. AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Definition
An autobiography is an account of a person's life written or otherwise recorded by that person.
The term fictional autobiography (or pseudoautobiography) refers to novels that employ first-person narrators who recount the events of their lives as if they actually happened. Well-known examples include David Copperfield (1850) by Charles Dickens and Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (1951).
Some critics believe that all autobiographies are in some ways fictional. Patricia Meyer Spacks has observed that "people do make themselves up. . . . To read an autobiography is to encounter a self as an imaginative being" ( The Female Imagination, 1975).
For the distinction between a memoir and an autobiographical composition, see memoir as well as the examples and observations below.
EXAMPLES:
a. "An autobiography is an obituary in serial form with the last installment missing."
(Quentin Crisp, The Naked Civil Servant, 1968)
"Putting a life into words rescues it from confusion even when the words declare the omnipresence of confusion, since the art of declaring implies dominance."
(Patricia Meyer Spacks, Imagining a Self: Autobiography and Novel in Eighteenth-Century England. Harvard University Press, 1976)
b. The Opening Lines of Zora Neale Hurston's Autobiography
"Like the dead-seeming, cold rocks, I have memories within that came out of the material that went to make me. Time and place have had their say.
"So you will have to know something about the time and place where I came from, in order that you may interpret the incidents and directions of my life.
"I was born in a Negro town. I do not mean by that the black back-side of an average town. Eatonville, Florida, is, and was at the time of my birth, a pure Negro town--charter, mayor, council, town marshal and all. It was not the first Negro community in America, but it was the first to be incorporated, the first attempt at organized self-government on the part of Negroes in America.
"Eatonville is what you might call hitting a straight lick with a crooked stick. The town was not in the original plan. It is a by-product of something else
Definition
A biography is simply an account or detailed description about the life of a person. It entails basic facts, such as childhood, education, career, relationships, family, and death. Biography is a literary genre that portrays the experiences of all these events occurring in the life of a person, mostly in a chronological order. Unlike a resume or profile, a biography provides a life story of a subject, highlighting different aspects of his of her life. A person who writes biographies, is called as a “biographer.”
A biography narrates the life story of a person, as written by another person or writer. It is further divided into five categories:
Popular biography
Historical biography
Literary biography
Reference biography
Fictional biography
Examples of Biography in Literature
Example #1: Shakespeare: A Life (By Park Honan)
This biography is the most accurate, up-to-date, and complete narrative ever written about the life of William Shakespeare. Park Honan has used rich and fresh information about Shakespeare in order to change the perceptions of readers for the playwright, and his role as a poet and actor.
This book completely differs from other biographies that imagine different roles for him, commenting on his sexual relationships and colorful intrigues. Though detailed psychological theories and imaginative reforms about the famous playwright could be amusing, in fact, they damage the credibility of the sources. Therefore, many attempts have been made to know about Shakespeare, but this one is a unique example.
Example #2: Arthur Miller: Attention Must Be Paid (By James Campbell)
This biography is written in the form of a drama, presented in just two acts. In the first act, the author shows the famous dramatist, Arthur Miller, in his early success, having the love of the most beloved woman in the world, and resisting tyranny. However, in the second act of this biography, the author shows that the hero was badly assaulted and ridiculed by a rowdy mob called critics, who are expelled from the conventional theater. He ends his book with rhetorical details related to a revitalization in the fortunes of the playwright.
3. LITERARY JOURNALISM AND REPORTAGE
Literary journalism is a form of nonfiction that combines factual reporting with some of the narrative techniques and stylistic strategies traditionally associated with fiction. Also called narrative journalism.
In his ground-breaking anthology The Literary Journalists (1984), Norman Sims observed that literary journalism "demands immersion in complex, difficult subjects. The voice of the writer surfaces to show that an author is at work."
The term literary journalism is sometimes used interchangeably with creative nonfiction; more often, however, it is regarded as one type of creative nonfiction.
Classic Examples of Literary Journalism
"A Hanging" by George Orwell
"The San Francisco Earthquake" by Jack London
"The Watercress Girl" by Henry Mayhew
3. PERSONAL NARRATIVES
DEFINITION
Personal narratives are a form of writing in which the writer relates one event, incident, or experience from his/her life. Personal narratives allow you, the writer, to share your life with others, vicariously experiencing the things you describe. Your job as a writer is to put the readers in the midst of the action, letting them live through an event, incident, or experience. Personal narratives also incorporate vivid descriptive details, as well as the thoughts, feelings, and reactions of the writer.
A good personal narrative, like a good story, creates a dramatic effect, makes us laugh, gives us pleasurable fright, and/or gets us on the edge of our seats. Although personal narratives capture true events, sometimes writers embellish or use hyperbole to illustrate a point or for dramatic effect. A personal narrative has done its job effectively if the readers can say, “Yes, that captures what living with my mother feels like,” or “Yes, that’s what it felt like to lose the championship game.”
EXAMPLES:
a. Kayak Tip-Over
Cold waves lap at my back. The wind roars. The capsized kayak bobs crazily like a runner’s short ponytail. My arms and legs tingle with the thought of an underwater creature dragging me down into the watery depths.
“This is just like T.V.,” I think as I anticipate a shark jumping out from the water and eating us. I shiver involuntarily.
“Help!” I cry, small-voiced.
Earlier, that day had started out like any old vacation. The weather was warm, and there was a pleasant breeze licking at the waves in the lagoon. My mom’s book club invited my brother, sister, mom, and me, along with two other families, to a beach house. The house was on a tranquil lagoon with rippling water. No one else was in the water that day. The house had kayaks, body boards, and a paddle boat! Perfect for us kids! All was going well until the two boys got bored.
The boys were evidently going to go crazy if they didn’t do something soon. They had been lying in the sun for too long, and they were swiftly accumulating girly tans. Suddenly, Josh had a marvelous idea! Why didn’t they let one floaty go drifting downstream and then go chasing it in the paddle boat?! The idea was perfect. There was only one catch: the pleasant breeze that had been blowing gently was now a gushing whirlwind of energy, and the floaty was rapidly growing smaller and smaller, with the boys close in tow.
“Tino! Joshua!” Madison, Ana, and I screamed and yelled, but it was to no avail.
“JOSHUA BURCH! COME BACK HERE!” Madison hollered. Our mothers came up behind us.
“Looks like they’re going to need a rescue team,” Madison’s mom said. We looked at her for a second, and then jumped into action. Ana manned the one-person kayak while Madison and I took the two-seater. We pushed off, soldiers on a mission!
Ana reached Tino and Josh before Madison and I did. The situation was worse than we had thought. Tino and Josh were flailing about in the water. In trying to reach the floaty, they had fallen out of the paddle boat. Ana had tied the kayak and paddle boat together, hoping to give it a tow because the current was too strong to paddle the boat back. The boys were still in the water, unable to get in the boat. Ana, realizing her plan wasn’t working, untied the kayak. Finally, Josh managed to get in the paddle boat, leaving Tino to fend for himself.
Meanwhile, Madison and I struggled with our kayak. We had moved away from the others and into the middle of the lagoon. Seeing Tino swimming towards us, we made room for him on board. He reached us and heaved himself on. I threw my weight on the opposite end so we wouldn’t capsize. Madison and Tino sat with their legs dangling, resting. I knew they shouldn’t do that, but before I could warn them, we tipped over, and we all went spilling into the lagoon!
The cold water hit me like a wall. I surfaced, sputtering water. I prayed to God, thanking Him that we had life jackets. My first concern was that we had to right the kayak. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. After our fifth try, the kayak reluctantly flipped over with a loud squelching sound. I felt as if we should get a gold medal for that! All I wanted to do was get out of there, but the lagoon wasn’t finished with us. Our paddles had floated away! Luckily, Ana, the hero of the day, brought the paddles to us. Thank you, Ana!
During that time, Ophie, Josh and Madison’s mom, arrived to help. She joined Josh on the paddle boat, relieved Tino from us, and took him to shore. Madison and I managed to arrive at the shore safely without any more tip-overs. Hip, hip, hooray! I watched Ana battle her way home and thought it would have gone much differently if she hadn’t been there. I looked back at my friends, then at the water, and I knew this wouldn’t keep us out of the water. No way!
The whole experience helped me learn that you have to be calm in scary situations even if you aren’t calm at heart. Things look much worse when you’re scared, so sometimes you just need to pause, take a deep breath, and I promise things will look much brighter! My advice to kids like me would be to listen to your parents when they insist upon wearing life jackets. Those jackets really do live up to their name. They can save lives. They helped save mine!
b. Swimming Distance
“Jenny, do I really have to swim this? The distance is so long, and I don’t want to do two laps of butterfly! In the first event when I did butterfly, I choked on water!” I complained on a sun-drenched day.
I was at Petaluma High School, standing next to my coach, Jenny. It was my first swim meet, and I was having a pleasant time. Something was bothering me, though. You could blame it all on the next event coming up. I was not looking forward to it one bit. I had done fairly well in my previous events; however, I was edgy and nervous for this one. This was a 200-yard Independent Medley. It was a long distance because it included eight laps of four different strokes.
“Next event, 200 I.M. Girls, ages 11 to 12s,” Coach Patrick called through the speakers. He was the announcer for today, and his voice sounded different through the intercom speakers.
“Come on; you can do it! Go! Go! Go!” Jenny urged as I ran over to get ready. “I just know you can!” I heard her say.
This was it, the last event of today’s swim meet.
“Swimmers, step up,” called Patrick. He waited until the six swimmers walked up to their diving blocks. Quiver, wobble, shake, went my legs. Oh dear, I thought in my head as I waited.
It was only about five seconds before my head would touch the cool water, but five seconds felt long. The swimmers bent down and held the edge of the diving blocks. I guess I looked so ready and professional-like on the diving block, but inside my stomach was on the world’s biggest rollercoaster and my heart was the one who wanted to jump out into the pool. The water smiled gleefully at me. Come on, come on, it seemed to muse.
Beep! The buzzer went off, and everybody plunged into the shallow, still water, sending it into a million ripples and crinkles. It felt good, and I relaxed for a split second, but then remembered that this was a 200-yard medley. I started kicking and soon emerged out of the silky water.
Start with the butterfly stroke, I told myself going through the order again in my head as I swam. I pulled my arms back and did a stroke. Again, again, and again. I hoped not to choke on water this time. Soon the wall was in front of me. I turned and kicked off, starting my next lap of this stroke.
Next up, backstroke, I thought. On my backstroke start, I got water up my nose, probably gallons of it. Gagging, I resurfaced. At the flags, I counted five strokes, and then did a flip turn. More water ran up my nose. It felt like a hundred needles touching it.
When I pushed off the wall for the breaststroke laps, my legs were stones, wanting to sink lower and lower. I needed to catch my breath. But I can’t stop. Keep going! I thought about what Jenny had said. I know you can, I know you can.
Before long, I was approaching the wall for my finish. I heard a swimmer coming up behind me, but I wanted to get there first.
Kick, stroke, kick, stroke. We swimmers were all like sharks of the same species who wanted the prey first. I could hear everybody speeding up.
I touched the wall, mouth full of water. I looked up and climbed out of the pool. People cheered. I never thought I’d be able to do it. Sure I was trying to catch my breath and my legs were Jell-O, but I swam it. I swam 200 yards! I did it and got second place. Now I felt strong and confident. Thank you Jenny, my mind said, wishing Jenny would get the message.
4. TRAVELOGUE
A travelogue is a person’s account of a journey to another country or place. It can either be a written report with many factual details or a narrative story about personal impressions and experiences supported by images.
EXAMPLES:
a. Walking from Seattle to Chicago
I know what I am doing is illegal, and a bit dangerous. But it has been my dream since childhood to walk from Seattle to Chicago on train tracks. I encountered one man in Seattle before who had come from Chicago by walking on train tracks. Now I am wanting to complete the cycle.
I set off this morning from my apartment in the city of Edmonds at 6:45am, as planned. In Edmonds, there is easy access to train tracks along the Pacific Ocean. It took me a half an hour to walk down to the tracks, fueled by my boiled egg and brown-sugar oatmeal breakfast.
Though my family thought I was a bit nuts to go on this so-called expedition, I don’t blame them. It’s not every day someone tells their parents they are going to go on a long hike across the U.S. But I am a 26-year-old former boy scout with all the necessary equipment to survive my journey. And also, I know the nature of train tracks well: when trains are coming, when there will be no trains for a while, the timing to jump out of the way if a train suddenly appears in my vision, and so on. I have loved trains since I was a baby—my first word was “choo choo” after the sound of a train whistle.
I chose the month of March to begin my walk, as spring in Seattle is not too cold and not too hot. The greenery in Washington state at this time is sometimes hard to describe in its heavenly sight. The rain definitely contributes to making this state lush with greenery and blossoms.
The usual suspects were out this morning: flocks of seagulls surveying the rather calm waters of the Pacific Ocean; murders of crows hanging out in pine trees of douglas fir trees; the scent of tar on the tracks that wears off in your nose after a few hours of walking.
In the first two hours of walking, two trains had come: one cargo and one passenger. I easily picked up on the signals of them coming and leaped to the side into the forest before they could come to crush me.
I wrote a haiku around the third of fourth hour (I don’t have a watch).
first day of journey…
the Pacific Ocean gleams
in a cloud above
Not the best haiku, but at least I am still trying to write them.
I had lunch at around 1pm. Salami, cheddar cheese, and crackers. Simple but tasty. My father used to eat the same on his hikes.
In the late afternoon, I saw a bald eagle swooping over the forest and over the Pacific Ocean as well. It was a majestic sight. I also saw some blue herons in the shallower waters. It made me feel like my journey has an auspicious beginning.
Over the day, some people stared at me, wondering why I was walking on the tracks with a hiking backpack (at least this is what I thought). Sometimes people report walkers on train tracks to police, so I have to be a bit careful.
At night, I was near the start of the city boundaries of Seattle, and decided to set up in a meadow on the left side of the tracks, having the Pacific Ocean no longer there. It seemed symbolic to sleep where the Pacific Ocean once was earlier in the day. I tried to be inconspicuous as possible, setting up my tiny tent in a group of bushes among high grass. It didn’t seem like many people came this way anyways—only to relieve themselves at times.
I heated up a can of tomato soup and accompanied it with bread for dinner. I was so glad to have brought a small camping stove—it’s seems like it will be a lifesaver, as I don’t have loads of cash to go out to restaurants.
b. A Broken Umbrella
On the eve of my departure from India, I slipped out before dinner to shop for clothes with my twin brother, Chris. The monsoons had broke out a few days ago, and the wind and rain were announcing their presence to the traffic. Though the sun had set, the market lights were hanging along the street Chris and I could not name. Crowds of people languidly carried their conversations under their black umbrellas.
How different the street and shops look at night, I thought as I gazed into the large puddles reflecting the market decorations, with families and friends strolling in casual clothing back and forth out of the still busy road. A well-lit, boisterous fabrics shop came to our attention. The newest western fashions hung on display and a television relayed the day’s sports activities. I asked one of the clerks at the glass-paneled register for pants my size, a simple design.rainy India
After choosing and purchasing two pants, and joking around with the clerks about American fighting culture, Chris and I opened our umbrellas to meet the incoming sheets of rain. The wind had begun to drag with a palpable force, humming through the crevices of service signs, flapping the thin white cloth of our kurtas. This was my last chance to observe the people of India, catch the smells of the flowers, fresh meat and fruit rolling on carts chiming with bells. After seven months of staying in India, learning to be comfortable with holding hands with guys down the street, eating with my hands, the serene air one has to hold in the tests of chaos, I did not know if I was ready to go back to America.
Nearing the corner where we would turn towards our friend‘s apartment for dinner, the wind begun to shutter beneath my umbrella with tremendous force. After a few instants of trying to control the direction of its thin stem, the umbrella snapped, curling upwards. Knowing that I was not adept in fixing almost anything mechanical, I carried on, gauging my head under as much umbrella as I could.
Soon after, I noticed a small shop of fruit in the distance. Chris and I, almost yelling through the noise of the traffic and people’s conversations, decided that buying some coconuts and mangoes for our friends was a sound idea. It was a common gesture in India to gift a family or friends, especially on departure, with food or any assortment of presents. Usually the guests were not allowed to give any money or gifts to the host for their over-abundant care. Both of us had been treated like kings for what seemed like an immeasurable time. We wanted to give back, at least once, to our devoted hosts.
Chris scavenged for ripe mangoes and coconuts as I stood holding the shopping bags. An Indian girl, about my age, approached me nonchalantly through the rain. She came up to the folds of my broken umbrella, and asked politely if she could help me fix it—half by hand gestures, and half by selective words in English. And I, in partial Hindi and finger pointing, gave a stammered approval.
With quick fingers, she reassembled the latches that spread out the cloth of the umbrella, and pushed the upward curve of its rods down to its normal position. Holding the umbrella towards me, she spoke faintly above the rumble of cars and clatter of rain pummeling the stone of the sidewalk, “Here you are, brother.”
