On being a nonfiction writer

My education as a writer began, as with almost any writer, I imagine, as a child. I credit my dad with instilling in me a love of language. He always made sure I spoke proper English – “the King’s English,” he would call it – and he was himself a frustrated writer, lacking the belief in himself to pursue a passion that he nevertheless passed on to me. Partly to fill the gap and partly as fuel for the fire, he read incessantly. He always had in his hand a newspaper, magazine, or paperback. I often claimed his discarded paperback novels, and I have often said I’ve learned far more about being a writer from reading than I’ve learned in any writing class. But I perceive myself as lacking the imagination to write fiction, which leads me to answer the question – “Why nonfiction?”

I consider myself more of an observer than a creator of imaginary tales. Even when forced to write fiction in a comp class, I find myself drawing on actual events in my own life. I once wrote about the recent replacement of my PC from the point of view of the old PC, and when, in another class, I was assigned to write a short story, I simply wrote a narrative of an event from my own childhood. While I love reading fiction, I don’t see myself as a writer of the great American novel nor, much to my dismay, the next Harry Potter series. I like to observe real-life events and set them to writing in a way that is appealing, and possibly inspirational, to others. Among my observations is that many people tend to never look beyond the surface, and while I don’t expect to change anyone’s opinion, I remain optimistic that I can at least occasionally encourage a slightly deeper understanding.