Aggravated by Webster’s chickenshit-ed-ness in defining nonfiction, in a footnote in Part Seven I come up with my own definition. Here it is again:

“A literary work in which the existence of the work could conceivably change the lives of the characters described in the work itself, or if the characters are deceased, change the perception of them.”

I go on to explain:

This avoids any reference to what’s real or not real or what’s true or not true (let along lying like a slug) and does so without being deceptive or chickenshit. I’m convinced that Webster’s non-definition of nonfiction (even in a dictionary in which it was listed) was based on their not wanting to go near these concepts, since so much “nonfiction” has little to do with “truth” or “reality” (no matter how you define these concepts) – James Frey and Bob Woodward come to mind, plus, of course, history books.

I hope you understand what I mean here. To define nonfiction with reference to reality or truth is surely to open a convoluted, distressing can of worms.

Point being: Where do we draw the line between “real” and “not real” (nonfictional/fictional)? To put it another way: When and where can a character or an event no longer be considered nonfictional? Surely the characters James Frey made up from whole cloth in A Million Little Pieces cannot be considered “real,” though they appear alongside characters that maybe are “real” (in a book labeled as nonfiction).

Or with Bob Woodward, when do his lies by omission – omitting the 1980s from his history of U.S. relations with Saddam Hussein, say (there’s plenty more) — result in Plan of Attack crossing the line into fiction? This is not hair-splitting. This is a serious matter, if one cares about words, what they mean. (Speaking of words, and what they mean: In his various nonfiction books Woodward uses the word terrorism [or variations of it] literally hundreds of times, yet he never defines it. What’s up with that? I’ll return to this subject at some point.)

The bit about a nonfiction work changing the perception of a character should he/she be deceased is important, in distinguishing between fiction and nonfiction. (Admittedly, it gets a bit thorny in deciding whether or not certain characters that appear in literature are deceased – is Ahab “deceased”? Is a made up character from A Million Little Pieces who “died” in that narrative actually deceased?)

But pressing on: Does Ahab’s Wife, a novel (not nonfiction), which I refer to in my book, give new insight into the Ahab we remember from Moby-Dick? I don’t think so: No matter what a writer other than Melville later writes of Ahab, our perception of him will not change. We understand that the world of Ahab’s Wife is a different one from the world of Moby-Dick; and we know this without dealing with the question of whether these worlds are “real.” So in this case, fiction (Ahab’s Wife) does not change our perception of a character (Ahab). So far, so good with consistency in our new definition. On the other hand: An essay on Moby-Dick could conceivably affect our perception of Ahab, if we found it insightful enough. And, as I think you’ll agree, an essay of this sort would be nonfiction. So we’re okay here as well; we’re still consistent with this new definition of the word, since it claims that only nonfiction can change our perception of a character that appears in literature.

Regarding my book, that the perception of the characters appearing in it could conceivably be changed by the book itself is obvious: If you personally know, say, Bob Woodward or Lisa or Esteban Mora, your perception of them might well be changed by reading my book. (Although via denial it might not be changed.) This seems obvious.

But what do I mean when I say that the lives of characters that appear in a nonfiction work could be changed by the nonfiction work? Small examples: Whether or not you know Bob, Lisa or Esteban, if you happen to run into them, the following could transpire: You run into Bob Woodward, you might ask him, “What happened to the 1980s in Plan of Attack, Bob?”

You run into Lisa, you might hum a few bars of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

You see Esteban, you might yell out, “Moooo!”

This would likely aggravate these people, which would change their lives, if only a little bit. (A more extreme example, just for the fun of imagining it: A fanatical animal rights activist goes down to Pavones and assassinates Esteban.) One more time:

Nonfiction: A literary work in which the existence of the work could conceivably change the lives of the characters described in the work itself, or, if the characters are deceased, change the perception of them.

I’m still thinking about this stuff. If you have any thoughts, contribute to the “Nonfiction” thread of my Reader’s Forum.

While I'm at it with what nonfiction is, or isn't, here's a cut chapter that might amuse you:

From the summer of 2005, as I was holed up at Montauk, recovering from all my diseases, and getting away from Lisa.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An experienced, industrious, ambitious, and quite often picturesque liar.

Mark Twain

Still another bit of ridiculousness works it’s way into my life around this time, and guess where from? Good old “Book TV”! I’ve missed it, longed for it even; my satellite TV package down at Pavones doesn’t include it in its programming. I’ve no doubt missed a lot of interesting stuff over the months, the years; interesting stuff like my demented editor mentioning my name and then blurting about her perfect, flawless book during panel discussions, and Frank McCort lying about why he doesn’t use quotation marks in Angela’s Ashes. (Also: Watching Book TV is a pastime, like baseball; it helps get you through the day.)

Slumped on the couch, slug-like, the consumption and Lymes disease and the other tick-borne microbes pulsing, I’m not drooling, not exactly, but that’s only due to the cant of my head being such that the drool pool collecting in the hollow of my cheek has not yet overflowed from my slack mouth. Meanwhile, this guy, a writer, a nonfiction writer, comes on, lecturing on the subject of creative nonfiction. “Creative Nonfiction” is the title of the lecture, in fact; it’s right up there super-ed on the “Book TV” screen. I actually perk up at this, relatively, come out of my slump a bit, stem the incipient drool. This oughta be good, I’m thinking, just based on the title of the lecture.

“Creative Nonfiction.”

Okay. We don’t really know what nonfiction means, right? I’ve beaten that one to death. But we sort of know. Something to do with not making up stuff,, right? So let’s deal with the other word in the title of the lecture. Creative.

I’m going to make an exception to my no dictionary rule and go online to look up the word creative. Hang in for minute; I’ll be right back…. There was a lot of stuff, crapola, under creative; the only definition that applies to the creative nonfiction usage was this one: Imaginative. So I figured I better look up that one.

Tending to indulge in the fanciful or make believe. Plus: Having no truth; false.

In other words, to make up stuff.

So, “Creative Nonfiction” – the title of this nonfiction writer’s lecture, which was super-ed right there on the “Book TV” screen — pretty much means making up stuff while you’re not making up stuff

The reason I’m thinking this guy’s lecture oughta be good is a morbid one of course, having to do with my getting a kick out of listening to lectures by people who have their heads up their asses. And the lecture is good, but it takes some time and patience. Fine. I’m not going anywhere. This nonfiction writer lectures on and on about this and that, blah blah, and boy is he passionate about the subject of creative nonfiction, i.e., making up stuff while you’re not making up stuff.

Finally the lecture is winding down and I’m still waiting for the nonfiction writer to get to the subject of making up stuff. I mean he’s talked all around the subject for almost an hour; let’s get to it. And finally he does, right at the end, although the phrase making up stuff does not work its way in. Interestingly, though, upon broaching the subject of “the ethics of nonfiction” — of the ethics of making up stuff while you’re not making up stuff — the nonfiction writer for the first time in his lecture hems and haws, talking a streak for about two minutes without saying anything whatsoever. So I’m getting drowsy, plus slumpy and drooly again; plus, in spite of my mutli-dis-ease ridden condition I’ve been working on this book, the nonfiction book you are now reading, since 4 AM, and hence I’m beset with some big time after writing throes on top of all of the above. So add some loss of essence to the mix. Plus terminal you-know-what, with a bit of the dark shit, whatever that is, on the side.

So now I’m not really paying attention to the nonfiction writer’s hemming and hawing, but then he launches into a personal anecdote on the subject of ethics in nonfiction, and suddenly I’m semi-alert; I almost actually sit up; I may have gulped down my drool pool. (Memory fails.)

A while back, the nonfiction writer says, he was at some college doing a lecture on creative nonfiction and suddenly a woman in the front row jumped up, flashed a badge and yelled out “Nonfiction police!” Then the woman bolted from the lecture, the nonfiction writer continues, never to be seen again, even though he followed her out and searched for her high and low to find out who she was. She’d disappeared like a will o’ the wisp. The sledgehammer subtext of the anecdote was that maybe she was some sort of phantom or mythic persona or whatever. “True story,” the nonfiction writer assures me, on good old “Book TV.” Then he says this: “I have witnesses.”

“Asshole!” Someone yells at the top of his lungs.

It’s me yelling, at the top of my lungs, consumptive lungs,  sitting alone and beset by you name it in my rental house at Montauk, outrage having supplanted my amusement at this guy’s bullshit.

Why the yelling and the outrage? In order to make a point about ethics in nonfiction – ethics regarding making up stuff – the nonfiction writer made up this complete crock of shit story and then, to compound that, lied further, saying, “True story. I have witnesses.”

Worse: People in the audience laughed; a couple jerks even clapped. The nonfiction writer paused, said something pithy but which I don’t remember, then exited to more applause.

What the nonfiction writer should have done – would have done in a better world than this one — after the laughter and applause died out, is this: He should have smiled and said, “Thanks but you got suckered, folks. That incident never happened. I made it up to make my nonfiction point, which was actually a valid one. Isn’t nonfiction… interesting?”

Then he should have walked out without another word.

As it is, the lying sack of shit is going on my list. If I ever go back and look up Hector’s understudy at the border town whorehouse where I got semi-raped by the alpha whore and make a package deal.                      

That list.

______

 By for now.