Kani Aniegboka, our creative nonfiction editor, writes about his expectations of art and narratives he’d like to read:
Art is Subjective
If you wish to trace the path to the river, follow the trail strewn with pieces of broken clay pots. –Igbo proverb.
I’ve thought a lot about what to say in my introductory blog post for a while now. How do I define my expectations? What kind of work am I looking for? Good writing? But art is subjective. How could I possibly define what a good creative nonfiction piece is? Who has the authority to declare what is good or bad? Treating this question as anything but complicated and layered is how canons are formed. What is considered good literature in America may not be good literature in Nigeria or India. Literature is influenced heavily by culture, language, personalities, interests, and politics, so it is hegemonic to define what is universally good based on literature from one part of the world. As readers, we can have preferences and favorite authors, but we should be conscious of calling it what it is. This post is not about what I think is good or bad but about what attracts my interest. Here, I’m interested in discussing what keeps me reading any piece of creative nonfiction, the themes I’m interested in, and the voices I’m drawn to.
I like to read stories that grab me by the throat and pull me into the author’s world–an account that’ll override the beating of my heart and replace it with the palpitations of the character. Work that will attach itself to my sensibilities until I relegate my reality to the one the author offers. I always want to be twelve again, raise my head from a Stephen Lawhead novel, and see trees and lurking druids at the corners of my bedroom. That is what still pulls me into any work of literature. But what is that, though, and how do I know? The truth is, I have no idea. All I look out for is that feeling that the author is aware of their intentions but also allows the story to lead in moments. I resist stifled narratives and stilted language. I resist narratives that seek to conform to a mold rather than take a life of its own.
That said, the fun part of literature is that you never know what a story will give you. How did I know that reading Eula Bliss’ Time and Distance Overcome about Bell and his telephone poles would lead to a heartrending revelation on racism and bestiality on the black body and, afterward, a furious debate with myself about whether she had the right to tell that story. Asking what I like to read is like asking what food I like best. I never know until I eat it. My best dish is only the best dish until I try something better. A new cuisine. A better chef. My premier palate experience is constantly being surpassed. Therefore, I’m always willing to try something new or a known dish made by a different cook. In so doing, I’ve learned to loosely hold onto what I consider my likes. I’ll try whatever you put before me. I don’t only read what I like; I read to discover what I like.
When reading Creative Nonfiction, I like to believe that it is based on real life and not, say, autofiction. Of course, I recognize that all literature genres are drawn from ‘real life’ whether in its totality or otherwise. On the debate on how much objective facts qualify a story as creative nonfiction, I say it dangles on honor and perspective. For instance, what I write as absolute about my family could be disputed by any of my sisters who experienced it differently. I am aware of the subjectivity of memory even when we share those memories with other people. However, the validity of your perspective about an event is separate from whether the event happened at all. This I urge writers to be conscious of when submitting work to BMR.
In addition, when reading Creative Nonfiction pieces, I look for how the author has made the piece of real-life event matter so that they get me to care as much for it as they do. I search for the author’s engaging thread. Do they talk about life and family trauma with such dark humor like David Sedaris that you feel guilty for laughing but can’t help but do? Do they battery-ram normative culture in such profound, intelligent, and metacognitive ways, like Ta-Nehisi Coates, that arguing the point feels like a lost battle? Are they able to draw the line from individual experience to universal contemplation? If I can’t tell why you’ve given me a story, I have no idea what to do with it.
I’m interested in culturally deep and diverse stories. I believe that the only way we can save the world is to redefine its reality, and getting exposed to all the before-now ignored truths of minoritized individuals gives us a chance to do so. I enjoy stories written by everyone, but I don’t want to read stories of whiteness—accounts based on the belief that the world is set and run on dominant-race ideologies that consider deviations from its culture alien. I appreciate stories that acknowledge their limitations, question their beliefs and convictions, and consider alternatives, not wrong but different.
I’ve heard that all stories have been told, but I recognize stories that attempt new things. I also feel that certain stories have been over-told, and it’s time for others to be told or at least to catch up, so I prioritize fresh stories, stories of people of color, and those of minorities. I get excited by stories that tackle race, gender, and class and stories that critically push back on imposed norms. Just like my best foods yet, I know these stories only when I read them, so I’m excited to discover my new best stories through this journey.
