Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction

How to Be Tough in Creative Nonfiction

how to be tough in creative nonfiction 195 KRISTEN IVERSEN “Many writers of meta-nonfiction, as well as those who write metafiction, take ironic pleasure in pointing to the status of the narrative as dramatic construction, as artifact, as illusion.” How to Be Tough in Creative Nonfiction When I was a child, we went on long Sunday drives in the mountains , which we hated with a passion. The four of us—my two sisters, my impish little brother, and I—rode morosely in the backseat of a lizardgreen station wagon with faux-wood paneling on the sides. My parents were from Scandinavian farm families in Iowa and Minnesota. Colorado was a mystery, a luxury, a tourist trifecta of high peaks, winding roads, and picture-perfect family togetherness enforced by no bathroom breaks. My mother was a master of logistics and orchestration. We gave up going to church as a family by the time I was eight, and Sunday mornings were meant for sleeping. She had to work to get everyone out of bed and more or less committed to the project. “Let’s go, kids!” she’d call, standing at the bottom of the stairs in her pedal-pushers and Keds, hair and makeup perfect. One by one we shuffled into the bathroom and tugged combs through our snarled tresses. My mother tried to fix our long, straight hair with frizzy perms we endured once a month at the Arvada Beauty School, but they never took very well. Once we were dressed, she’d pack us into the backseat of the station wagon, side by side, and then go rouse my father, who insisted on driving but wouldn’t emerge from the house until everyone else was ready to go. He liked to sleep. Sunday mornings were the only time I saw my father. I knew the back of his head like the palm of my hand. This trip, though, was different. My brother had broken his leg, the result of a fall from a horse.The horse was a payment from a client of my father’s. My father had little business sense, and when someone couldn’t pay for their divorce or their DUI, he’d take something in trade. Sometimes it was a couch or a grandfather clock.Sometimes it was a horse.This horse hadn’t been broken yet. 196 kristen iversen My mother put down blankets and pillows in the back of the station wagon for Kurt, still in his body cast, so he could lie flat. “I guess you’ll have to look at the ceiling, honey,” she joked. “I can see fine,”he said.He propped his pillow against the backseat and braced his foot against the rear window. My mother slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “Where’s your father?”she muttered. She tapped the horn. A minute or two passed, and she honked three short barks. She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “I get so sick of this,” she said. She blew a thin stream of smoke and honked again. “The neighbors probably don’t like honking on Sunday morning,” my sister Karin said. Karin was never afraid to speak up. Sometimes she refused to go on Sunday drives at all. “He’s coming,” Mom said. She glanced at her watch, counted under her breath, and then laid on the horn for a good long one. Dad burst from the house. “I’m coming, Marilyn. Christ.” She smiled and slid over so he could get behind the wheel. He hadn’t showered, but his shirt was clean and he smelled minty, like mouthwash. “Hey, guys!” he said, grinning into the rearview mirror. He was his best on Sunday mornings. He put the car in reverse and backed down the driveway. “You’re going too fast,” my mother said. “You’ll hit one of the dogs.” He ignored her.“Where are we going today, guys? Where do you want to drive? Golden Gate Canyon? Rocky Mountain National Park?” We didn’t want to drive anywhere.It was hard to see from the backseat, even with my mother pointing out the scenery, and the winding roads made us all carsick. “Let’s drive up to Rocky Mountain National Park,” Mom said. “We haven’t been there in ages.” “That’s a long drive,” Karin piped up. “I have homework.” “This is a family day,” Mom admonished. “Maybe we’ll see some elk. Don’t you kids want to...