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The Reading Room page 4

The stories on these pages were chosen with the nonfiction sequence in mind. No one says you should "imitate" them except in the most general way, that is by noticing how they are put together, and how authors use material to develop their ideas. "Shepherdess" by Dan Chaon, is clearly  fiction, but it is the kind of fiction that most closely resembles creative nonfiction (see Daily Hints, Page 2 )  in that the story represents not just an incident in the narrator's life, but the life itself. "My Tears See More Than My Eyes: My Son's Depression and the Power of Art" by Alan Shapiro (yes, it is a tough one to read) does much the same thing. At first the focus seems to be on the son and his illness, but  the force that eventually takes over and drives things to a conclusion is the narrator himself, a famous poet. "For Bean" by Clifford Thompson, is about jazz great Coleman Hawkins, but it starts with the narrator's personal memories.--and ends with them. enjoy all

dan chaon    Shepherdess This girl Ive been seeing falls out of a tree one June evening. Shes a little drunkI bought a couple of bottles of hopefully decent Chardonnay from Trader Joes on my way over to her houseand now shes a little drunk and a little belligerent. There is something about me that she doesnt like, and weve been arguing obliquely all evening. Its only our fifth real date, and though weve slept together onceit was the week after my mother died, pity sex, so it doesnt exactly countwe dont know each other that well Continue                  alan shapiro   My Tears See More Than My Eyes: My Son's Depression and the Power of Art We parents signed in and entered the waiting area of the boys ward that doubled as a family room uring visiting hours. We migrated to the far corners of the room, as far away as ossible from one another, as if afraid of contagion. Maybe it was easier that way for us to think, "My kid is different from theirs; he isnt really fucked up or suicidal, or violent; hes just going hrough a rough patch, a phase." We sat in silence, waiting for our sons; under bright fluorescent lighting that gave us all a sickly pallor, we looked anywhere but at each other; we looked at the rubber furniture, the grimly cheerful yellow walls, the message boards here and there scribbled over with institutional graffiti: goals for the day, prayers, bromides, warnings, rules. We were seeking some measure of privacy in a room whose every feature declared No Privacy Allowed. Continue                  Clifford Thompson For Bean I grew up in the 1960s and 1970s in a semi-detached brick house in Washington, D.C. The house from which it was not detached belonged to my aunt and uncle; my great-aunt and great-uncle lived in the house on the other side of them; and still another aunt and uncle were up the street. People seldom appreciate what they have when it's there, and it is only now, living in a New York apartment surrounded by neighbors I sometimes have trouble even recognizing, that I understand what I had as a boy. In those days my neighbors were family members, transplanted country folk, who often dropped by unannounceda rarity todayand stayed to chat for half an hour, an hour, or more. Continue