In traditional journalism, reporters are supposed to be objective, to maintain the style of an omniscient, invisible presence. This objectivity is an essential component of journalistic integrity. But writers like Tom Wolfe or Joan Didion, proponents of New Journalism, rejected this notion; instead they and other writers accepted as necessary the presence, personality, and perceptions of the author. New Journalism and its literary descendants acknowledged and even celebrated the writer’s presence. The author/narrator interacts with other characters, comments upon events, and self-reflectively explores his or her personality in response to the developing story. Creative nonfiction is complexly structured by narrative voice, and the effectiveness of the piece depends, to a large extent, on the author’s narrative presence.
For instance, in her classic essay “Slouching towards Bethlehem,” Joan Didion examines 1967 San Francisco with a voice that is precise and emotionally detached. Instead of relying on her own reflections to convey meaning, she carefully chooses scenes and details that pack an emotional wallop. In the essay’s last page and a half, she describes two young children ravaged by the drug scene. The only clue to her personal take on these children occurs in a single sentence: “I start to ask if any of the other children in High Kindergarten get stoned, but I falter at the key words.”
Writers who, like Didion, choose to take a distanced stance can, to an extent, enhance the authority of their narrators. The writer’s position as an outsider to the events of the story can potentially improve the story’s credibility and grant greater freedom with respect to structure and point of view. Writers employing this strategy attempt to become camera lenses, points of perception that give enough details to allow the reader to come to his or her own conclusions.
Other writers inhabit their stories more fully. Ernest Hemingway’s deeply personal perceptions of bullfighting pervade Death in the Afternoon, his revered 1932 tome on the sport. Hemingway implicates himself by admitting that he finds the goring of horses humorous. His confession allows him and the reader to get to the heart of the bullfighting ritual. “This is the sort of thing you should not admit,” Hemingway writes. “[B]ut it is because such things have never been admitted that the bullfight has never been explained.” Hemingway’s willingness to explore his own reactions to the spectacle and to present himself as a sort of antihero helps give readers a more vivid and complete picture of the spectacle.
Writers who cast themselves as protagonists, as Hemingway does, allow their subjective experiences to compel their stories. As narrator/protagonist the writer can speak directly to the reader, comment on action and characters, interrupt the narrative flow with detailed descriptions or asides, and engage in philosophical reflection. On the other hand, first-person narrations are bound by the same limitations that we suffer in the world: It’s more difficult to convey convincingly the thoughts and feelings of other characters.
The amount of subjectivity a writer grants him- or herself may be a matter of personal comfort, or it may depend upon the writer’s relationship to the subject at hand. Unquestionably, however, the acknowledgment of writers’ subjectivity adds depth to stories, and evidence of a writer’s investment in a subject, far from distancing readers, can often add to a story’s power to draw them in.