Among the (many) benefits of having an English Lit major as a frequent companion this summer was that I found myself in the Ambleside Book Barn more than I did at any other time last year. Yes, the two times I went during the last several months represented a massive increase from the zero times I went in otherwise. Now, don’t get me wrong—it’s not that during the other eight months that this particular barn emitted hair curling scents, or was guarded by an intimidatingly stoic, pitch-fork wielding farm couple. No, it’s just that when I usually find myself in Ambleside I am in the company of a beagle who is both impatient (“Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.”) and liable to convince herself that the resident Maine Coon would also make a most satisfying main meal.
The first time me and Ferg visited the book shop (BS!) I ended up purchasing a translation of the first volume of “The Novel” (that met with the approval of the Proust scholar standing next to me) and Linda Eversole’s Stella: Unrepentant Madame. I have yet to go the way of the Swann, but—perhaps knowing that time is at a premium with a madame—eagerly started reading Stella soon after I had purchased it.
I was initially very enthusiastic about Stella because I was acquainted with someone who knew the author when it was going in for publication and thought it sounded like an interesting topic, and continue to be interested in the Canadian regulation of vice. However, I think what was most intriguing about this book was that the publisher(?) noted that it was an example of the genre “creative non-fiction.”
From what I can tell from Eversole’s work, creative non-fiction involves the careful study of primary and secondary sources (her book has a bibliography that is separated accordingly). Each chapter also includes a number of endnotes that Eversole uses to point the reader to the particular sources from which she culled information. Unlike the books I have been reading lately (that also tackle history, but are not explicitly classified as “creative” works), Eversole’s text is not interrupted by admissions to gaps in information. Rather, the text is carried by an omniscient narrator. Consider, for example, the narrator’s report on Stella Carroll after she had been busted for running a bawdy house:
[…]Stella sat in jail, her thoughts racing as she massaged the stump of her leg. She would beat this as she had every other time. They don’t send ladies to jail—surely it was just the usual harassment, a small setback, and she’d be back in business by the end of the week. She had to face facts, though: this time it seemed different. The sick, nervous feeling in her stomach wasn’t the aftermath of too much rich food, alcohol and rage. It was what they called a “gut feeling,” and hers was saying there was trouble ahead. (Eversole, 2005, p.16)
Note the particular emotions that the narrator imputes to Stella. This passage is also not followed up by a citation for a journal entry or a personal letter. Perhaps the inclusion of this kind of scene by the author—presumably inspired by Eversole’s impression of how Stella would feel (given Eversole’s understanding of/identification with Stella after twenty years of mulling over sources) is what sets creative non-fiction apart. As in, the author admits that through an analysis of the sources s/he has created a relationship with the subject.
Clearly I find this idea of classifying a book as “creative non-fiction” conceptually very interesting, and compelling. I wish that more books would admit that, no, they are not just repositories of troo fax but represent mediated understandings that can only be further mediated.
Having said this, I really hate omniscient narrators; they just totally rub me the wrong way because I feel like I can’t trust them. More than that, and just so we don’t forget my arrogance, reading things like that makes me anxious that people will be seduced into feeling there is certainty when there is not. In any case, I would welcome the chance to read a creative non-fiction book in which the author made the narrator explicitly unreliable and began the book with a note on method.
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