Ruth Heil

Before I embarked on a career in writing I would sometimes find it difficult to remember the difference between fiction and nonfiction. Which was the true story? Of course now I do not pause, fully aware of the definition, mystified by the talent in the other class, fully embedded into my own category. Regardless, like the housepainter who is careful to hide all brushstrokes, my task is to cover the traces of literary definitions so that you, the customer, notice only the pleasure of a smooth result. It’s best if you cannot detect the divisions that encumber the process any more than you can detect the underlying rough drafts; yet, without them, such work would never color your world.

I write nonfiction, the true stuff. I witness and document life around me, illuminating existence from where I stand. I have made curiosity my career, getting paid to dig into a topic I find fascinating. It is the most glorious perk of all.

Meanwhile, the fiction writer – the inventor of stories and characters and magical lands – offers escape from the shackles of truth. He or she offers a ticket to ride to somewhere you cannot go on your own.

Without the creative ruminations of a fictional dreamlike state, I am often asked how I come up with ideas for the topics about which I write. One look at my desk filled with scribbles and piles and you will see that the ideas are not a problem. Since life is overflowing with substance, the challenge turns from finding a story to prioritizing the potential of everything found everywhere.

The bigger challenge–one shared by every artist–is the need to get paid. I must find readers who care about the same topics I do, who are willing to look at the glare produced by the angel of my spotlight, who are willing to pay for a peek through my telescope. You are free to witness real life, without writers such as me. Like the fiction writer, the ticket I offer must lead to a destination, somewhere you may have already been or somewhere you may wish to go.

What makes the truth worth paying for is the writer’s ability to inform (in the case of journalism and feature stories), or to enlighten (in the case of advice), or to inspire (memoir), or to question (essays and commentary). These are just some examples; there are more. Your return on investment depends on the reality you seek.

You could hike the eight-mile trip to the top of Mount Washington, the highest peak in the Eastern United States, a place known to have the worse weather on Earth. You may go and see for yourself what it is like. But can you? Do you want to? Do you have the time? Would you be huffing so loudly on the way to the top that you would not be able to hear yourself think? Imagine all the places and all the facts you would not know were it not for the nonfiction writer.

Thus, one of the most important aspects of such writing is research. As the world fills with lies and mis-information, my most reliable and valuable research is firsthand experience. I have to physically climb that mountain to accurately describe what it is like. When I am at the top, I must forget all the distractions that came along the way and stick to the parts about which you want to know.

After that, how I ship these good to your mind depends upon the type of writer I am. Do I toss the experience into a sack and jostle it around with boundless energy of non-stop excitement? Or is each step methodically documented? Is the truth bent to see if might snap or is it well supported to ensure it grows straight and tall? Is it dotted with comedy, spiritual thought, or wonder?

Like everyone in the world, my perspective is unique. No one else sees the details the same way I do; someone else sees things that I will never notice. The angle I take is defined by my position on the graph. Do I start on the side of aggression or the side of timidity? Do I like to give or do I prefer to take? Do I veer to the right, the left, or stand dead straight up and down?

Although we may not be aware of it, these are the reasons why we enjoy one author’s work and not another’s. These are some of the hidden brush strokes.

In order to bring these experiences to you, someone like me must produce more than words. They must put them onto the page or the screen. They must bind them together in order, legibly and legitimately. Even the fiction writer cannot wave a creative wand to make a book come to life, no matter how well the story is crafted. It takes paper-and-ink or pixels-and-light to transfer the thoughts from the writer’s brain to yours. Thus, it needs to be published.

Therein is the exact place where the brush of the dollar infiltrates, at least if I want to make a living at the craft. And where there is a dollar, there is a box, a rule, a requirement, a category, an expectation, and a genre. It is the place where books are officially certified as fiction or nonfiction. It is the place where the curiosity that drove me to the story transforms into a game that must be played to win. “On which shelf does your book fit?” the publisher will rightly ask, unable to sell any book that cannot be contained in a display.

From an analytical perspective, every piece of writing should fit into a predetermined place; the label maker should have already printed the tab behind which the writing will fall. But from a creative perspective, there are no such boundaries. In the cult of curiosity, your mind knows of no such restraints. For those writers who break the mold–cherished for the way they smash through – their ability to get paid in a market made of crystallized minerals seems to float away like methane gas.

And for you, this is the greatest injustice of all: To have your exposure to the art be limited by a marketer’s label.

Yet, still, payment or not, we writers–fiction and nonfiction–continue to write. We’re hopeful creatures. Our ability to envision the best qualities of our characters carries over to our wish for our own futures. Someday, somehow, the label maker will come out of the closet and produce one more tag, the contractor will build one more shelf, and the publisher will invent one more display so the creator can sell and be nourished to go back for more. He will be invigorated to climb another eight-mile trek, not just for his own satisfaction, but for the satisfaction of all who want to know what’s it’s like to be up there.

In contrast to the limitations of the book-building world, my creations know no limits. And like the combinations of color with which you and I can decorate our homes, a reading expedition is endless. It matters not where the selections are filed or under which category they fall. Through reading, you and I can imagine, investigate, dream, and explore whatever we want. And since every person in the world is unique, the keen brush of a pen can transform twenty-six English letters into a sense of infinity. It’s a fascinating fact. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.

The Top Ten . . . Reasons to Protect Nature

Ruth Heil

Sept., 2013

Although vigilant, I limit my engagement in the overwhelming number of environmental battles being fought today. Instead, I direct my energy toward reeling us back to our instincts, reminding us of the value of staying connected, and exalting the fact that humans are reliant on Nature’s good health. Meanwhile, of all that needs protection, I believe the most important are the remaining pockets of federally-designated wilderness. Here are ten reasons why:

1. Air: Besides the oxygenated role of trees, various deep-forest organisms contribute to the quality of air we breathe;

2. Water: The forest floor is a sponge, mopping up the rain before it can dump into an ocean we cannot drink, slowing its evaporation to the clouds, and thus, the torrent of its descent;

3. Habitat: Never mind the Spotted Owl or Whopping Crane; there is a precious abundance of life that can only thrive far from where humans dwell;

4. Diversity: In both form and character, every animate piece is part of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Take even one away, the picture becomes incomplete;

5. Scenery: The hues of diversity meld together into a scene that art can mimic but never recreate;

6. Peace: More soothing than the pictures are the sounds, heard and unheard;

7. Desire: Wild is what the earth wants. Proof of that comes in Nature’s violent storms. On the streets of mankind, they destroy; in the ecology of the wilderness, they create;

8. Uncertainty:Audacious are the humans who believe they already know all that goes on within the wilderness. Prudent are the humans who recognize the presence of irreplaceable treasures, many of which have yet to be discovered,

9. Rarity: With each acre converted, scarcity grows. Do we want a world of only concrete edges and fragmented spaces?

10. Escape: Since the Earth is a globe, one cannot move away; one can only move around. Somewhere in her circumference there must be a place to visit, to be reminded of what existed before, what can exist now, if allowed, and what will surely exist again after the human footprint has been washed away.