Writing nonfiction is a little like opening your pantry and then having to figure out what you can make for dinner using only the ingredients you have. You can’t invent something that isn’t in the pantry; you have to do the best with what’s there. In nonfiction writing, the facts of a story are the equivalent of your pantry’s contents, and you have to make an eloquent, interesting piece out of those existing facts, even when they’re an odd mixture or aren’t exactly what you were hoping to find.
I love fiction — it’s what I read most of the time when I’m reading for pleasure — but when it comes to writing, I love the challenge of nonfiction, of being handed a specific set of facts and having to craft the best story I can out of them.
Sometimes, though, dealing with just the facts can be daunting. When I started working on The Library Book, I assumed I would talk at length with Harry Peak, the young man who was suspected of starting the fire at the Los Angeles Public Library. The first thing I did was try to track him down, but after a little bit of Googling, I learned that Harry had died in 1992. I never imagined that he might not be alive, and I simply couldn’t imagine writing the book without being able to talk to such an important character. For the next few days, I teetered on the brink of canceling the project. But then I gathered myself up and decided to be resourceful.
I started making phone calls. I spent time with his sisters and parents. I interviewed his friends, his former boss, a neighbor, an ex-boyfriend. I read newspaper stories about him. I researched life in Los Angeles during the years he was there and the places he liked to hang out. I spoke to his lawyer, and to the prosecutor, and to the arson investigators who had interviewed him. In a dank, dusty basement room in City Hall, I found the depositions that were taken when Harry and the City of Los Angeles faced off in civil court. Slowly, I began to feel that I knew Harry, even without speaking to him. He began to come alive to me through all of these bits and pieces I was gathering. He became so vivid to me as a living, breathing character that the day I came across his funeral announcement, I broke down and cried.
Sometimes I wish I could make up what a story is missing, but then the reporter in me roars to life, and I love the feeling that I can figure things out from what’s available. The story of Harry Peak was one of the biggest challenges I’ve faced as a reporter, but I’m proud of what I cooked up with the ingredients on hand.
