Narrative Digest

Bare(ly) narrative

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 13:59:27 GMT

Literary language is a hallmark of narrative journalism, but powerful stories can also emerge when reporters take a bare-bones approach verging on a straight news style. These stories often make minimal use of the detailed scenes, but sneak a corner seat at the narrative family table because they unfold chronologically or have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Playing Deep

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 01:28:24 GMT

Sports stories can go surprising places. Champion player Andre Agassi reveals he has hated tennis since childhood. The Washington Post’s Les Carpenter brings together a Chinese boy band, a reality show, and the NFL’s efforts to invade China. Michael Vick goes to prison and subsequently returns to professional football. Who’d have guessed?

The Power of One

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 01:27:02 GMT

When high school athlete Bonnie Richardson won the Texas Class 1A track team championship all by herself, it was a big deal. Then she did it again the next year. In the September 28 issue of Sports Illustrated, Gary Smith tells us why this reluctant superstar wishes people would just let her be.

In "The Power of One," Smith makes music with simple language and vivid metaphors, but his real skill here is to show us Richardson’s inner life. What others might sketch as simplicity or innocence, Smith casts as Richardson’s fierce fidelity to herself. His Richardson is a little sullen, a girl who was called the Beast and responded by defiantly taking the name for her own and wearing capes emblazoned with “da beast.”

She writes the kind of poetry many people do as adolescents: I hear legions of fate calling my true name. She believes she has the capacity to astound the world, and she has not yet shut herself off from the possibility that she might be right.

Yet Smith will not let us get away with a sentimental reading of a gifted athlete’s shining moment. “I was considered a freak. I still am,” Richardson says, and by letting the admission come near the end of his story, Smith gets at something bitter but true about the longing for greatness and the loneliness of accomplishment.

[Read our interview with Smith, in which he talks about Bonnie Richardson's story and how he works to keep the reader close at hand.]

Sexual Warfare in the Democratic Republic of the Congo

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 15:07:58 GMT

Excerpts from an October 2009 email interview with Kate Geraghty on her multimedia project about rape as a strategy of war in a conflict that has left millions dead:

Q:	What motivated you to go to the Congo? You mentioned you and another reporter took leave from work to do this project.
A:	Journalist Jonathan Pearlman and I had been following the conflict in North and South Kivu DRC for some time and wanted to cover the ongoing story. In many reports on this conflict a small paragraph or even in some cases one or two lines touched on the sexual violence in this region that had reached epidemic proportions. We wanted to investigate why this was happening and what was being done for the women and girls affected, to know how they survived and coped with what had happened to them and also their hopes for the future. We also wanted to talk to those men or boys who were part of armed groups (government soldiers and militias) responsible for committing these crimes, in what circumstances they were raping, were they forced to rape, et cetera, and what, if any, remorse they showed. We were invited by the UN High Commissioner for Refugees and Medecins Sans Frontieres to visit their projects to see not only the living conditions in the IDP camps but the work being carried out in treating and counseling the victims of sexual violence. We took leave from the SMH to do this story, mainly so we could dedicate the time we believed the story needed.
Q:	How did you find Augustin? Was he willing to talk from the beginning?
A:	We came across Augustin and also another man Remy (not in the feature multimedia but in the written copy for SMH) through a local pastor who knew of them as a part of a group of reformed rapists and militia who go about to villages trying to bring awareness to men that committing rape is wrong. Augustin was a former child soldier with a Mai Mai militia who committed over 80 rapes in a six-month period. Remy was a leader in a Mai Mai militia who over several years raped approximately 40 women and girls including his now wife and a two year-old. Augustine and Remy from the beginning were more than willing to talk about their experiences, especially after we explained at length that we were Australian media and not police or UN or NGO authorities. Augustin who now is a Christian stated that he wished he could ask the women and girls he raped for forgiveness but since he couldn’t, he is dedicated to telling his story to help stop other men from committing these crimes. Before commencing the interviews we outlined the story we were doing and [explained] that our identifying them might bring some repercussions. They both agreed to be interviewed and photographed.
Q:	Can you tell me a little about the structure of the story for the feature video?
A:	Kimberley Porteous produced the piece but consulted with both Jonathan and I regarding how it would be shaped. We wanted Augustin’s story to be interwoven with that of the women's accounts of what had happened to them. However we did not want him to be the sole focus of the piece, but to add insight into why armed men in this conflict were using sexual violence as a weapon of war. I photographed portraits of several women who were victims of rape using the same setting and then shot the video so that the stills would merge into the women talking, so [viewers] could not only see them but hear their voices, hopefully adding impact to the piece.
Q:	At what point did you know what that structure would be?
A:	Like any news or investigative assignment you don’t really know what you'll get till you’re on the ground. We had been researching for approximately eight months and lined up several interviews with victims/survivors of sex violence through NGOs, and hoped that we would find men who had committed these crimes who would be willing to talk to us on the record. The story or structure evolved during the interview process. It shaped itself almost.
Q:	Can you talk a little about the different elements in the project? There's a lot going on.
A:	This conflict has raged for approximately 15 years, leaving a cortege of dead, injured, and displaced in its wake. To compliment the main feature we wanted to incorporate the effect that this conflict has had on the Congolese people through two short soundslide [presentations] focusing on the daily life in camps for IDPs (internally displaced persons) and the work that international non-governmental organizations are doing. For the second, we focused on Medecins Sans Frontieres-France. Also included were the transcripts of some of the women's testimonies, the copy Jonathan Pearlman wrote for The Sydney Morning Herald and a map.
Q:	What story were you hoping to tell?
A:	We wanted to investigate why rape was at epidemic proportions and was being used as a weapon of war. Ultimately we wanted to tell the women's stories, to show that they were more than victims, that they are survivors and have dreams and hopes as we all do. Regarding Augustin's story it was important to tell, giving a rare insight into the circumstances and mindset of those armed men who rape.
Q:	Is there anything else you'd like to say about "Sexual Warfare in the Democratic Republic of the Congo"?
A:	This has been one of the most rewarding assignments I have covered. We invested a lot time and energy into this project hoping that it would bring awareness to the plight of the Congolese, especially the women who bravely talked to us about their lives and daily struggles. We were given amazing access from UNHCR, Medecins Sans Frontieres, Women for Women International and Heal Africa.

What Came Before

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 14:46:24 GMT

What came first in the Congo is the part of the story that is missing in the midst of some fabulous narrative coverage. Such history is hard to work into the present-moment immediacy of video, but context remains one of the things that print can offer through pieces that take the long view.

Sexual Warfare in the Democratic Republic of the Congo

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 14:25:02 GMT

Our latest Notable Narrative comes from The Sydney Morning Herald. Photojournalist Kate Geraghty and reporter Jonathan Pearlman have assembled striking still images, video and reported summaries to document the systematic use of rape by all sides at war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where millions have died during more than a decade of fighting.

The video’s originality is due in no small part to Geraghty’s vivid images and footage. However, the project works as a story because of the use of accounts from both survivors and an assailant, which offers a more comprehensive picture of sexual violence in the Congo than most news organizations have been able to assemble.

Five women tell the stories of their assaults, interwoven with the confession of Augustin, a young man forced to join a militia at 13 who admits to having raped as many as 80 women. “The first time, I raped alone,” he says. “After that, I used to rape in a group… I didn’t feel as if I did anything wrong.” Augustin further explains how he now works to make amends by sensitizing other men against rape.

Hearing the voices of women who have suffered in such terrible ways shows the full cost of the actions of Augustin and others like him. Zamunda, whose husband and children were killed in front of her says, “I wish sometimes the soldiers had killed me.”

On-screen text near the end of the video provides a bitter resolution when we realize that despite their horrific stories, the women on the video are the lucky ones. They have been able to access treatment, while most victims will suffer alone with their injuries and trauma.

Reviving Medical Narrative

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 13:28:51 GMT

Medical stories have been done so well in so many ways that it can be hard for new narratives to emerge from their forerunners’ shadows. How do you write a surgical drama better than Jon Franklin’s “Mrs. Kelley’s Monster”? And what do the stories that connect with readers have in common?

Choosing Thomas

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 13:22:24 GMT

Our latest Notable Narrative, Lee Hancock’s “Choosing Thomas,” offers readers a spare account of parents who welcome a baby into the world despite knowing that he will not survive. The two-part serial, which ran last month in The Dallas Morning News, eschews the overwrought language of medical drama for a restrained recounting of family tragedy.

Hancock uses straight chronology for her story, beginning with the ultrasound at which parents T.K. and Deidrea Laux discover their child will have a cleft palate, enlarged kidneys, and many additional problems. They eventually learn those problems result from a genetic condition known as trisomy 13. Hancock wisely divides the piece into two parts: the parents’ prenatal struggles, followed by Thomas’ short life and its legacy.

The focus on Thomas’ death keeps the piece from devolving into the “gee-whiz” highlighting of medical technology that so often occurs at the expense of the story. But the power of this serial narrative owes as much or more to Hancock knowing when to get out of the way and when to make use of her detailed notes. She includes gallows humor from T.K., who makes a joking request for a camouflage casket at the funeral home, months before Thomas’ birth. And then she tells us that the cemetery official agrees to hold the plot until after the birth because Deidrea is not ready to give up. “What if there’s a miracle?” she asks.

Hancock’s interest in the piece began with reporting on palliative care for newborns and adults, not any statement about what choices parents who receive the trisomy diagnosis make. But an interesting moment occurs in the piece when the Lauxes are contacted by a young couple facing a similar situation whose pastor has warned them against abortion. Hancock writes, “Deidrea spent an hour reassuring the husband that people who hadn't been there couldn't understand the choice they faced.” Though we all hope never to understand fully, thanks to “Choosing Thomas,” we may just have an inkling.

[Read our interview with Lee Hancock, in which she talks about getting access to patients and her story's place in the abortion debate. Also worth seeing is Sonya Hebert’s extraordinary video focusing just on Thomas’ life. She was present for nearly all of it.]

Six Tips for Crafting Scenes

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 20:09:31 GMT

Scenes are the backbone of narrative. They're where the action of your story takes place, where the plot unfolds.

What Ails Us

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 01:51:21 GMT

In times of crisis, journalists work to understand what went wrong, to assemble a narrative of dysfunction or disaster that makes sense of events. If focusing on missteps comes across as doom and gloom to some readers, it also provides a way to understand the present and even to plan for the future.

Working Story

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 16:24:23 GMT

Narrative often finds its magic in the utterly mundane, the down-and-dirty details that make a story feel real. So perhaps it is not strange that narrative journalism frequently takes on one of the most everyday activities—work—and renders it extraordinary.

Building a Mystery

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 13:36:23 GMT

Excerpts from a September 2009 interview with Chris Jones on "The End of Mystery," in which a team of investigators recovers bodies and determines the cause of a helicopter crash off the coast of Newfoundland:

Q:	How did you find out about the investigation into the Newfoundland crash?
A:	I live in Ottawa, Canada. This was a big story in Canada—it led the nightly news for the better part of a week. But I figured it hadn’t made as much news in the U.S. From the beginning, it was a very literary sort of accident, because there was initially one survivor, one body, and 16 people missing. The kind of story I like is one where you find something that other people might ignore. What struck me was that they said the black box was sent to Ottawa to investigators. I wondered who would get the black box and what it would tell them.
Q:	At what point did you know how you would structure this story?
A:	I can’t say I really knew until I started writing it. I didn’t make an outline for it. I just sort of started writing. I almost wanted the reader to follow the path of the investigators, moving from the big picture to smallest possible details. When I was talking to Allan Chaulk, and he mentioned finding the rolled-up paper at the bottom of the ocean, I got goose bumps and figured that would be my lead. You’re in the dark, and all you have is these clues. Ultimately, I wanted to the reader to understand the process. I was amazed that out of all the wreckage and carnage, they found these little titanium studs.
Q:	In the helicopter crash story as well as your earlier piece “The Things That Carried Him,” you stick to a relentless structure. One moves forward in time, trying to solve the mystery of the crash, while the other moves backward. How do you decide what to leave out?
A:	“The Things That Carried Him” was originally supposed to be 6,000 words, which is standard for an Esquire feature. But as I was working on it, I still thought that was possible. But there are 11 sections, and I had written two when I realized it was going to be way over 6,000 words. I called my editor, Peter Griffin, who is the great editor—I mean that—he is always right. I called him up and said, “Peter, I think this might be a little long.” It ended up being 22,000 words, and then we cut it back to 17,000. It’s funny to talk about that story being tight, because it’s massive. I don’t think I’m good at staying on point. Writing [the story] backward was his idea. With the crash story, it was a little easier. To Peter’s credit, this story did get cut quite a bit. For instance there was another oil rig accident in which guys were lost, and I went into the difference between having the bodies and not having the bodies. He suggested we just get rid of that.
Q:	Your scenes stand out as stories in miniature, each with a lead and a kicker. Can you talk about how you approach beginnings and endings of your scenes?
A:	I’ve always felt that narrative relies on scenes. The best advice I ever got on writing was from my mom: to always think of my stories as movies. When I read them back to myself, I think, “Does it make sense? Does each scene fold into the next scene properly?” That probably sounds really gross to people who are into literature, but for me that’s the best way to figure out if I’ve got the scene right. Because I want the reader to picture himself in that situation. I want the reader to be on board the Atlantic Osprey when they find the bodies. The other thing is section breaks—they should have a lead and a kicker. I’ve always believed that endings are more important than leads. I view each section as its own little chapter. Grab the reader and keep the reader going. I want to give them every reason to continue. I don’t want something lame or clichéd.
Q:	Your writing style seems to be plain description that lays out all the elements in the piece and then links them in these emotional moments of discovery. Have you always had the confidence to take chances—to have faith in your readers to make those leaps with you?
A:	Faith is the wrong word—maybe hope is better. You know, as a writer, when I started at Esquire, I was replacing a writer named Charlie Pierce. He was my favorite writer growing up. When I started, I had this feeling I had to write like Charlie Pierce. After three stories, I got a call, and my editor said, “Stop trying to write like Charlie Pierce.” So I have always written fairly plainly. I got so much praise for “The Things That Carried Him,” but I believe that anyone could write that story. If you do the reporting, the writing is really basic. I don’t do flourishes.
Q:	Really? What about your powerhouse ending about the lone survivor of the crash—where you revisit the ideas that babies float and talk about the “cause and manner of life”? It read pretty literary to me.
A:	Okay—very occasionally I might do that. I think those paragraphs stand out because they’re different than the rest of the piece. But I’ll admit that very little of what I do is conscious. I’m working on this book about the golfers who have shot 59. 59 pushes a golfer from the subconscious into the conscious, and some of them can’t get back in their game after they do it. I’ve been totally paranoid that working on this book is going to do that to my writing. That last graph in the helicopter story just kind of came to me—it just sort of popped out. And I don’t know why, but the “babies float” thing was one of those moments during an interview where it wedged somewhere into my brain. Where I get credit for my writing, it’s for these connections, but I don’t consciously make them. Because I believe endings are so important, sometimes I do them first. But this story, I just started writing. When you do that, sometimes you get these happy moments or surprises that work. I think the reason I don’t like a lot of my stories may be that I’ve never made an outline. And I’ve often been self-conscious about that. Five or six years ago, Esquire re-released the Gay Talese story “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold.” And they included Talese’s outline for the piece. It’s immense. And I thought, “Okay, I’m just a hack.” David Foster Wallace wrote a piece about a child prodigy who became this great tennis player. He was so frustrated because she couldn’t explain anything about what she did. I’m teaching this year, and there are a couple professors here who can dissect a story—break down its architecture. I can’t do that. It sounds so bad, but in some ways, I don’t really think about it. I just try to ask as many questions as I can, and then I try to sit down and write a story that people will want to read.
Q:	What do you think of narrative today?
A:	Because journalism is in flux, we’re all talking about the death of news, how every journalist is poor and will live life in a hovel. I just don’t believe that’s true. I don’t know how to artfully make my case, but I believe to save ourselves, we’ve got to do good, long, true stories. Very few people can do them well. I think it’s the out for individuals and it’s the out for newspapers as well. So many magazines and newspapers are making the mistake of going small. But the internet will beat you every time on small. I love [the Narrative Digest] because it makes me feel like so much good stuff is still happening. You forget about it sometimes. But I still believe that if you write a really good story people will read it.
Q:	How did you learn how to write?
A:	I read a lot. My parents were both professors. Everything I wrote, my mom went over with a red marker—as a child for sure, and even as an adult. I had teachers tell me I should be a writer, but because I was a little asshole, I resisted. But I always liked words and sentences.
Q:	Who do you read?
A:	I love Tim O’Brien. And this will sound lame, but I really like Malcolm Gladwell. The thing that he doesn’t get credit for is his writing. “The Ketchup Conundrum” about how there’s a 1000 kinds of mustard but only one kind of ketchup. I like when things read easily. I don’t like to see sweat on the page. When I was a teen, I loved Ernest Hemingway, because I was a clichéd young writer. In the long run, I think that was a good thing for my writing, though. I also love Tom Junod’s “Mercenary” from a year or two ago. It was about a guy he met who claimed to be a kind of Blackwater guy, now hired to do security for a nuclear power plant. He wrote the story, and when then the fact checker started working on it, there were holes. The guy had lied about everything. And Tom wrote the story in such a way—he had to rewrite it of course—that he could reveal that the guy was a liar—but slowly. You come to the realization that the story is wrong. And there’s this creeping dread. He took a situation that could have been a complete disaster and turned it into a great story. I still read stuff like that all the time, where I feel totally useless as a writer, because I wouldn’t be able to write that piece. I’m lucky that I can pick pieces that I can actually do. You have to know what you’re capable of, to be brutally honest with yourself about what you can and can’t do. And occasionally go back and do the other stuff just to remind yourself why you don’t do it.