PO BRONSON KNOWING YOUR AUDIENCE

LET’S SAY YOU’RE writing a true story about a man who tried to kill himself after reading a book.
       You face a crucial decision immediately. If the book he read is a catalyst for his suicide attempt, then what do we need to know about this book to believe it changed a life? And how do you make the story of that life feel real, even while it is real?
       Do you follow it chronologically, such that we have to learn about the man’s wife and daughters before we get to the suicide attempt? Or do you put the suicide attempt right at the beginning, so the reader will accept it? That usually works. But then is it a tease if the man fails miserably at taking his own life? If he did not try very hard to kill himself—no blades, no cars over a cliff—then is it a red herring?

IN THIS CASE, the book in question was mine. In January 2003, I published a volume of nonfiction that told the stories of 50 people changing their lives.
       The man who tried to kill himself was a guy in Des Moines named Bruce Johnson. The night was February 2, 2003.
       I will tell you all the details of this man’s situation, and how my book came to play a part in it. But in exchange, you have to indulge me—because what I’m really interested in is how stories are told, the power they have over our lives, and the connection between the two. How does the manner of telling enhance or detract from the power the story has on readers? I’m particularly curious about the gap between artsy literary technique (a language of its own), the blunt way real people tell stories, and whether that gap helps or hurts the power of art.

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