The tradition makes room for the inclusion of imagined or even blatantly false narratives, but it is an expectation of the genre that when the author does this, she will also signal the reader that this is the case. This does not seem like an overly strenuous or prescriptive requirement, nor is it possible for me to see how this damages the essay as a work of literary art.

it is a particularly unethical act to pepper it with intentional falsehoods

I argue that this value is in the connection between the reader and the author of the work of creative nonfiction, that this connection is one that depends on readers understanding of the author as present as herself rather than as a fictional construct on the page, that this connection differs significantly from the connection between the reader and characters in works of fiction, and that certain ethical obligations adhere to both the author and the reader as a result of this connection.

Can I ethically write, with the intention to publish, a piece that will harm another person, even if it was not my intention to harm them? Is writing as truthful an account of my own experience as I can, again with the intention to publish, ethical when there are other accounts—also by people doing their best to be truthful—which contradict my own, and which suggest that my understanding of the events and situations considered is limited by privilege, naiveté, or bias? Does it matter whether or not those other accounts which contradict my own are published and available to readers to serve as a counter-balance to my own? Does it matter whether or not I am a more or less central actor in the events being considered than the people whose accounts contradict my own, or whether or not I seek publication in a more or less prestigious venue with a greater or smaller readership than they do? How does non/payment for the work itself factor into the ethics of publishing such a piece?

In the essay itself, you need to stitch that revelation about the complexities and ambiguities of particular terms, phrases and passages into a larger argument or context – don’t simply list everything you have found; craft it into an argument, and be prepared to downplay or leave out some of the elements you have spotted if they don’t relate to the larger picture.

Essentially, the close reading is the starting point for your essay, letting you find what is interesting, intricate, and unexpected about a literary text.

Careful transcription will also help you get inside a passage: you’ll get a feel for its rhythms, its twists and turns, its breathing. Look at the words.

Accurate transcription of quotations is, for some, the first and last rule of close reading

virtuoso

Close reading is also sometimes known as Practical Criticism, rooted in the techniques espoused by the Cambridge critic

...slow reading, a deliberate attempt to detach ourselves from the magical power of story-telling and pay attention to language, imagery, allusion, intertextuality, syntax and form.

As with valorizations of resilience, to view survival as “miraculous” is to engage with larger patterns of erasure that obscure how power and capital keep the vast majority of us teetering on the brink of breakdown or death.

Mahalagang-mahalaga ang tinig ng ina. At mahalagang matagpuan ng mga ina ang lakas sa kanilang loob, na makapagsalita. Kaya iyan ang pinagsisikapan namin sa Gantala Press.

Kaya nga naniniwala kaming hindi na natin dapat tinatanong kung sino-sino ang ating literary mothers, kundi: Ano-ano ang mga kuwentong sinulat ng ating mga ina? Natin, bilang mga ina? Ng karamihang ina sa ating bansa?

Napaka-pyudal pa rin ng lipunang Filipino, kung sisipatin.

I hadn’t come sooner to deliver Lola’s ashes in part because I wasn’t sure anyone here cared that much about her. I hadn’t expected this kind of grief.

All the kids and grandkids noted, but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom. Twelve years apart.

And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment.

It had been five years since Lola died, but I hadn’t yet said the final goodbye that I knew was about to happen. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods. More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. She couldn’t make an appointment, arrange a trip, fill out a form, or order a meal without help.

Admitting the truth would have meant exposing us all. We spent our first decade in the country learning the ways of the new land and trying to fit in. Having a slave did not fit. Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from. Whether we deserved to be accepted. I was ashamed of it all, including my complicity. Didn’t I eat the food she cooked, and wear the clothes she washed and ironed and hung in the closet? But losing her would have been devastating.

n the old country, my parents felt no need to hide their treatment of Lola. In America, they treated her worse but took pains to conceal it.

I was 13. It was my first attempt to stick up for the woman who spent her days watching over me