Truth and Beauty

The announcement of the finalists for the National Book Award has prompted me to do some thinking about my craft, and my field. As I mentioned in my last post, I sincerely feel humbled by the honor, because there are so many outstanding nonfiction books that have been published this year. The judges can only select five finalists, and then can only select one winner. That is a staggering challenge—and I would be an idiot if I didn't feel humility at being selected for the final five.

That's probably a good sign for the long-form narrative—that is, the book. The culture of the written word faces challenges on all sides, yet it remains robust. The process of winnowing the field down to five naturally calls to mind the scores of remarkable works that were not selected, reminding us that the field is strong, that the art and craft of writing is healthy.

I've been pondering why this is so, in our age of the famously short attention span. My answer, in terms of nonfiction, is that the book offers an almost infinitely flexible, expandable form for combining truth and beauty. Here, intense scholarship can be combined with literary art, and each can enhance the other. Honest and searching analysis can be combined with narrative entertainment; probing questions about the world can be asked amid a fast-paced, suspenseful story. The full and complex humanity of real characters can be developed alongside hard-headed examinations of larger issues—the structure of society, or the emergence of new technology, or the changing natural world.

In the fathomless depths of a few hundred pages, a scientist can be a poet, an entertainer can be a scholar, an artist can be an analyst, without sacrificing one role for the other.

Like every other nonfiction writer, I have been asked if I ever plan to write fiction. I guess it could happen—but it is hardly necessary. When I look around at other writers, I see that I have hardly scratched the surface of what can be accomplished in nonfiction.

Finalist for the National Book Award

The National Book Foundation announced that my new book, The First Tycoon, is a finalist for the National Book Award.

I'm flabbergasted—overjoyed, stunned, and humbled all at once. Yes, humbled, corny as that sounds. I'll be honest: I try my best to write at a level that would merit this kind of recognition, so this honor is a dream come true. But I really do believe in publishing a book with all humility, and this only drives that point home. There are hundreds of fine nonfiction books being published this year, and dozens that merit serious consideration for a national prize. Being singled out is a gift, plain and simple.

October Appearances

October Appearances • Saturday, October 10, 11:00 AM—12:00 Noon: Reading at the Koret Auditorium, San Francisco Public Library, as part of the Litquake literary festival.

Note that I will be the last of six authors to read, though each reading is brief. The reading will be followed by a book signing. I will likely be on stage around 11:30 or slightly later. • Tuesday, October 27: San Francisco Westerners' Corral

Popular Historian: Fighting Words?

I was just reminded of the first review my book The First Tycoon received, from Kirkus Reviews. It's a very nice review, but it refers to me as a "popular historian." What exactly does that mean? Is it good or bad? More to the point, what does it say about my work?

To Kirkus, the label of "popular historian" obviously is no slight. On one other occasion, when Jesse James: Last Rebel of the Civil War appeared, I was called the same thing, but I don't think it was meant to be complimentary.

So what is a popular historian? The most superficial answer would be a historian who is not employed by an academic institution. But that doesn't seem very satisfying. The place of one's employment doesn't necessarily tell us anything about one's writing. Indeed, there is a term often used to describe serious nonfiction writers who operate outside of the academy: independent scholars.

Ah! But I just used a telling term, revealing how I define "popular historian": it's that word "serious." Someone once said (I think it was Montaigne) that the highest purpose of nonfiction writing was to both inform and entertain. But the serious writer and scholar goes one step further, in trying to create knowledge—to enlarge our understanding of the past (in the case of the historian).

The popular historian is one who is not concerned with the creation of knowledge. Entertaining a general audience is the primary goal; informing that audience is usually a necessary part of that task, but the information is often familiar to many readers. There is no reason to disrespect such work: A good popular historian can be useful to a serious historian, by fluidly incorporating multiple sources into a coherent narrative. A popular historian may even adhere to the standards of historical writing, in terms of noting sources, providing a bibliography, etc.

The serious or professional historian, on the other hand, asks new questions and looks for new sources. Fresh thinking, fresh discoveries, fresh analysis—these are the most important part of a serious scholar's work.

There are some academic historians, unfortunately, who disparage the popular historian's work. I suspect that part of the reason is that, to a few academics, the entertainment value—the pleasure of the narrative—can appear unseemly. Perhaps there's a little jealousy? After all, narrative writing is an art, and it isn't taught in history graduate programs. But perhaps more important is professional pride. It is not easy to be a professional scholar, and the endeavor deserves respect. And let's be honest: along with the "popular historians" who are unjustly dismissed, there are plenty who produce junk, plain and simple.

So where do I stand? First, I am not an academic. Second, I embrace entertainment; I want my books to be pleasurable narratives, with full and complex characters, smart pacing, and even suspense. But I don't think there's anything unserious about that. The greatest literary writers, from Tolstoy to Orwell, have brought all those values to their books.

But I also cherish the scholarly values as well. I want to create new knowledge, and provide the full scholarly apparatus to allow verification of my research. I am trying to walk a very fine line: to entertain a popular audience and inform an academic audience.

That's my goal. Do I reach it? I hope so. Some readers find my writing exciting, and some find it a bit slow. And some historians find my books to be rewarding, though I'm sure others have a hard time taking the genre of biography very seriously. Overall, I have absolutely no reason to complain about how my work has been received by either audience.

For the record, I don't see myself as a popular historian. I try to write serious books with popular appeal. And there it is.

Writers Talking About Writing

I'm on the road again, speaking today to an audience in Dallas. I thought it would be an appropriate occasion for a brief post about public speaking.

A lot of writers take to writing because they enjoy the solitude. Many, I dare say, are charismatic in print, and less than charismatic in person. And I don't blame writers one bit for this. The problem is that even modest success imposes a demand upon writers to come to the surface and talk about what they do.

I happen to enjoy public speaking. I don't know that I'm particularly good at it, though I think I've improved since my first appearance to promote Jesse James, back in 2002, at the Chicago Historical Society. In fact, I have no advice for biographers or other writers who find themselves in front of a crowd. For example, I have a weakness for long, digressive answers to questions, which can be a real problem.

It's a curious thing, this insistence on hearing from the author. After all, the writer cannot possibly better present the store of knowledge or artistry than he or she has on the page, where it unfolds under control, after thoughtful, painstaking consideration. But I myself enjoy hearing from an author I admire in person. Why?

In part, I think it is because we are fascinated with people. To see the human being behind the book is somehow intrinsically interesting, transforming an object into a person. And it can be fun to hear the author's unconsidered thoughts—the stories about the research and writing, the more gut reactions to the material, the penumbra of the author's mind.

I guess that does lead me to a little advice: Don't be rigid. Let the audience glimpse who you are, your more personal impressions and thoughts, rather than simply condense your book in a talk.

Of course, I'll go out and condense my book. I just hope there are good questions.