A generation ago, writers such as Gay Talese, Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson wowed a lot of us with the so-called “New Journalism,” applying the techniques of fiction writing to the demanding discipline of reporting.

Probably no one did more to bring this type of writing to newspapers than two-time Pulitzer winner Jon Franklin, who won the first Pulitzer Prize for feature writing with “Mrs.Kelly’s Monster” and his book “Writing For Story” has influenced an entire generation of narrative journalists.

Through several discussions with Jon and from observations made in “Writing for Story,” I pieced together this fictional conversation between an aspiring narrative journalist and one of the masters of the form. You should note that many of Franklin’s responses are paraphrased.

What is literary  journalism? ¶
Some people also call it creative nonfiction, but I don’t like that term, because it implies that writers can make things up that ought to have happened. I prefer narrative nonfiction or literary journalism. But whatever you call it, you combine the writing techniques of fiction with the fact-gathering techniques of journalism to tell a story. ¶

We tell stories every day. What’s different about literary journalism? ¶
In truth, all stories are part of a narrative. Hard-news stories on an unfolding trial or election are paragraphs in the greater narrative. But when writing the true narrative or literary journalism, you don’t tell the reader what happens until the end. The story begins with a complication that needs to be resolved, then takes the reader on a journey to the resolution of that complication. Narratives usually are told without attribution, although sometimes that attribution is included in a separate box. ¶

So how do I find a story that will make a good narrative? ¶
The temptation is to jump on a story because someone promises you unlimited access. The reporter and editors say, “Wow. We’ve never had access like that before. Let’s tell the story” — usually over several days with lots of pictures. But just go to any hospital, and you can find dozens of these stories and, if you ask, you can probably get access. I look for a clean story — with a limited number of elements. I want to make sure I know who the main characters are. I don’t like the main character to be someone who has a nonstandard life. I want a unified experience for the reader. Above all, there are two things to avoid: Confusion and boredom. Readers get enough of both in their lives. ¶

How do you define a clean story? ¶
It’s kind of a batting average. Given all the variables, where is this probably going to go? Do I see the components of a story? The main characters? The complication? Is there a fallback structure? ¶

But what if the story doesn’t go in the direction you predicted? ¶
That’s just your default position. If you’re lucky, you’re wrong and you will find something better. That happened to me last year and after all these years, it still scared the living hell out of me. When I started I had a medical story about a woman in a coma. I woke up at 2 in the morning and realized it was a love story about her and her husband. Still, I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to change directions. Most of my reporting was already done. Then my wife told me, “How long have you been telling others that the story can change?” She convinced me. ¶

So what did you do? ¶
I did some more reporting. I went back to the relatives and asked, “This is a love story, isn’t it?” And they said, “Of course it is.” From that point on, it was easy. ¶

OK. I’ve picked a clean story. How do I persuade my editors to give me time to work on it when I’ve got a beat to cover, too? ¶
None of us started out doing narratives full time. We all had to work them in around other assignments. And you don’t have to start with something that takes months and months. “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster” happened over three or four days. Any good feature writer can get that kind of time. ¶

Many narrative writers advocate becoming a fly on the wall in reporting these stories. Does that mean we write only what we see? ¶
The fly on the wall is only a technique to make your subjects feel comfortable. That’s all it is. You still have to get into the heads of your characters. And you do that by interviewing them, by reporting. ¶

So you don’t have to follow your story 24/7 to write a narrative? ¶
No, in fact, I prefer a retrospective approach over the perspective approach. ¶

What’s the difference? ¶
In a perspective, you write what you see as it happens. The danger is that the story changes on you and you won’t know it. A Tom Hallman or a Tom French can write with perspective because they’re experienced enough to recognize the change. But in a retrospective approach, you wait until the story is over and you’re sure what the story is. ¶

By retrospective, do you mean you re-create scenes, dialogue, etc.? ¶
Yes. This seems to bother some journalists, but I think they just don’t know the rules or the amazing accuracy with which this can be done. Readers don’t mind. They like it. And in truth, journalists do this every day. Rarely do we witness the murder, the bank robbery, etc. Writing in the retrospective is much the same thing. We re-create scenes; we don’t attribute every detail, but we’ve done the same reporting.

But it is important to remember that writing in the retrospective is not a license to steal. There are rules, and they are strict. ¶

So after I spent weeks or months filling my notebook with observations and microcassette tapes with interviews, what do I do with all this stuff? ¶
Start getting rid of it. ¶

But I’ve got so much great material!!! ¶
You’re going to find you collect dozens and dozens of great stories — stories you’d probably put in the newspaper under normal circumstances. You have to throw out everything that doesn’t contribute to the main theme of the story — everything that doesn’t take you directly from the complication to the resolution. ¶

What about all these great quotes I’ve collected? ¶
Quotes have become a security blanket for writers. When you’re hiding behind them, you’re letting quotes substitute for reporting. You try to let quotes tell the story instead of doing it yourself. Quotes don’t move a story along. They don’t have action. They’re all words. I like for a narrative to be at least 60 percent action. And so often the quotes are chosen because that’s when the reporter was there. We worked hard for that quote, so we’re going to get it in there. That’s what I call a notebook dump. The only quotes that belong in a narrative are those that are part of a dialogue that move the story along. ¶

So what’s my lead? ¶
I often don’t even write my lead until I find the point of insight. ¶

The point of what? ¶
The point of insight is that moment in the story when all the parts are in place for the finish. It “feels” like we understand now. It usually comes at the last or the next-to-the-last piece in a series, though in a single story it’s almost always near the end, setting up the resolution. It’s the most dramatically germane part of the piece and, as a practical matter, the part the writer usually arrives at first. Essentially, in the narrative, the point of insight is the equivalent of the nut graf in a more traditional newspaper story. It’s the graf that tells you what the story is really about. In “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster,” the point of insight is the moment the doctor realizes the operation is going to fail.

So how does the point of insight relate to the lead? ¶
When I have the point of insight, I know whose story it is and where it’s going to go. Then I construct my lead to make it fit to that.

 Some writers begin narratives in media res — at a critical turning point in the story. Others begin at the beginning. Do you have a preference? ¶
I usually try to begin a story in the middle of telling action. David is picking out the stone to hurl at Goliath, or whatever. Then I flash back to the beginning and how the hero got into this pickle.

What are some other characteristics of a good narrative lead? ¶
You make promises in a lead. Then you have to live up to them. “Erin’s Race” makes the promise that this is going to be a race. But it isn’t. A narrative needs an overarching metaphor, but you can’t force a metaphor on the story. It’s got to happen naturally. ¶

What verb tense do you prefer for the story? ¶
Writers need to realize that story present can exist in past tense. I don’t like present tense for longer stories, especially those told over more than one day. Present tense is too limiting. In present tense, the story has to move at a breathless pace, but in a more reflective story it’s like playing a symphony in three-quarter time. ¶

I met so many people during the reporting. How do I choose my main characters? ¶
In literature, the character with the most courage is your main character. In journalism, it’s the character at the center of the action. Your job is to figure out whose story this is. As a general rule, all the main characters need to enter the story before the end of the first chapter or first day of a series. And you have to develop those characters through your reporting. We need to see them do things that denote intimacy, happiness, etc. When a main character makes a decision, the reader needs to understand why. ¶

Much of what I’ve witnessed during my reporting has been pretty boring. How do I keep my readers interested? ¶
We often think life is boring because we’re afraid to engage in it, and those pieces aren’t boring at all if you look at the dramas being played out. For instance, if you’re writing a medical story, yes, the patient is often bored to death. But I can guarantee you it’s not boring for the doctor who’s trying to save a life. So get inside the doctor’s head. ¶

What other advice do you have for the writing? ¶
Build scenes by showing, not telling. In one story there is a line, “Erin’s mood visibly lifts.” That’s telling. Show me her mood lifting — a smile, a bounce in her step, etc. ¶

So I’ve written 6,000 words. What’s next? ¶
You’ve got a rough draft. You begin rewriting. And re-reporting. ¶

More reporting? Are you kidding? I’ve been reporting this thing for six months. ¶
Right, at this point, you can’t imagine why you started this project and you can’t imagine how you’re going to get through it. It’s painful. But you’re just getting to the fun part. Now you should know what the story is. You’ll probably throw out half of what you’ve written and then go back and improve on the best parts. That means more reporting to flesh out the story. The longer I’m in this business, the more I realize that it’s the reporting that makes these stories work. The writing is almost secondary. ¶

Tell me again why I started this in the first place. ¶
When you get it right, when you ring the bell, the readers walk away touched and changed in some way. You’ve incorporated your story into their life’s experiences. ¶