I just heard Salman Rushdie call journalism, or memoir, that interprets or re-imagines events through an idiosyncratic, personal lens, creative non-fiction.   I suppose that’s what I’m writing as I toil over this memoir of my father’s life.  

“Creative non-fiction, my ass,” said the skeleton of my father, woken from his slumber by the familiar sound of me tapping the keyboard.  

You got a better name for it?  

The skeleton pondered this for a moment.  

“No, I suppose not.  It’s actually exactly what you are doing.   There are many things you can never truly know, but in telling a good story you can’t leave these gaps.  A story with gaps is not a great story, as you are starting to understand. Hey, you can’t imagine what I’m thinking as I’m driving the Buick east into the Long Island night after our nightly battle at the dinner table?  Well, that’s an evocative image, anyway.  There’s something the reader can imagine as well as you can.   But you have to set it up right, give the reader all the background images to picture it for themselves.”  

You’re a writing coach now?  

“Fuck you, Elie, you’re the one who’s talking to me, I didn’t start this conversation,” said the skeleton.  

That’s what you say.  

“That’s what you say I say,” said the skeleton.  “You’re not fooling anyone here, Elie.  Don’t insult our intelligence.  Conversation, my ass.”  

As you wish, father.