I was required to take a creative nonfiction workshop in college—an elective I anticipated with dread, only to discover that my expectations were quite misplaced. My understanding of nonfiction had been confined to cold, sterilized texts: encyclopedias, autobiographies, and cookbooks, which seemed lacking in narrative allure. Initially, “creative” nonfiction seemed paradoxical, but it transformed my literary perspective. For example, annotated recipes with footnotes provided snippets of stories, enriching the narrative like the ingredients themselves. I also explored memoir writing, where, unlike an autobiography—a singular, comprehensive recounting of one’s life—a person could craft countless stories, each focused on different moments and themes. Writing flash nonfiction taught me to examine fragmented memories and, when finding the common thematic thread, string the vignettes together through poetic prose and vivid imagery. Through mastering this form, I realized that the essential elements of compelling fiction writing—realistic dialogue, a captivating plot, dynamic characters, and intricate worldbuilding—are just as critical in nonfiction. Jack Clarie, in his brilliant essay, “All Faerie Is Apocalypse,” states that faerie stories “make visible what is hidden” (Clarie). In truth, integrating elements one might consider for faerie or other fiction into creative nonfiction deepens the reader’s understanding of the story’s underlying realities. Just as faerie transcends fiction to reveal deeper spiritual truths, creative nonfiction that employs the literary devices of fiction can illuminate personal and universal insights. This essay will use excerpts from my memoir, The Shadow Land, to show how setting sharpens the narrative, turning it from a simple retelling to a revealing window into deeper, unseen truths. And, dare I say, turns nonfiction writing into a thrilling quest of discovery.  

A Brief Overview of The Shadow Land 

When it came time to edit A Sparrow Among Stars, Sara Puissegur‘s debut fantasy novel,  I felt like a literary fraud at first. I had worked so extensively with nonfiction that I worried I’d lost touch with reading and editing fiction. My dear friend and fellow editor, Jack Clarie, reminded me that both genres rely on the same storytelling methods. Though focused on faerie stories, his essay and encouragement influenced my approach to memoir writing. By treating my memoir with the same imaginative and daring spirit I’d use to write a fantastical tale, I found the strength and creativity to transform dark and haunting memories into lyrical and moving prose. In The Shadow Land, geography and setting play an important role in illustrating the depth and complexity of my experience. The memoir delves into a harrowing chapter of my life, revisiting an abusive marriage and the redemptive healing encounter with Jesus in its aftermath. This narrative does more than recount events; it wrestles with the complexities of abuse intermingled with mental illness—both that of the abuser and the victim. This exploration is intertwined with the places described throughout the memoir, which serve as poignant symbols and metaphors. While the excerpts from the rough draft presented here may not fully convey their significance in isolation, they are integral parts of a larger, layered work that explores the nuanced nature of healing and understanding. The use of various settings in the memoir strengthens the storytelling, and the following discourse demonstrates how specific settings enhance the memoir’s framework and thematic resonance. 

Integrating elements one might consider for faerie or other fiction into creative nonfiction deepens the reader’s understanding of the story’s underlying realities.”

Haunted Honeymoon 

In the section “Haunted Honeymoon,” I describe the road trip to Sevierville, Tennessee, my new husband and I embark on the morning following our wedding ceremony: 

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, flashing traffic lights, reflective construction signs, and blinking billboards replaced the serene sunset. My chest constricted. I knew he grew tired, but he wouldn’t let me drive. This constriction tightened as we began spiraling up the mountain with only the dim headlights of my death-trap Impala. There were no guardrails, and the higher we climbed, the steeper and more consequential a crash down would become. 

The shift from the serene sunset to artificial lights and construction signs symbolizes the chaos we face when deviating from God’s path. This transition underlines the structure of my memoir, a reflection of the Israelites’ rebellion in the book of Isaiah. Then, the uncertain climb to the mountaintop parallels the unnerving progression of our courtship and marriage. The view from the peak can be breathtaking, but the trek to a healthy relationship’s stunning reward is not without risk; after all, what goes up must come down. This foreshadows our decline, and the metaphor is further enhanced by the detail that there are no guardrails as we spiral upward. This reflects the lack of accountability, or safeguards, in our new covenant and amplifies the tension and trepidation I face, both on the treacherous drive up the dark mountain and later, when I encounter “The Shadow Man,” a term I use to personify my husband’s psychotic breaks from reality. In addition, the mountain becomes a visual representation of the narrative’s plot, with its rising action, escalating conflict, jerking climax, and subsequent dénouement. Thus, the setting of the mountain in the memoir functions as a powerful metaphor for the jarring deterioration of my marriage and health, depicting the narrative’s progression and emotional highs and lows. Additionally, “My chest constricted. I knew he grew tired, but he wouldn’t let me drive,” foreshadows the increasing anxiety and helplessness I will come to know in the marriage, especially when the two of us are alone in the “death-trap Impala” and the Shadow Man shows his face. Its dim headlights and the dangerous journey up the mountain conjure a sense of vulnerability and impending disaster, linking the physical landscape to my internal emotional state. Furthermore, the description of the ascent as a “spiral upward” pairs with the verb “constricted” to create an allusion to that serpent of old who brings chaos and consequences into the first recorded marriage. As evidenced, the setting in “Haunted Honeymoon” works at many levels to tell the story that lives between the lines. 

Mania at the Marina 

Other geographical features in my memoir include a marina and waterway, which serve as pivotal symbols in the narrative, reflecting different emotional stages of healing after trauma. The following is an excerpt from “Mania at the Marina:” 

The memory I think of tonight happened at the downtown marina next to a hospital. It is in a neighborhood with street names like Ash, Pecan, and Walnut. This is my sacred space—even after I leave the faux-medieval apartment where the couple next door fights and screams and I overhear from my window that she has pictures of bruises he’s left on her body. I drink coffee and meander to a bench underneath the overpass. I like the shade. I like looking at the bright painted murals on the bridge post. 

“I don’t like you sitting there,” he says. “I want you to move.” I see the glazed look in his eyes. The Shadow Man is here after all. My partner has only gotten better at masking his presence, which terrifies me. 

 

“Why?” I ask. “I want to sit here. I’m not moving.” 

 

“It’s dangerous. It isn’t safe.” He isn’t angry this time; he is afraid. 

The Houma Downtown Marina and the Gulf Intercoastal Waterway reappear throughout my memoir. Once a place where my husband takes me on dates, it becomes a haven where we seek calm after many storms. In “Mania at the Marina,” we visit this “sacred space” following an inciting incident at our “faux-medieval apartment.” During our separation, I spend countless hours here, hiding when he drops off my belongings at my new residence. The marina’s shift from a romantic spot to a refuge in crisis highlights its evolving emotional significance. I later visit it alone, using the time to pray and begin healing from untold pain. In this steady presence throughout my memoir, the marina and waterway become anchors as the plot unfolds. (They almost become reliable characters in the story when my and my husband’s ability to recognize reality diminish.) At times, the Intercoastal Waterway moves swiftly; its turbulent waters an image of my home life, yet at other times, the surface is still, becoming a looking glass as I sit in the stillness of my Savior’s love, meditating on scripture and exchanging confusion and fear for peace and security. I sit at the edge of the pier and look out into the distance, hopeful of what the future holds and where God might carry me next as I watch various vessels navigate the waterway. Some boats dock and stay for a while; others just pass through. The fluidity of the waterway and wildlife here reminds me of the ever changing nature of my husband’s mental disposition, as well as the movement of the Holy Spirit to bring me from brokenness to wholeness, loneliness to love, and constant fear to His secure arms. This body of water thus acts as a metaphorical current in my narrative, symbolizing both the turbulence and serenity of my passage to healing and transformation. The marina’s evolving symbolism throughout the memoir denotes its role as a sanctuary and a metaphor for the emotional shifts in my healing process. But the significance of setting doesn’t end there. The streets named Ash, Pecan, and Walnut symbolize stability and resilience, contrasting with my volatile relationship. The nearby hospital, though just out of reach, represents a longing for healing and adds tension to the scene when he claims to be afraid I will get hurt. These elements emphasize the contrast between my search for peace and the persistent threat of danger in my life. The overpass bridge, with its bright murals, contrasts the otherwise oppressive atmosphere, symbolizing hope and defiance against the darkness around me. The bench beneath the bridge becomes a personal stand, a space for momentary peace and reflection. The overpass itself represents a crossing from danger to safety, emphasizing the theme of hope when all seems lost. Overall, the setting of the marina and its surrounding features serve as a powerful counterpoint to the instability and conflict depicted elsewhere in the memoir. 

Leave Me Breathless 

Finally, the Canterbury House Apartments symbolize the feelings of anguish and enslavement that mark my life during the crux of conflict. This setting serves as a concrete representation of my internal struggles, reflecting Clarie’s idea that faerie acts as “a reverse-parable,” making the unseen aspects of our lives visible (Clarie). By calling upon fiction’s symbolic power in creative nonfiction, the setting not only contextualizes personal experiences but also unveils deeper truths, revealing how key components of fiction can enhance the emotional and thematic depth of a memoir. This is evident in “Leave Me Breathless,” a climactic scene that takes place at Canterbury House: 

Darkness swallows the room when I remember that night. I can’t picture the minuscule details save for the black bedframe where we both lie. In my memory, the frame is a skeleton lurking in the shadows, a herald of death yet to come, and though I pull the thick white comforter over my body, it is a false symbol of security and offers no comfort. When I close my eyes, I imagine a faint light casting an eerie glow throughout the room, but its source remains uncertain. Perhaps it was the backlight from my Kindle or a splinter of light creeping in from beneath the hallway door. Perhaps The Light tried to reach me then, and I just didn’t know it. Instead, all I can think about is the darkness that closes in on me and the way it feels like a smothering blanket separating me from a life of love and safety. My body feels heavy, immovable, as if cemented to the bed. I am my own tombstone, and I wonder if anyone will leave behind flowers when I am gone. 

I describe this apartment complex in Houma, Louisiana, as the “faux-medieval apartments.” This is where my marriage and health unravel, and I find it ironic, considering the historical Canterbury, Kent, is known as a place where pilgrims sought spiritual sanctuary. Although the architecture here resembles a castle with its turret-like features, my unit is a dimly lit cell in a dungeon. If anything, my quest for asylum sends me running from this place, not to it. This dissonance from reality echoes the truth that in many abusive relationships, what an onlooker sees on the outside is not indicative of what happens behind closed doors. It also highlights the themes of disenchantment and disillusionment. This contrast between appearance and reality deepens the reader’s understanding of barriers I face during this distressing time; it makes tangible the emotional, psychological, and spiritual realities that remain otherwise unseen. Located east of Bayou Terrebonne, the apartment complex symbolizes both renewal and exile, as represented in Biblical literature. According to scripture, the Garden of Eden is placed in the east, representing initial safety and divine favor, much like my marriage covenant in the beginning. However, following the fall from grace, eastward movement becomes associated with alienation from God and a wandering way toward wilderness and threat. This resembles the framework of Isaiah, where, in the second act, the Israelites face judgment for their rebellion against God. In addition to this, reference to Bayou Terrebonne symbolizes the slow movement, or hesitation, of my partner’s commitment to healthy, positive change. The murky bayou water becomes a picture of our inability to see the situation clearly; our deteriorating mental health clouds our vision and distorts our perception of reality. The description of the apartment and its location is an intentional inclusion in my memoir because this geography draws attention to the contrast between the appearance of safety and the reality of emotional exile, developing multiple themes within the memoir. Furthermore, the bedframe described as “a skeleton lurking in the shadows” and my feeling of being cemented to the bed sketch a powerful parallel with South Louisiana’s above-ground graves. This metaphor connects my personal sense of bondage and despair with the region’s unique geography. The concrete tombstones, visible markers of mortality in a flood-prone area, echo my feelings of being trapped and overwhelmed by anxiety and the erosion of my partner’s mind. This comparison deepens the reader’s appreciation of how the physical setting reflects and intensifies the emotional struggle portrayed in the memoir. 

Conclusion 

The integration of factual but symbolic settings throughout The Shadow Land enriches the narrative by adding depth to the text. As Clarie observes, faerie “reveals” and “makes the unseen seen,” providing a framework to understand deeper truths through its symbolic elements. “We see through these frames and filters and catch glimpses of pure light refracted in shifting colors” (Clarie). By incorporating detailed worldbuilding, dynamic settings, and strategic symbols and metaphors, creative nonfiction can exceed drab factual reporting and engage readers with the same depth and resonance found in well-crafted fiction. I don’t fabricate descriptions in The Shadow Land, but I do sift through my memories, discarding details irrelevant to the story I am telling. Often, the settings I remember best turn out to be the very places that whisper sweet asides of context to what I am already writing. Through descriptions of locations such as the formidable mountain, the serene marina, and the dissonant “faux-medieval apartments,” I have been able to build a world that emulates my internal experiences and the themes of my memoir. Each setting not only anchors the plot, as pins on a map, but also acts as a metaphor for the tempestuous journey toward healing and redemption. This careful use of setting highlights how geography is not just a canvas on which a story is painted but a fundamental element that shapes the narrative into a wholly resonant story that grips readers and doesn’t let go. C.S. Lewis said in the afterword of The Pilgrim’s Regress, “[G]ood allegory exists not to hide but to reveal; to make the inner world more palpable by giving it an (imagined) concrete embodiment.” The same can be said of settings, symbols, and metaphors. Such exploration gives readers an evocative experience. Without this integration, a writer’s composition remains wanting.  The settings in The Shadow Land thus serve as a testament to the influence of creative nonfiction in transforming personal history into a compelling, layered narrative that impacts readers on both intellectual and emotional levels. 

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