The Creative Truth

It is with sadness that we are announcing the closure of The Creative Truth literary magazine. Due to a lack of submissions (and also a lack of relevant submissions that were in fact nonfiction prose), we are now closed for submissions permanently.

The magazines will still be available to buy on Lulu.com. Our parent magazine, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, is still open and going strong, so head there if you enjoy reading or writing poetry and short fiction.

I was walking around Rome with my mother. We stopped at the Piazza Navona to listen to a gypsy string band and view a truly striking scaffold. It was a tall, wobbly-looking exoskeleton, composed primarily of steel piping and wooden planks. Loose canvas hung about it, flapping in the breeze and blocking any view of the monument beneath.

 “What’s that?” said Mother.

 “This is the Scaffolding of the Fountain of the Four Rivers” I said. “It’s a modern structure, with wood dating to the first term of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. The canvas, while appearing quite ancient, is in fact less than a decade old, having been replaced after the great windstorm of 2007. Most of the piping is original, though certain substitutions have been made due to rust.”

 “The fountain must be huge,” said Mother.

 “It contains an obelisk, which would account for the extreme height of the scaffolding.”

 Mother expressed some frustration at finding so much of the beauty of Rome in dispose.

 “Not to worry,” I said. “There are two more fountains in the Piazza Navona.”

 We walked to both ends of the square and admired the Fountain of Moro and the Fountain of Neptune. Mother said they were nice, but wanted the Baedeker guide’s opinion. I read: “‘Neither the Fountain of Moro nor the Fountain of Neptune can compare to the Fountain of the Four Rivers in terms of beauty and artistic quality.’”

 “Figures,” said Mother.

 “Yes. Well, let’s go find some more scaffolding, shall we?”

 I had decided to make this a spontaneous day, with no specific destinations and no map. As we meandered the muddle of confusing streets that surround the Piazza Navona, I began to second-guess my plan.

 “I love all the little workshops and things. It’s like stepping back in time,” said Mother.

 I took her deeper into the maze of cobbled streets. The further we went, the more residential they became. Soon all evidence of commercial activity had vanished.

 “Where are we going?” said Mother.

 “Nowhere in particular. We’re having a spontaneous day. Rick Steves said we should be sure to schedule at least three spontaneous days in Rome.”

 “If you schedule them, how are they spontaneous?”

 She leaned against a stucco wall, under a wrought-iron balcony dripping with bougainvillea. “I’m tired,” she said. “Let’s go back to the piazza.”

 Though I had no idea where we were, I led on, exuding what I hoped to be a comforting degree of mock confidence. One road twisted into another, and we dead-ended at a deserted church.

 “Baroque,” I said, examining the façade. “Possibly by Boromini.”

 Mother sat on the steps, visibly wilted. “I don’t want to see any more churches. I thought we were going back to the piazza. Do you know what you’re doing?”

 “I think if we bear left that alley will funnel us down to the Corso—”

 “Get the map out.”

 I informed her as delicately as I could that we had no map.

 “What do you mean we have no map?”

 “It’s a spontaneous day. Rick Steves would never bring a map on a spontaneous day.”

 “Of course he would. Do you know why?”

 “Why?”

 “Because Rick Steves isn’t an idiot.”

 Mother harped, rather sarcastically, on this topic for an extended period. Her unpoetic argument was based primarily on the practical, though quite boring, assumption that finding your way around a strange city with a medieval street plan requires some sort of directional aid.

 “But just look at the wonderful things you can stumble on when you don’t know where you’re going,” I said.

 Mother glanced at the church. “It ain’t that wonderful. Let’s go.”

 We walked a few blocks, made a turn, and miraculously popped out on the Corso Vittorio.

 “Ha!” I said. “And you doubted me.”

 Mother bowed to the superiority of my internal compass and requested that we take a rest at a sidewalk café. After a coffee for her and a bracing Campari for me, we recommenced our ramble.

 “There’s the Piazza Navona,” she said.

 “We’re not going back there,” I said. “I’ve seen enough of the Scaffolding of the Fountain of the Four Rivers.”

 She agreed to follow me if I promised to stick to the main arteries and not get us lost again. Within five minutes I got us lost again.

 “Daniel—”

 “One more block,” I said. “I know there’s something good around here—look at all the people.”

 Two kilometers and a substantial amount of cursing later, we entered a small square and gasped in unison. Before us stood the peerless Pantheon, the best-preserved piece of ancient Roman architecture in the world.

 I began to clap at an increasing volume. People stared. They probably thought Mother had checked her special son out of the sanatorium for a day of sightseeing.

 “Clap, damn you,” I said.

 “Why?” said Mother.

 “Great architecture deserves to be applauded.”

 This was a reference to the Peter Greenaway film Belly of an Architect. In it, Brian Dennehy applauds the Pantheon. Mother should’ve known this since we’d recently watched the movie together. I ceased clapping.

 “It’s a line from Belly of an Architect,” I said. “‘Great architecture deserves to be applauded.’ Remember?”

 “No. What’s Belly of an Architect?”

 “Let’s go inside.”

 We passed between the grand Corinthian columns and through the bronze doors. The interior was dim, with a single beam of sunlight descending from the open oculus of the dome to the center of the floor. Looking up at the coffered ceiling and its illuminating eye was like gazing on architectural heaven.

 “It’s beautiful,” said Mother.

 There were pews and crosses and various other Christian bric-a-brac present, but I preferred to picture the Pantheon in its original pagan glory, when Marcus Agrippa had dedicated it to the most holy planetary gods. I asked Mother if she had anything to leave as an offering.

 “I have half a candy bar,” she said.

 “It isn’t a Mars bar, is it?”

 “Snickers.”

 She set the chocolate on the floor, in the middle of the oculus’ ray, where a pigeon promptly devoured it.

 From the Pantheon, we took the Via Seminario to the Via del Corso. A quartet of snazzily clad Roman businessmen stood at the intersection, waiting to cross. One of them dropped a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, snuffing it with a twist of his loafer.

 “Should we go for it?” said Mother, after the light had changed.

 “Let’s see if these guys make it first,” I said.

 The men slipped into the crosswalk en masse. They hadn’t taken five steps when a gang of lawless scooter girls came screaming through the red light. They bore down on the businessmen like leather-clad archangels, out to avenge some corporate misdeed. The man in the shiniest suit jumped out of the way, spun around, and let loose a roundhouse kick that grazed a scooter girl’s bum.

 “Puttana!” he yelled. “Porca!”

 She paused to flip him the bird before racing off to join her crew.

 “That was awesome,” I said. “I should be hanging out with those chicks.”

 We jogged across the street behind the ruffled businessmen, barely beating the light.

 “Okay,” said Mother. “Now where are we?”

 It was a fair question, but without the benefit of a map I had no way of answering it with any accuracy.

 “We are moving east,” I said. “Or possibly west or north, from the Via del Corso toward some very famous stuff.”

 “What famous stuff?”

 “Famous Roman stuff. Known to centuries of travelers.”

 We walked for a considerable distance without seeing anything remotely famous. I started making things up to entertain Mother.

 “This building,” I said, “was once home to Mussolini’s favorite prostitute, Tosca Traviatta. Tosca weighed over three hundred pounds and was completely bald. She used to strap Benito to the bed and beat his buttocks with a bicycle pump.”

 We turned onto a pedestrian street covered with a red carpet. I would’ve felt quite regal had it not been for the abundance of tacky tourist stands and souvenir peddlers. Though they made me cringe, their presence was not unwelcome, for I knew them to be harbingers of the beauty of Rome.

 “What’s that?” said Mother.

 “What’s what?”

 “Don’t you hear it? Listen.”

 I detected a faint rumbling; the further we progressed, the louder it grew.

 “Water,” I said.

 By the time we reached the end of the street and rounded the corner the rumble had intensified to a roar. Then, all of a sudden, we were face to face with the Trevi Fountain. At least I was face to face with the Trevi Fountain. Mother was staring at the backside of a large German tourist. I pulled her around him and up to the thundering waters.

 “It’s the Trevi!” she said. “And there’s no scaffolding!”

 Mother first saw Three Coins in the Fountain at the Dipson Plaza Theatre in Erie, PA in 1954, which meant she’d been longing to see the Trevi for over half a century. She gazed raptly at the nude statue of Oceanus, and I asked her if she was fantasizing about Louis Jourdan.

 “Of course!”

 People sat along the rim of the basin, tossing coins over their shoulders and posing for pictures.

 “There’s a space,” I said. “Squeeze in.”

 Mother got into position and dug a two-euro piece out of her purse. I snatched it away and handed her a dime.

 “Cheapskate,” she said.

 She let fly, and the coin plunked into the limpid water. Oceanus looked down with approval. Gods, despite their reputation for extravagance, are not incapable of appreciating thrift.

 “Aren’t you going to throw one in?” said Mother.

 I told her that I intended to abide by the original tradition. “In the days of Henry James, travelers used to drink from the fountain to ensure their return to the Eternal City.”

 “Drink? Out of that?”

 “Of course. These waters are pure. They originate at a virgin spring and flow through an ancient aqueduct.”

 “But it’s filled with coins. Nothing’s filthier than money.”

 Mother always knows how to appeal to the germaphobe in me. I took out a nickel and flipped it in.

 “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go back to the apartment. I’m hungry.”

 “Right. I think there’s a Metro station just around this corner…”

 Mother had begun to walk in the opposite direction.

 “Where are you going?” I said.

 “Back to the souvenir stands. I saw a guy selling maps.”

After a few months on hiatus, The Creative Truth is open for submissions once more!

Please remember that we have a new format. From now on, we will be sharing submissions on this website. There won’t be a PDF version of the magazine anymore but when we do have enough submissions to create a print version, the magazine will be available in print.

Please read the submission guidelines before submitting.

Naples, Italy 2004

 The piazza in Centro Storico was quiet as it was still early--Saturday nights in Naples didn’t liven up until after nine thirty. The dim lights from the old-fashioned streetlamps made the square feel enchanting, and illuminated in the centre was the obelisk of San Domenico, a golden shard rising up into the night sky. Behind that, was the church of San Domenico Maggiore, which with its stone facade and gothic turrets, seemed more like a castle than a place of worship. Gabriel and I stood on the other side of the square outside the Gran Caffè Neapolis. Two weathered columns guarded the entrance and supported the balcony above. The café was part of the Palazzo di Sangro di Casacalenda, a huge terracotta building, which must have been about two or three hundred years old. On the wall next to the café were the words: Le strade sono di chi ama written in paint, which means: The streets are for those who love them--even the graffiti in Naples had a touch of culture about it.

    Like the highest peak of the tallest mountain.  The air is thin and it’s hard to breathe.  It’s pure, though, and clean.  There are no obstructions to cloud the view for miles and miles…

    Like the wide and vast base of the mountain.  The air is thick and it’s hard to breath.  At the bottom there is nothing but jagged rock straight up.  The peak is a myth and its truth is obscured by clouds.

    Like the poles, the North and the South.

    Like sides of a coin.

    Like me.

    Opposites. Far apart, the widest chasm in between. Never to meet, with nothing in common. Except as part of the whole.

Hi all,

As you may know we have been closed to submissions for a few weeks. While we are still closed for new submissions, I would like to share with you some creative non-fiction pieces we have received recently, and do so in our new format.

Hi all! This is to let you know that we are currently closed to submissions for the magazine until further notice. I will still be working through the submissions that have already been emailed to me, but I'm not sure when the next issue will be released. Apologies for the delay in getting back to some of you, and thank you for your patience.

Sam

Hi all,

This is a short note to let you know that due to editor illness, I will be changing the publication schedule for The Creative Truth.

Instead of publishing quarterly, as of now, we will be working on an as-and-when basis. This means I’m not sure when the next issue will be released, as it all depends on my capacity to work. We might continue to publish on a quarterly basis, or it might be more sporadic than that.

Hopefully this is just a temporary measure, but as I’m sure you understand, life does unfortunately get in the way sometimes and priorities need to be changed around a little. I’ll keep you all updated as and when things change. Thanks for your patience!

There are so many memoirs out there, and many, many books about how to write memoir and biography. I dived into a few particularly while I was working on my MA, so I’m offering these as a starting point for you and they are all books I found particularly interesting. Here are three books that you might useful and inspiring as you get ready to tell you own story:

1. “The Art of Memoir” by Mary Karr

Mary Karr is very much an authority on writing memoir, and “The Art of Memoir” is a great place to start. Much more than a how-to book, it covers everything from choosing which details to write about, to whether it is an obligation of the writer to tell the whole truth. And Karr does all of this while recognising the ethical difficulties of writing about people we know (in a way that they may not like), and the slipperiness of memory. This book probably goes a far way towards answering a lot of your questions if you’re just starting out.

2. “Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir” by Natalie Goldberg 

Looking for inspiration? Wondering where to start with telling your story? Start here. This book is packed with questions, instructions and ideas to get you thinking about all the little details in your life so that you can start writing about them. Pick a page, pick up a pen, and then pick your brain – you’ll probably be surprised at the things you have noticed and never written about, or never even given a second thought – and these may be details that turn out to be significant or that give you the angle you’ve been looking for. Details bring your story to life. This book helps you to dig them out from the recesses of your brain.

3. “The Self on the Page: Theory and Practice of Creative Writing in Personal Development” by Celia Hunt

Perhaps a little more on the academic side, this book is a collection of essays about how writing can be used as a tool for self-development and self-expression. If you value writing as a therapeutic process as I do, you’ll probably find this a good read. Expect some theory, some examples of writing workshops taking place with groups of people such as students and the elderly, and some ideas for writing exercises. I found it very interesting because I do like to dig around in my own brain and analyse why I do or say the things that I do, and I value writing for its part in that analysis.

I heard Eminem’s song Love The Way You Lie on the radio earlier and thought his opening line really sums up writing memoir/autobiography for me:

Biography, autobiography and memoir are huge these days, with celebrities and non-celebrities alike getting in on the action. And that includes the younger generation – whether they’ve written a book themselves or had a ghost writer or biographer do it, young celebrities are not strangers to the influx of nonfiction. But books released by young bands, singers, actors and so on, sometimes generate a sneer and a comment like “They’re so young, they haven’t lived yet! What has a twenty year old singer experienced that they can write a whole book about?” And I’d completely disagree.

The third issue is now available! You can buy a print copy or download a free PDF! There’s also 25% off the print version until 2nd February with code KICKOFF25. Hooray!

Issue one of The Creative Truth is out now! You can download a free PDF version, or support the journal by buying an even cooler print version! The print version is only £3.99 and you can get 25% off by using code AUG2016 at the checkout until 24th August! Thank you so much for your support - I’m really happy with how the first issue has turned out, and honoured that so many writers chose to share their stories with us.

Print copy