Henry Fitzroy and I are friends

I suppose I ought to write some kind of Ars Poetica here (side note: am I the only one who thinks the phrase "Ars Poetica" sounds sophomorically amusing?). Or rather, "Ars Non-Fictiona," or something.

At any rate, when it comes to writing, it seems like creative non-fiction is the bastard child that no one pays any attention to. Like Henry VIII's son. Fiction and poetry are Mary and Elizabeth, just stewing in fame, controversy and importance - everyone knows them - but poor creative non-fiction is Henry Fitzroy, shoved off on some earldom or other and currently kicking about in the bowels of Wikipedia and obscure textbooks.

I get the whole fiction thing. Just make up stories! Easy, right? No. Not easy. I blame the characters; making them is like cutting out those identical paper people that hold hands in a chain. One snip the wrong way and they're all lopsided or unattached or just plain unhumanoid. Writing fiction is work. All of a sudden you're no longer an intelligent and capable young adult churning out this generation's literary masterpiece; you're a preschooler who knows just what he's trying to cut out but can't quite handle the scissors yet.

I get the whole poetry thing, too. Condensed language and all that. Images made of words, like stop-motion film in technicolor. Unfortunately, technicolor doesn't come cheap. Retouching the details and capturing each instant in time is swatting flies, not pinning down butterflies.

But creative non-fiction, that red-headed bastard child of language, slips onto paper without effort and without thought. It's not work. It just happens. You put your hands on the keyboard in front of a blank Word document and creative non-fiction is what appears. Is that normal? Is it allowed to be real writing when it isn't work?