I recently discovered Bluets, accidentally. It was on the used shelf at the local library. I read a paragraph and was immediately obsessed with Nelson’s writing. I hadn't heard of her until then. I read the book in a day, too quickly. I dug it out of a stack yesterday to read again, slowly this time. Argonauts was a good read as well but nothing compared to Bluets. I have to read anything else if hers.
What a wonderful way to discover a book—randomly, without recommendation or recognition of the author. I think I used to discover more books like that when I was younger. It's been a while. But it's such a delight. Great to hear you're re-reading it. It does demand reading it slowly. And I agree: I liked Argonauts, but I return to Bluets again and again.
" . . . but I wonder if the question we should write toward is what will the memory of the story be? I have typed and printed this out on a small card like a thought bubble, and slid it into the corner of my computer screen as I work my third book. Thanks for this one!
Wonderful observations on writing and reading, thank you Grant.
I looked at the Lydia Davis article on Les Bluets and came away with this: "Even now, just by remaining so mysteriously fixed in my memory, the painting poses a question that, once again, remains even after I have attempted to answer it, and that is, not how does the painting work, but how does the memory of the painting work?"
That's a question I grapple with, let's say "play" with, over and over in my memoir writing about art/people/events/emotions/etc. and my memories of them.
Thanks so much, Marianna. I love that Lydia Davis quote. And her question. I think sometimes we feel like we need to have answers to so much (our brains are wired for resolution, after all), but I like the idea of honoring (and living with) the mystery of it all, or just not feeling like an answer needs to be presented when the question might be more interesting.
I love this post and keep thinking of the idea of a story being the memory of a story. So true. So often, when I reread a story I've thought of a certain way I'm surprised to realize that what I'd retained of it is something quite different from what it IS.
Isn't that an interesting moment, how our memory of a story can be different than the story itself. Just like a memory in life, I suppose. A memory is created. It's the reason I sometimes don't re-read my favorite books of my youth: because I want to preserve my memory of them rather than create a new memory.
The ideas you've presented here are really engaging. The Lydia Davis article was great. It has me thinking about how much to tell, to explain - her whole experience of the painting was altered by learning its subject, which was not apparent from just looking at the painting or reading the title. So isn't that information important to the experience of the painting, since it adds a dimension? I'm working on a piece with a title that has significance to the way I intend for the piece to be read, but it's not obvious, so I thought about a footnote, but then I thought, why do I feel the need to explain everything? Maybe it's better to let it be experienced by the reader without so much guidance - or control.
And then you posit the idea of writing toward the memory of the work which feels exciting and overwhelming in its ambition, but the point is that not everything needs to be solved, so perhaps not so overwhelming?
It's all such a delicate balancing act, a judgement call, of how much to explain, how much to leave out. Your point about Lydia Davis's learning the meaning of the title of the painting is interesting—and then Maggie Nelson's experience as well. I don't know that there's a definite answer. As you said, not everything needs to be solved. Sometimes, creating a sense of wonder is enough.
Yes! I'm doing an ongoing class. There's a monthly fee, but the class doesn't have a start or end date. It's been really wonderful, so I plan to do it for a long time. I hope to see you!
Bluets is a core text in an upcoming nonfiction course I’m taking in the Sewanee MFA program … my anticipation has been further heightened by this essay of yours- thank you 😊
I self published a “memoir in verse” in 2019 and it was heavily inspired by Bluets. I actually just had Maggie sign my copy, worn and folded over, at the LA Times Festival of Books this year and now I just leave it out on the kitchen counter to keep within reach. I love this recognition of memory being our muse. now I’m looking for a print of Les Bluets lol which sadly doesn’t seem to exist. but I write toward it anyway, even without the opportunity to behold it, if only because Maggie saw it and remembered it and held it close as she created something of her own that I’ll never forget. what a beautiful butterfly effect.
It is! It's as if books are about what we need them to be about when we read them as much as they are what they ACTUALLY are. Same here about books I read as a kid. Little Women--in which the message I got reading it a few years ago was BE GOOD, SACRIFICE YOURSELF.
Bluets is an incredible—and form-breaking—memoir, and I can see how it would inspire you. For its poeticism, for its brevity. I can't wait to see the outcome of this inspiration!
After reading your post, I read Lydia Davis’s JOAN MITCHELL: LES BLUETS (THE CORNFLOWERS) and found therein the words I needed for a piece I’ve not completed for years. To clarify, the words were for my soul, the right perfect words I needed to continue with my piece. So thank you for continuing to write in this form. I can’t anticipate where you’re going with your blog. Even though I know writing will be on the road, this doesn’t ruin the journey. I especially appreciate how reading your thoughts takes me on my own tangents.
"I wonder if the question we should write toward is what will the memory of the story be?" I don't know if I can or want to write toward that as an author, or maybe we all do that ... what do you want people to come away with. I know as reader, I often have an impression of a book, how I felt reading it, if not all the details. That said, I know I've read Bluets, but don't have much of an impression of it — maybe the mind space of when I read it.
I so appreciate the insight you added to Lydia's satisfaction in the unexplained and unsolved. You write: To reside in such a feeling is a wonderful place to live as a creator (or as a human). It’s a place of wonder (and wandering), of opening, of curiosity."
I haven't found too many publishers who seem to oblige the creative who therein resides. Nevertheless, I do intend to maintain the rent on that place. Thanks, Grant.
I recently discovered Bluets, accidentally. It was on the used shelf at the local library. I read a paragraph and was immediately obsessed with Nelson’s writing. I hadn't heard of her until then. I read the book in a day, too quickly. I dug it out of a stack yesterday to read again, slowly this time. Argonauts was a good read as well but nothing compared to Bluets. I have to read anything else if hers.
What a wonderful way to discover a book—randomly, without recommendation or recognition of the author. I think I used to discover more books like that when I was younger. It's been a while. But it's such a delight. Great to hear you're re-reading it. It does demand reading it slowly. And I agree: I liked Argonauts, but I return to Bluets again and again.
And I only paid fifty cents for the book. Ha!
Now that's good value ...
" . . . but I wonder if the question we should write toward is what will the memory of the story be? I have typed and printed this out on a small card like a thought bubble, and slid it into the corner of my computer screen as I work my third book. Thanks for this one!
Oh, great! Let me know how it works for you.
Wonderful observations on writing and reading, thank you Grant.
I looked at the Lydia Davis article on Les Bluets and came away with this: "Even now, just by remaining so mysteriously fixed in my memory, the painting poses a question that, once again, remains even after I have attempted to answer it, and that is, not how does the painting work, but how does the memory of the painting work?"
That's a question I grapple with, let's say "play" with, over and over in my memoir writing about art/people/events/emotions/etc. and my memories of them.
Thanks so much, Marianna. I love that Lydia Davis quote. And her question. I think sometimes we feel like we need to have answers to so much (our brains are wired for resolution, after all), but I like the idea of honoring (and living with) the mystery of it all, or just not feeling like an answer needs to be presented when the question might be more interesting.
I love this post and keep thinking of the idea of a story being the memory of a story. So true. So often, when I reread a story I've thought of a certain way I'm surprised to realize that what I'd retained of it is something quite different from what it IS.
Isn't that an interesting moment, how our memory of a story can be different than the story itself. Just like a memory in life, I suppose. A memory is created. It's the reason I sometimes don't re-read my favorite books of my youth: because I want to preserve my memory of them rather than create a new memory.
The ideas you've presented here are really engaging. The Lydia Davis article was great. It has me thinking about how much to tell, to explain - her whole experience of the painting was altered by learning its subject, which was not apparent from just looking at the painting or reading the title. So isn't that information important to the experience of the painting, since it adds a dimension? I'm working on a piece with a title that has significance to the way I intend for the piece to be read, but it's not obvious, so I thought about a footnote, but then I thought, why do I feel the need to explain everything? Maybe it's better to let it be experienced by the reader without so much guidance - or control.
And then you posit the idea of writing toward the memory of the work which feels exciting and overwhelming in its ambition, but the point is that not everything needs to be solved, so perhaps not so overwhelming?
It's all such a delicate balancing act, a judgement call, of how much to explain, how much to leave out. Your point about Lydia Davis's learning the meaning of the title of the painting is interesting—and then Maggie Nelson's experience as well. I don't know that there's a definite answer. As you said, not everything needs to be solved. Sometimes, creating a sense of wonder is enough.
Are u also doing a monthly/weekly writing practice? Whats the link for that again & how long will h be doing it?
Yes! I'm doing an ongoing class. There's a monthly fee, but the class doesn't have a start or end date. It's been really wonderful, so I plan to do it for a long time. I hope to see you!
Oops, I forgot to give you the link: https://www.leftmarginlit.org/accountability-write-ins-faulkner
I love the exquisite tender details in this post. I haven't read Bluets yet. Now it is on my list. Thank you.
Thanks, Prajna. Bluets inspires "exquisite tender details," so I recommend it.
Me too. Me either. Mine too. Thank you, Prajna.
I adore Bluets too. I’m going to have to read it again now.
Bluets is a core text in an upcoming nonfiction course I’m taking in the Sewanee MFA program … my anticipation has been further heightened by this essay of yours- thank you 😊
Oh, that's great! Let me know what you think ...
I self published a “memoir in verse” in 2019 and it was heavily inspired by Bluets. I actually just had Maggie sign my copy, worn and folded over, at the LA Times Festival of Books this year and now I just leave it out on the kitchen counter to keep within reach. I love this recognition of memory being our muse. now I’m looking for a print of Les Bluets lol which sadly doesn’t seem to exist. but I write toward it anyway, even without the opportunity to behold it, if only because Maggie saw it and remembered it and held it close as she created something of her own that I’ll never forget. what a beautiful butterfly effect.
What a wonderful story, Meg, and that's great you wrote a "memoir in verse." If you find a print of Les Bluets, let me know.
I, too, always find Bluets inspiring. Thank you for bringing it to mind.
It is! It's as if books are about what we need them to be about when we read them as much as they are what they ACTUALLY are. Same here about books I read as a kid. Little Women--in which the message I got reading it a few years ago was BE GOOD, SACRIFICE YOURSELF.
Bluets is an incredible—and form-breaking—memoir, and I can see how it would inspire you. For its poeticism, for its brevity. I can't wait to see the outcome of this inspiration!
After reading your post, I read Lydia Davis’s JOAN MITCHELL: LES BLUETS (THE CORNFLOWERS) and found therein the words I needed for a piece I’ve not completed for years. To clarify, the words were for my soul, the right perfect words I needed to continue with my piece. So thank you for continuing to write in this form. I can’t anticipate where you’re going with your blog. Even though I know writing will be on the road, this doesn’t ruin the journey. I especially appreciate how reading your thoughts takes me on my own tangents.
"I wonder if the question we should write toward is what will the memory of the story be?" I don't know if I can or want to write toward that as an author, or maybe we all do that ... what do you want people to come away with. I know as reader, I often have an impression of a book, how I felt reading it, if not all the details. That said, I know I've read Bluets, but don't have much of an impression of it — maybe the mind space of when I read it.
I so appreciate the insight you added to Lydia's satisfaction in the unexplained and unsolved. You write: To reside in such a feeling is a wonderful place to live as a creator (or as a human). It’s a place of wonder (and wandering), of opening, of curiosity."
I haven't found too many publishers who seem to oblige the creative who therein resides. Nevertheless, I do intend to maintain the rent on that place. Thanks, Grant.