The Meticulous Art of Glubbing
Wednesday, May 12, 2010 at 01:41PM I've started to mistranslate my own language.
When we read things, we often come to the table with our own notes, our own set of sources and references, glossing the text with what we already know about the author, the subject, the language. Sometimes we see things that aren't even there in the first place, but instead strongarmed into the meaning of the text through our own ridiculous ultra-modern lens. Today, I'm reading the letters of Dawn Powell on my lunch break, and this is how it appears in my mind (DP's original text in italics):
Now I'm in a gaga* state of British** and Boston*** refinement so don't let me hear you use any foul language or I'll be all a-twitter.****
* Lady.
** What was Nick Clegg thinking?
*** Must call aunt to plan visit north.
**** @DawnPowell: if only you knew what this would come to mean.
She goes on to talk about a dream she had about "a donkey who played the piano marvelously" and I can't even begin to tell you how my mind interprets that sentence. Explaining the particular way in which that piano, to my mind, is slightly out of tune and the reasons why that donkey has a slightly wonky ear would require layers of text I'm incapable of producing in a time as short as a lunch break.
A little further down in the same letter—written from Bermuda in the spring of 1930 to her confidant Coburn Gilman—she comes to the following conclusion about writing:
Life is so confusing. I've really decided down here that I cannot bear the terrible business of writing things that mean so much to me any more, that the only solution to anything is to write things that take up only your time and an ounce of brain—say short stories*—so that it means very little if they fall short...
* Or blog posts.
Or blog posts, Dawn. Or tumbling. Or a-twittering. They sometimes fall short too. (Ahem.)
Sometimes I wonder if we do this here thing because the risk is so low. Submitting a piece of writing for the scrutiny of others is fine when you yourself control the means of publication, and you don't have anyone else saying yes, or, worse: no. The low-risk investment of the internet. Pouring only tiny bits of our hearts out at a time. But still, in the end, realizing how much of it has actually been poured.
Gosh and golly, guys. Leave it to me to get sucked in by an awful rainy day, a troubled writer, and start spouting nonsense on the internet about the endless drama and complexity that makes up this need to write. And why we do it. And who we do it for. How much can one gal write about writing? Blog about blogging. Glub about glubbing. That sounds more like what I'm doing these days: glubbing. Glossing my own blog posts with meaning beyond meaning beyond meaning, totally missing the point I was trying to make in the first place.
I, Glubber, originally started writing this post to point out how interesting it was to me that I couldn't read that first sentence without thinking of Lady Gaga and Twitter.
What insanely winding garden path led us here?
Is this clear—oh, Cliff? I don't think so.
Do you want me to bring you an octopus, darling? There are several on hand.
Do bring me an octopus, Dawn. It would make for something more interesting to write about.
Stupid rain.
(A special thanks to commenter "latenac" for bringing Dawn Powell to my attention, Elizabeth Gumport for making her more intriguing, and Louis Bromfield for coming into the picture somehow. I'm on a devouring spree!)
© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.
writing
Reader Comments (7)
Hello - Just wanted to drop a note and say I hopped over here from JessicaxMaria and I thoroughly enjoy your writing :)
I'm so glad you're enjoying her. I'm a sucker for good packaging so I originally started reading her when her books were reissued and then I got hooked. As a midwesterner who had moved to NYC a lot of work resonates with me and my experiences in NYC.
latenac: I've been dipping in and out of the letters and diaries before I dive into the novels. I can't decide which I should read first. Any advice? I've read the first few pages of several of them, and I'm leaning towards Turn, Magic Wheel, but I'm up for being persuaded in a different direction if I'm on the wrong path.
And, Sarah, I'm so glad you stopped by! You're more than welcome to come again.
I've loved all I've read. There was something about The Golden Spur that reminded me of Mad Men. Maybe it's b/c I was reading the book around the same time as the first season was on. I also liked Angels on Toast and The Locusts Have No King and, and well, too hard to recommend just one. I do find her writing stays with me and tends to permeate into other things I read or see.
Hi, I've been enjoying your blog off and on for at least a year now. Love the honesty of your writing and appreciate knowing there are people out there like you! Just wanted to let you know. I think I've looked for you on FB, but didn't find you there. I've got you on Twitter. Sometimes all of this Internet communicating can feel quite lacking in fulfillment. Lately I'm choosing to take more of a break from it, to focus on books and creativity.
Take care,
Jennie
You have no idea how many times I had to read this to actually 'get' it. Eventually it was giving me the shits so badly I left the comfort of Google Reader and read it from the blogsite. At which point in made complete sense. Sure my mind is cluttered and pre-occupied at the moment but I found that reality interesting in and of itself.
As you were.
It's total and complete nonsense, isn't it? I think the octopus threw everyone off. Maybe that was the point? Or maybe my blog should come with a warning: CAUTION: READ ONLY NEAR TOILET. Though, really, what blog ISN'T best read on the toilet?