Post 20: Not yet about Not Writing by Danielle Dutton

There’s a short essay by Danielle Dutton called Not Writing. I first located and read it in n+1, and later in Danielle’s book, Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other. (The book is divided into these four, noun-titled parts, and the essay, excitingly, appears in the "Other" section). Somehow, I’m inclined to not only keep reading, but to keep rereading (I don't know if there's necessarily a distinction here, but "keep rereading" is nice in its being an excessive way to express enthusiasm) this short essay, both because it interests me greatly and because I never seem to entirely grasp it. For a while, I’ve been sitting in the awe that reading it brings me--the feeling of receiving a powerful takeaway without being very clear on what the takeaway actually is. More recently, this has developed into an urge to write something down. I like the essay so much that I almost want to just describe it, or simply restate it (not something I typically feel a tendency toward or an ability to do). But in this case, restating seems like it could be a method of following along with the writing--understanding its ways by staying very close to its language paths. Though maybe this post is just going to be about feeling this desire to write about the essay, without actually doing so. Maybe a next post will finally and actually be about the essay (usually, “about” scares me away). (Maybe the next post will only be about how “about” scares me away.)

It feels strange to introduce the essay by name, and then mention nothing of what it says, only talk around it, only talk about talking about it. But now that I’ve started this way (talking outside of it) it seems like I’d need a door to move inside it, and I'm not sure what that door would be. (What in writing can act like a door?)

I may be saying what I say next because I now know of some of the author’s compulsions--“What I want is a story that’s an object that can turn itself inside out”1--but the way I feel about her writing does sound similar to the way I feel about an object, especially when it comes to its absence. Writing can be better translated into something mental or invisible than an object can be; writing, to me, is typically more present in its absence than an object is in its absence. But I think Not Writing functions like an object in this precise way. If I'm not reading it, it's like a missing physicality. Very gone. Irretrievable when it's not right there. In dreaming of writing “about it,” I felt like I needed to be in it, with it, seeing it in order to be able to feel it, understand it, conceive of it (write it). (It's hard to write about the essay because the essay in itself is so tightly wound up with what it is about? The writing itself is its own "about"?)

  

Is something with this kind of absence conversely paired with a deep, strong, or loud “about” in its presence? Is the strong “about” what makes something feel less write-able, but also what gives it with the greatest appeal to attempt applying writing to?

Notes:

¹Danielle Dutton, Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other (Coffee House Press), 124.

Bibliography: 

Dutton, Danielle. Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other. Coffee House Press, 2024.