Navel gazing narratives

Fiction is my thing probably because I don’t ‘do‘ realism. I’ve read a few biographies over the years, mainly about writers, artists or actors and their journey to stardom, oblivion, wealth, addiction, obsession, madness and so on and often a nasty combination of all of the above. I have noticed that books labouring over one’s stream of consciousness or thoughts on subjects are a growing genre of writing.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson

Our tutor introduced us to Maggie Nelson’s Argonauts. I’ll admit I’m new to these personal outpourings as opposed to ‘how I made it’ journeys or life stories. Maggie talks about her relationship with the transgender artist Harry Dodge and his three-year-old son who lives with them part-time. Then about Maggie’s IVF, Harry’s top surgery and rounds of testosterone injections and Iggy, their own baby and their campaign to find their place in a binary world, with small wins. I find this ‘private made public’ uncomfortable, self-obsessive, navel-gazing. I’m trying hard to silence that inner critic and just accept the work for what it is – neither fiction nor narrative.

I try harder and make myself read three more. The end of the marriage, self-sufficiency, infertility, motherhood, illness, guilt/self-loathing [a recurring theme], grief and redemption. Again, these books sort of annoy me and I hear myself shouting ‘get over yourself’ well not to Ruth Fitzmaurice because her story is more tangible. I didn’t enjoy it initially. I picked it up every night in bed and feel dissatisfied with the lack of plot or story arc, I wanted it to be a novel but it’s not. So I moved it to the sitting room and picked it up and read the snippets over a number of months and then I loved it, accepting it for what it was. Levy’s and Pine’s books didn’t move me as much, ‘been there, have the t-shirt‘ but now months later, I find they’ve stayed me.