it wouldn't be quite accurate to describe her writing as raw- the wounds are there but there's a distance, a layer of skin to cover it up, the thinnest and most translucent protection there is- or rather, not protecting- existing. the water of her novel is pain and not-pain, emotion and not-emotion- it was like standing underwater, forgetting the presence of the water save for a slight coolness when still, but the moment a hand is moved a slight yet alien pressure reminds you that this is not your world. is this writing? having a feeling and struggling for the words to describe it, instead of attempting to craft a feeling with words pre-loaded with emotion? reading 'bluets' was like slipping into the swimming pool, being engulfed in nelson's pain and not-pain, feeling it on the nape of your neck, the backs of your knees, pressing on your eyelids- reading 'bluets' was like quietly sliding into the water, the words- not welcoming you but not pushing you away- an indifference rather than an apathy, allowing you to quietly join nelson without intruding, letting her narrative drift to the bottom of the pool. reading 'bluets' was like breaking into a swimming pool at midnight, very aware that this is someone else's water you're submerged in. one on its own is a tree, a star, but together they all make up a vast landscape that encompasses every possible facet of the human experience. none of these are connected but of course they're all related, much like the propositions in the book. This morning i saw a beautiful sunrise like lava bursting through rock and my friend sent me a picture of some blood at a crime scene on a london pavement she nearly stepped in and i read 'bluets'.

Bluets goodreads