A coffeehouse conversation on the true nature of writing and writers

 

By Randy Koch

 

The Academic stroked his chin

and shifted in his chair.

His nose, a daring aquiline,

was sniffing at the air.

 

The Writer asked, “What's that you smell?

The scones or cappuccino?

How 'bout that shake with caramel

topped with a maraschino?”

 

“Oh no,” the Academic said,

“it's food for thought I crave.

No junk food for this intellect;

my mind won't be enslaved.”

 

The Writer shrugged and took a drink;

the foam clung to his lip.

He fancied surf, a soapy sink,

the wake behind a ship.

 

“'Enslaving' is a state of mind,”

the Writer pointed out.

“Especially to be confined

to reasoning. You're so devout,

 

so taken with your skill at thought,

your gift for clear dissection.

You trust in that which you've been taught,

ignoring sweet confection.”

 

“I see the way you parse your words,”

the Academic sniffed.

“I know your type, so undeterred

so certain of your gift.

 

Yes, I depend on order, true,

on intellectual rigor

to analyze this life, but you,

your sly, undisciplined figures

 

of speech provide nothing but

confusion and daydreams.

My mind's a scalpel meant to cut

while all yours does is scheme.”

 

“You simplify too much, I fear.”

The Writer shook his head.

“Dichotomies are all I hear;

alternatives are dead.

 

You split the world 'tween that and this,

your logic Aristotelian.

The things of life you're bound to miss

if you think but never feel them.”

 

“Pure rhetoric, and nothing more,”

the Academic groaned.

“It's truth I seek and facts adore

and sophistry bemoan.”

 

“If reasoning,” the Writer said,

“provides you truths in life,

then I'll allow myself be led

so we can end this strife.”

 

“Agreed,” proclaimed the Academe,

his face alight with joy.

“I have a question often deemed

the bane of old Tolstoy:

 

Is writing really craft or art?”

He leaned across the table

and grinned as if playing the part

of Cain destroying Abel.

 

“If it's art,” the Writer replied,

the sun deep in the west,

“then clearly all that is implied

will serve your interests best:

 

Since art resists analysis

and logical forethought,

the academic prejudice

concludes it can't be taught.

 

One might examine what's been done

by writers through the ages,

and make some dull comparisons --

this method's now contagious.

 

Of course, since art's ‘impractical,'”

the Writer pointed out,

“it's clearly just an obstacle

with no academic clout.”

 

The Academe replied, “Quite right.

But this is only half

the case with which we're faced tonight.

Do you believe it's craft?”

 

The Writer's cup was empty now,

his crumpled napkin soiled.

Faint coffee stains smeared on his brow

where thoughtful fingers toiled.

 

“The implications of that term,”

the Writer then explained,

“suggest to me your main concern

isn't truth, but gain.

 

Since ‘craft' is oft considered ‘trade,'

a skill one does by hand,

and universities were named

our high-brow holy lands,

 

it's not the place of academe

to teach a service course.

In fact, to some it's anatheme,

deserving of divorce

 

from all legitimate pursuits

adored by those like you

who see your sacred institute's

purpose and purlieu

 

confined to Thought and Reason,

the academic's grails.

Teaching ‘craft' is clearly treason

and has to be curtailed.”

 

“Bravo!” the Academic cried.

“You've found your way to Truth!

You take the world and then divide

it neatly into two.

 

But feeling fills your eyes and face;

your napkin's all in shreds.

You must be proud. You've found your way

to logic's fountainhead.”

 

The Writer pulled his hands across

his cheeks and rubbed his eyes.

“I must admit -- I'm at a loss.

How can you stigmatize

 

the thing that gives your thoughts their voice,

that makes abstractions sing,

since even from the simple choice

of words ideas spring?

 

To ask if writing's craft or art,

an outcome or a means,

a lonely action done apart

or socially, it seems

 

that even we have not addressed,

though day has turned to night,

how for the weak and powerless

writing offers might.

 

It's nothing more than making real

what's running through our minds;

it's nothing less than thunderpeals

when thoughts are unconfined.”

 

He took his cup, stood up, and sighed,

“Some day again we'll talk.”

He said goodbye and went outside.

Unsteadily he walked.

 

A woman standing near the door,

a frown across her brow,

watched him as he left the store,

and then she turned around.

 

“What's with him?” the woman asked

a waiter stocking shelves.

“Nothing much,” he said. “No harm

in talking to himself.”

 

(Randy Koch teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Texas A&M International University.)