Writing Theorists Writing: Life Studies

      I

      We encounter the Writer in her study. She is at her Underwood typewriter, bending forward, ready to pounce, much like a leopard about to fall on a fawn, or like the favored Polish pianist, claws poised above the keys, ready to leap into an etude. The study itself is stacked floor to ceiling with typescript, so closely packed that only a narrow path from door to typing table is clear. The air is, of course, somewhat fetid; the miasma of aging paper and decades of dust are colorlessly palpable in the close atmosphere.

      Following our most recent insight regarding our subject (which is, of course, writing), we ask not “What are you writing?” but “What are you doing?”

      The Writer is startled, so preoccupied was she with her pre-pouncing, and she drums her fingers on the typing table, annoyed at both the interruption and the obtuse question.

      “I’m making meaning!” she says testily. “What do you think I’m doing?”

      The interruption has, of course, temporarily short- circuited the process of meaning-making, and the Writer uses the lacuna to expatiate on her enterprise: “I’ve been making meaning for years—even you can see that, can’t you? In fact, I’ve made so much meaning that I’m going to have to enlarge my study to hold the meaning that I intend to make in the future. Let me ask you this, pal, ‘How much meaning have you made lately?’“

      Not receiving an immediate reply, the Writer suspends herself again over her Underwood, claws poised, ready to make more meaning.

      Realizing that our presence impedes the meaning-making, we retire from the Writer’s study, the smell of dust with us even as we step into the fresh air.

      II

      We encounter the writer in his study. A Camel dangles from his lips, the smoke curling upward, bringing tears to his eyes. He writes with a fat fountain pen, and his mode of inscribing somehow reminds us of a has-been pug, sparring around the gym, punching at shadows, remembering, perhaps, the big fight that should have, but didn’t, happen.

      Following our most recent insight regarding our subject (which is, of course, writing), we ask not “What are you writing?” but “What are you doing?”

      The Writer looks at us, and we notice for the first time that he appears somehow to be embalmed. With a whine that is nonetheless a challenge, velvet sandpaper, he says, “What else? What’s writing for? I’m creating myself. I’ve heard all this theory shit, and I’m gonna tell you right now, get off it!”

      Timidly we interject, “But we think. . . . .”

      “Come on, whatya mean by that horseshirt ‘think’? If ya can’t express yourself so people can understand ya, then ya oughta shut up. Listen, I’ve been through hell and back, and what I’m doing is creating the Multiple Me, and anyone who doesn’t want to do what I’m doing is a wimp, a wimp, man, see?”Intimidated, we retire from the gymnasium odor of the Writer’s study.

      III

      We encounter the writer in his study. His head is all inclined to the Right, or the Left; one of his Eyes turned inward, and the other directly up to the Zenith. His outward Garments are adorned with the Figures of Suns, Moons, and Stars, interwoven with those of Fiddles, Flutes, Harps, Trumpets, Harpsichords, and many more Instruments of Musick, unknown to us in Europe.

      Our writer is sputtering away with a goose quill, ink flying and blotching over vellum. His hands are black with ink, and the end of his nose is India-ink-ebony.

      Following our most recent insight regarding our subject (which is, of course, writing), we ask not “What are you writing?” but “What are you doing?”

      He looks up at us (we think, though we can’t be sure) and says mildly, in a Christ-like