output, gossip, the greenblott and other disreputable fun

i'm reading something for my dissertation right now that discusses the different discourses of production that surround capital-L "Literature" and the less-revered realm of popular literature (think: john grisham). "Literature", this scholar argues, still privileges discourses of creativity, spontaneity and originality (even if a few theory folk have gone out of their way to declare the author dead!). popular literature, on the other hand, values industry, production, output and the meeting of deadlines. the irony, for me personally, is overwhelming. i work in a field concerned with the study of "Literature", and yet my position is defined by the discourse of production that is antithetical in many ways to what it is i've chosen to devote my life to writing about. all of those books that one is bound to receive from one's supervisor, given in an attempt to spur befuddled grad students on to new heights of production (my supervisor's most recent gift was william zinsser's on writing well), are books that discuss the practice of writing as a craft, not an art -- something that you devote endless hours of hard work to, not something that springs forth from your forehead naturally in moments of "powerful feeling". i don't know why this irony is so frustrating for me ... i can't quite make out why it angers me so.


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today i was in a coffee bar, downing yet another chai latte, when i was distracted by the conversation of a man and a woman seated at a table beside me. the woman's voice sounded familiar and i couldn't place it. i'd heard it somewhere before. after a few moments of concentration during which i tried my darndest not to look like i was eavesdropping, i was finally able to place it. it was the voice of one of the news anchors on our local TV station. she was sitting there, dishing the dirt with her co-anchor about the poor sod who reports on local sports for the station. it was a surreal experience to hear the voice i've so come to associate with mundane local news using rather colourful language to describe the man who gets way too excited about local hockey games. yes, i thought to myself ... all workplaces have their politics.

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the beginning of this week was marked by a transformative experience. i had the opportunity to attend a seminar headlined by the daddy of new historicism himself, stephen jay greenblatt. move over walter benjamin, i've got a new academic crush.as i sat there, listening to the g-man wax poetic about the experience of literature he wants students to derive from reading the norton anthology of english literature, for which he serves as the general editor, he began talking about "resonance and wonder", and i must admit it moved me almost to tears. existing as i do in a culture of critique that can too often devolve into a culture of complaint, to hear a scholar of his stature speak of what i love so dearly with such genuine, sincere affection was life-altering. i was buoyant for days afterward and am eagerly looking forward to discussing greenblatt's raison d'être with my students next week. blogland props to G (yet again) for her brilliant eventing -- and also for the "greenblott", a stunning foray into the world of academic event fashion.

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i've really got to watch what i say. over the past two weeks, i've given people the mistaken impression that not only am i gambling away my graduate funding at the race track, but i am also nurturing a rather destructive drug habit. i recently needed to have the world of horse racing demystified for me due to material i'm working on for my current dissertation chapter (there's a sherlock holmes story that takes place at a race track, and i'm out of the loop when it comes to making sense of odds -- on, off or even -- the role of bookies, etc.). eager to understand, i raced around to see a couple of colleagues -- both of whom i was sure were privy to the workings of the horse world -- and didn't take the moment necessary to phrase my inquiry in academic terms. rather than preface my statement with something along the lines of "i'm working on this chapter about X and i need to know Y", i simply blurted out "i need to know everything about betting at the track". after a few stern and concerned glances, i was able to clarify, but those 10-15 seconds of disreputable-ness were quite jarring.

the same thing happened when i answered an inquiry by a colleague regarding what i had been up to lately. having just returned from the boathouse, where i'd spent a gruelling hour on the erg, slogging through a workout designed to bump up my lactate threshold, i responded with a sigh and a confession: i'd been mainlining. rowers refer to this hour-long workout as both "the hour of power" and "mainlining". having courted an image of squeaky clean athleticism in the years that i've been in this department, you can only imagine the look on my colleague's face during those few seconds when he mistakenly thought i was tying off and shooting up in the confines of my fifth-floor office.

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yesterday, i spent an hour exploring the world of sherlock holmes parody and made the startling discovery that none other than john lennon (yes, that john lennon) wrote a short pastiche, titled "the singularge experience of miss anne duffield", that chronicles the investigation of one "shamrock womlbs" and his sidekick dr. whopper. below is my favourite passage, and if you find yourself clutching your tummy and laughing so hard you're crying, you might want to read the whole thing here.

'The thing the: puddles me Womlbs,' I said when we were alone, 'is what happened to Oxo Whitney,' Womlbs logged at me intently, I could see that great mind was thinking as his tufed eyepencil knit toboggen, his strong jew jutted out, his nosepack flared, and the limes on his fourheads wrinkled.