Academic vs. Intellectual
In an attempt to stimulate conversation, my teacher (poet Leonard Schwartz) asked our class what we think the difference is between an academic and an intellectual. We debated this for a while, mostly agreeing that an academic is an expert within the "system." Their learning and thinking are institutionalized, part of a bigger whole. Intellectuals also are great scholars, but apply their knowledge to our current world in innovative ways. By this definition, Susan Sontag is an intellectual, as well is Arundhati Roy and Howard Zinn. Some may argue that Zinn is an academic because of all the time he has spent researching and interpreting history, but I still chuck him in the intellectual pile because he presents these learnings for a purpose, he is trying to impact our current world. I can’t think of any academics. This is either because my theory is faulty or because academics generally hole up and don’t interact with the outside world as much.
My teacher then asked us which we aim for in our writings. We all agreed that an intellectual is a much slicker thing to be. We sat around for a while talking about how much cooler intellectuals are than academics.
Yet, the more I think about and define the distinctions, the more I hate this question. I am sick of the dividing and categorizing of writers, of thinkers, of artists. Such as when you go to a big chain bookstore like Barne’s and Noble and fiction and literature are two separate sections. I hate when someone asks if what I have just written is either fiction or non-fiction, and then will argue with me when they see the bits of truth in my fiction, or the untruths in my non-fiction. I hate how I will always be thought of as a
woman writer before I am considered simply a writer. I don’t aim to be an academic; I don’t aim to be an intellectual. I stated this in class. My teacher then asked if the alternative was to be tuned to “media,” to be more concerned with the audience and market of your writings rather than the ideas you are trying to present.
No! Why must it be either/or? Are there only serious writers and fluff writers. Can’t I be a serious writer who also enjoys fluff? If my writings are not entirely intellectual or “high art”, does that mean they are insignificant and “low”?
What do you think, dear bloggers? Do you want to be an academic, an intellectual, or throw the whole thing out the window?
Kiomye's Critique of my recent work
There is something very humbling about watching my daughter take a page off the top of my manuscript, mark it with spiraling red crayon scribbles, then place it gently in the recycling. Repeat. Repeat. 140 times.
At least no one can ever tell me my art never inspired anyone.
From Anticipation...
Here comes a rare opportunity.
The house is calm and quiet. My husband is sedated and satiated by sounds and games and lights that flicker on screens. His body is stiff in the chair and he does not acknowledge me as I peek at him from behind the door. Our beloved babe is sleeping. There are no sounds of rustling or whimpering escaping from her room, only the silent hum of dreaming.
Here is a rare opportunity.
I am unnoticed. I am unneeded.
The skin of my domestic self does not shed so quickly.
Responsibility clamors in my brain. The laundry is poised for washing, the dishes wait expectantly in the sink, and the unmade bed mocks me. I need to sever my household connection; abandon ship, kill the alarm, silence the sirens.
A glass of red wine, a steamy bath behind a closed door, a neglected novel ease me through my transition. The wife in me nervously poses the avoided question of intimacy with spouse. The mother in me remembers the diapers and crib sheet that need to be packaged for tomorrow’s daycare. These anxious women whisper and whine until they realize that I am slipping away from them. My thoughts are turning to ink and poetry. The sensible women no longer command the helm of my consciousness.
Finish the wine, flick the drain, dress in silk. Tiptoe past my husband, down the stairs to dark abandoned rooms. The kitchen light is harsh and painfully bright. Yet, it will have to do as
my office is occupied, busy hosting bloody war games and jam sessions for pirated music.
Here is my journal. Here is my pen.
Here is myself. Here is my soul.
I was told today that I use too many adjectives and adverbs. I ponder this as I drum the cold metal tip of my pen against my soft pale pouting lip, then bow my head and start to scratch thick flowing ink across the white naked pages. Screw you. What is life without adjectives? Life. Forget Life. I want a wonderful life, and a fantastic life, a laughing, lovely, lilting life.
“Beware of sentimentality,” I am told. What? Beware of myself? My sentimental being? Do my emotions make you uncomfortable? Does my vulnerable honesty blunt the sharp edge of my intelligence? I refuse to mask my sentiment, to hide my soul behind arguments of pure logic. Where is the bravery in that?
I believe in meaning. I believe in the mystery and greatness that surpasses the obvious, the factual, the visible. Can the spiritual exist without the sentimental? Intellect is fabulous - I love it. But it is merely a piece of the whole, a piece whose value I often question.
Once, when I was feeling insecure, I took that
test. The numbers reported back to me to say that I am of great intellect. That is very amusing. I, who openly bash the high honors our society awards logic, am apparently graced with an inordinately large share of it. HA! I wonder if this faculty could have been better put to use by another heart.
The logic in me, and the woman in me, they do not always get along. I would bury myself in passions and sensations and love, if only my cool, breezy intellect did not demand something more solid.
“More solid than
love? Isn’t
love the only real thing?” sentiment asks, aghast, while intellect merely roles her eyes and sighs impatiently.
My thoughts must rest there with the bickering spirits of sentiment and intellect. My husband is no longer distracted. The silk caught his attention. I have ceased to be unnoticed. I have ceased to be unneeded. I have ceased.
Here is the cover for Anticipation.
My first book, Anticipation, is now available!
My first book has been written, edited, designed and printed. Hallelujah! I have made the book immediately available for purchase online at my CafePress site. I’m still the publisher as I am self-publishing to get it out right away. This July, I have a meeting with an agent and an editor, and we’ll just have to wait to see how that goes. I’d love for a “real” publisher to pick it up, but right now, I’m just happy to have finished it.
Purchase Anticipation Online
Deep Thought
Sitting in Starbucks the other day, I thought:
Shouldn't there be an apostophe in Starbucks - like Starbuck's? The name is based on Captin Ahab's first mate in the 1851 novel
Moby Dick by Herman Melville. He's the one who tries to stop Ahab's obsessive hunt for Moby Dick. He dies at the end. So, don't they mean a place of Starbuck's, and not a multitude of starbucks.
I wonder how many other people have wondered this.
Inaugural Post
testing... 1, 2, 3, testing...
I saw my friend Dan's (http://across-the-pacific.blogspot.com/)blog and decided I had to have one. I'm still in my pajamas, my daughter is running around the living room pulling things from shelves and throwing them in a big pile (sacred toddler ritual? to prepare for the burning?), and I need to hit the road to get to a staff meeting on time, but instead I’m doing this. Eh, we all have priorities.
I'll post fun things as soon as I think of them.
