Five-paragraph essay

2005 REWIND - THE YEAR IN DRINKING

AUGUST

I'm a contestant in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch's search for a new 20 Buck Bernie columnist. The lucky winner will be dispatched to area bars, pubs and other drinking venues to sniff out bargains on intoxicating liquor and report his or her findings back to the community on a weekly basis. I've already made it to the final ten and had my picture in the paper - a headshot of my outstretched tongue beneath a giant beer tapper - and now I'm campaigning for enough votes to finish in the Top 4.

I'm taking a break at Krieger's, a local sports bar, with eight or so friends. If I get the gig, nights like this - spent sitting on my ass, drinking one 23-ounce draft Budweiser after another - will be considered scholarly research. Indeed, the topic of writing dominates the conversation for most of the night.

My friend Emma wants to know if writing ability can be taught. I tell her the basic tools of grammar, vocabulary and organizing thoughts into a presentable format can certainly be taught, but that the raw talent and voice of a writer is a genetic, individual gift that is either received or not received. Emma tells me the only writing format with which she is comfortable is the five-paragraph essay.

EMMA: So here's how I do it, if you tell me to write five paragraphs about why I like my bedroom.
- - First paragraph: "I like my bedroom because I have a nice bed in it, because I have a big fish tank in it, and because I have a TV in it."
- - New paragraph: "I like my bed because it has a fluffy pillow and Winnie the Pooh sleeps with me."
- - New paragraph: "I like my fish tank because it has three fish and a little castle for them to hide in."
- - New paragraph: "I like my TV because it has a lot of channels and it keeps me entertained."
- - Last paragraph: "That's why I like my bedroom."

I ask Emma what kind of grades she used to get in English class. She says, "Oh, I flunked kindergarten, and for the next thirteen years, it was all downhill." The topics of conversation shift to how truth is usually disguised as fiction, while fiction is disguised as truth. To how a writer's personal philosophy creeps into every aspect of his work. To how the collective of contemporary words is undeniably shaped by centuries of literary antecedents. Emma interjects: "I just coughed and I peed a little. It made my underwear wet. I can feel it."

I end up not getting the 20 Buck Bernie gig. A shame, too, because after the five-paragraph essay thing, I pledge to Emma that I'll write a column about her backyard and call it "Emma's Bar."