gumbercules81

In many of my English classes at Roanoke we used to do assignments called small writings. The professor would ask us to write a page, only a page, on whatever we wanted, whatever was on our minds at the time, and then make enough copies for the rest of the class to read. Undoubtedly this would lead to, in a class of twenty or so students, four or five really good ones and about sixteen pieces of pure drivel, and it's sad to admit but it was the same four or five people who would write the good ones. I always ate these assignments up. I loved the freedom of the moment. If I wanted to be poetic, I could be poetic. If I wanted to be expository, I could fill it with as many facts as I wanted. They generally only took about thirty minutes for me to complete, and when I was finished with the printed copy in my hands I would hold it and think about the page I had just created. I never particularly cared whether or not people liked them. I just enjoyed writing them. Like Lester Bangs says in Almost Famous, "Just to fucking write." Although my writing never involved dosages of speed. I decided recently that I'm going to start writing a small writing every day, just to fucking write. I'm already strategically placing buckets around the apartment to catch the drivel. I might reproduce some of it in this journal. Be prepared for whiny sentimentality and over the top, flamboyant prose.