My roommate grew up in Vietnam which means that he sometimes expresses things in a way that can be a bit unexpected. Recently, for example, he informed me that I am “a little bit mental,” further going on to categorize my individualized level of insanity as being at around 3-1/2 out of 6.
“They” tell me that your writing only gets better the more often that you do it. I am still not quite sure who “they” are; all I know is that they are people—authors, presumably, or people who have had stuff published—who have some authority over writing and know what works. And what doesn’t. I can still remember middle school, in which we were just given the open-ended directive to “Write! Write anything!” And I frittered that time away. Some days I would draw stupid advertisements (e.g., “Chemical Wholesaler & Sons’ Fine Ladies’ Clothing”). Other days I would write notes to people in my “reading journal” that had no relevance to anything school-related whatsoever. Most of the time I would sit by the window on the foam rubber cushions that the teacher had upholstered using tube tops (this is true) and talk to random classmates about the writing project I was supposedly going to start the next day or next week or sometime. (Motivation has never been my strength.)