As a grade school student, I always anticipated in-class free writing, the task of frantically writing about any topic we chose in an allotted square of time. This was not because I was necessarily a good pupil, or even because I was a natural writer, but rather, because it provided a perfect distraction from the rather mundane existence of a white, suburban grade school student with muddy blond hair and a penchant for mispronouncing “basement,” and “hospital.”

Free writing, for some odd, incomprehensible reason, always presented the one opportunity to step beyond the grade school universe of crayons, cubbies, and kick ball and express how I really felt on the essential matters of human existence.

Once, I wrote about my undying devotion to Hostess cupcakes and belittled the faithless curmudgeon lunch ladies for their fascist command over the cafeteria. How dare they tell me that I must finish my peanut butter and jelly sandwich AND my Ziploc bag of Jays potato chips before devouring my savory, scrumptious dessert.

Then, for the coup de grace of the free-write, I drew attention to the demented pinkie finger of The Lunch Lady, a grotesque result of the pitiless paper slicer that resided in the teacher’s lounge. The pinkie was pink and half its original shape, with the tiny, near-imperceptible bone of the finger jutting out from the stubby tip, pointing at me, mocking me, sending waves of osteoblasts through the air, swimming in me, jeopardizing my dessert. The pinkie, ultimately, reminded us in disturbing fashion of one key fact: never, under any circumstances, use a paper slicer; use scissors instead.

Another time, I wrote of the pleasure I derived from picking my nose and casually yet strategically placing the runny, crusty, solid snot on the desk of the little blond bitch who sat next to me. A femme fatale of icy blue eyes, cleanly pressed shirts with pink flowers, and tiny little freckles scattered near her beak of a nose, I knew she wanted me. Her stares. Her caustic comments of my alleged stupidity at being unable to recognize the difference between a dime and nickel. Her common resorts to physical violence on the playground (normally kicks on the shin; she was a soccer player) in response to my labeling her “stupid” and “ugly.” Clearly, she had the hots for me—or so thought my young, confusedly debonair, and horny mind, one nurtured on visions of All My Children, Cary Grant, and fictitious romantic comedies—yet, she left it at that. All I got were rare moments of adversarial tête-à-tête and intellectual sparing on the merits of a rapidly appreciating currency. And, of course, the kicking.

So I responded in the only way I knew how. I utilized my vice, my one bad habit as a grade school student, and I struck back against the little blond bitch, spreading an organic graffiti of viscous colloid and antiseptic enzymes on her perfect, pretty desk. It was triumphant.

My forays into free writing continued in this cocky, ceaselessly assured manner throughout grade school. I’d quote movies and pass the phrases off as my own, write rambling essays of various pretentions and egomaniacal observations, and, during these misguided escapades, maintain my polite, shy public persona with all the teachers who read these intellectual derailments. I had all the confidence in the world, pen in hand and blank page before me, yet my public foundation crumbled in actually living what I boldly preached. It amounted to intellectual cowardice, and it kick started a long and painful battle between acceptance and intelligence (but that’s for another essay).

In seventh grade, though, I encountered a strange twinge in the cerebellum, a combination of shock and pleasure I would do anything to recapture: unanticipated praise. It was the first day of school, and the herd instinct of the middle school student body was in full swing. We were to despise school, resist its insurmountable pull on our psyches, and do so with big smiles on our faces.

For me, though, this instinct turned out to be too powerful: I forgot the necessary supplies for my science class. Even worse, they were dividers. The shiny ones, with the translucent, tropical, Jimmy Buffett colors. Abusing myself for my stupidity, aghast at the 10 points I had now lost for not having the dividers, and convinced of the fact that such a catastrophic error would inevitably cost me an A in the class, my malicious facade of pubescent idiocy turned into a slight grin when I discovered our task for English class—free writing. How perfect. I’d pour myself into the free-write, produce a dazzling exposé of adolescent frustration while praising the power of music (The one thing that kept me from drowning myself in the thick, smelly well-water of the middle school that day was the popular Bobby McFerrin tune “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” the universal pick-me-up of our time).

The free write, in a latent fashion, accomplished its task. While I walked out of the classroom, slightly proud of my ability to admit my error of remembrance, lash my shortcomings, and offer a sweet, quaint solution to such a freezing instant of self-examination, I had little confidence in what I wrote; furthermore, little did I know I was effectively writing the first, true personal essay of my life, a frank, intimate self-reflection for a professional audience while discovering a new, adaptive, elastic quality to my character.

The teacher loved it. “You should be a writer,” she told me with a sly smile when she handed the free-write back. Until the utterance of those five simple words I had never even considered writing to be a feasible profession.

But when I look back to that moment today, as a student journalist, there’s a certain agony to the remembrance. It seemed so effortless, the act of writing that essay and receiving professional praise; it seemed so riveting an experience, putting pen to paper and just letting the words fly, with little concern for their sound, structure, and connotation; but finally, it seemed so fun, letting moments of transcendent euphoria pore from the creative orifice like water from a green water hose. When I think back, I had forgotten how fun it was to simply write.

When working as a hard-news journalist, an occupation that basically turns you into a grand regurgitation of facts, the zeal of writing quickly fades. Clarity, precision, and, well, blandness are the name of the news writing game. For example, Commissioner Wang did not “exclaim;” he “said.” The facts—just the facts, ma’am—are key, and style and presentation be damned. Now, in no way am I disparaging the importance of hard news. Watergate, Iran-Contra, and fabrications in the run-up to the Occupation of Iraq were all revealed via hard news; however, one can objectively glance at the rhetorical techniques of hard news with all the ecstasy of an IRS agent.

But how to rekindle the adolescent love for language remains the capital question. Even the structure of that sentence, though, is trivial. Since when does a love for language label someone as childish? Language, in all its complexities and verbosities, begs to be utilized beyond common syntax.

Discombobulated, obsequious, ostentatious, interminable, fusillade, pusillanimous, gargantuan, incontrovertible, antidisestablishmentarianism. What wonderful, elaborate, unorthodox words! Consider, just picking one, discombobulated. A tour de force of speech patterns. A delicate tap on the palette, a rough rupture of the tongue dorsum, a pop of the lips, a pucker of the mouth, and a final button on the word with two more dances of the tongue. Dis-com-bob-u-la-ted; a sensory orgasm.

There are 171,476 words in the English language in current use. To let these words languish is not only a shame, but also a crime. So, USE these bountiful, wonderful words. Comment on your bewilderment of the weather. Your acquiesce of the Geithner banking proposal. Your jubilation at the prospects of the Chicago Cubs in the World Series. Your vexation and chagrin at ketchup on hot dogs. Say it loudly, and proudly: YOU YOKELISH!