When I was about fourteen or fifteen, I was forced to write an essay for my English class, an essay that ended up causing me more work than I could have predicted. Today, it remains one of my favorite pieces of writing, though it’s probably not the most artful, or even interesting, collection of pages that I’ve ever thrown together. What lingers in my mind is the rather juvenile purity of my effort, the way I wrote those pages simply to amuse myself, simply to see how far I could push a deception.
English was my favorite class, though I never wanted to do the work—which makes my exertion for this paper, the writing, the rewriting, so unusual. Something about words, language, the creation of sentences, books, had me intrigued, even fascinated, yet it was mostly curiosity and it didn’t trigger any effort. I felt tempted, but apathetic. A desire to learn, but without any drive. I sat, thankfully, alongside the window, and spent most days looking outside as the clouds mingled and hugged and somehow danced in the sky.
Standing at the front, the teacher would gesticulate wildly, emphasizing his points with outstretched arms. This spirit looked calculated, designed to appeal to teenagers, but the consequence, at least for me, was that it felt condescending. Struggling against the poundage of my eyelids, I would look at the black-haired girl in front of me, or flip ahead in our book and read chapters that we weren’t even discussing.
How peculiar it is to enjoy reading at night—but to avoid reading what you’re assigned. And how peculiar it is to like writing, to fiddle with words while alone, to fill notebooks with phrases and quotes and vocabulary, but to skip school papers. English was the one subject that I didn’t mind, although I found it, simultaneously, stupefyingly difficult to sit through class.
When I think back today I realize with some surprise that I did absorb a few lessons from that class. My memories of the discussions are stronger than from my other classes—about the Shakespeare plays, in particular, but also about writing—and that’s true even though I remember occasionally drifting to sleep. At the time, I probably would have described those classes as boring, monotonous, unnecessary, I would have said that I wanted more entertainment, more stimulation. But I think that’s a misapprehension of the sensations that I felt because the classes that I do remember weren’t exactly entertaining. It wasn’t amusement that kindled my interest in Shakespeare when we discussed his most chaotic, prickly characters. Nor was there a sudden appearance of pleasure in our writing lessons, as they, if anything, revealed the difficulty of tossing words onto a page. But they also unveiled hidden meanings in the language that I found stimulating and that still linger in my mind. Included within the lessons about Shakespeare and in our writing discussions were moments of illumination—moments when I struggled to grasp ideas that felt both compelling and difficult.
And I think that’s also why the idiotic, pointless, and utterly juvenile game that I played with this one essay remains so memorable. I gave myself a constraint—which made, alas, the essay significantly more difficult and required a hilarious commitment of time—and that gave me a challenge, however nonsensical the reason. And this constraint, artificial, voluntary, foolish, added some spirit to my lines. I felt invigorated and scribbled words late into the night. Yet I never told anybody about my little game after I received a grade. Even after the teacher missed what I hid in the paragraphs, I still didn’t show my friends. It was simply a gimmick, a ruse, a game for my own amusement, which I’ve always kept a secret.
I don’t remember the exact assignment beyond knowing that the objective was a four-page argumentative paper about a sport. We were supposed to present a thesis, offer evidence for our thesis, offer contrasting evidence against our thesis—which is a step, incidentally, that I’ve found completely unnecessary for arguments in the adult world—and then conclude with some milquetoast synthesis. In my mind this was a format akin to torture, with the tedium of writing these sentences similar to trying to squeeze ink from a dry pen onto the page. I didn’t want to work, I didn’t care what I produced, even while I, at the same time, liked to write.
The thorny part of beginning this essay late on a Thursday night right before the Friday deadline was the requirement for sources. I needed books from the library, actual authoritative sources to prove my point, which was a little difficult because I didn’t have a point and a lot difficult because the library wasn’t open in the middle of the night. Now I could use online sources, though this was during an earlier, wilder period of the internet, long before using printed sources would be deemed an eccentricity or, much worse, suspect. Besides, I believed that online sources were too easy to check. Because the library would presumably be closed once again while my paper was graded, it seemed reasonable to conclude that I would have a bit more latitude to be, well, creative with the titles of books that didn’t exist.
What eventually prompted me to sit up a little straighter, abruptly keen to the assignment, was the idea of a game, a game that seemed to encapsulate the daydreams of a fourteen-year-old boy rather well: how many covert references to James Bond could I insert into my essay without being discovered? There were characters, film titles, plot lines, motifs. Could I shove them all into the paper? What I found particularly humorous was my slight fear of accidentally citing a real person or book, so I needed to concoct truly outlandish references that my teacher couldn’t find.
Swimming, of course, was the sport that I chose to write about, and I quickly decided that my first source would be the book The Pool is Not Enough, a title published in the distant past but apparently still authoritative. If you think about the importance of dryland training for swimmers, it’s just about believable. I have no clue what my essay claimed about swimming, what exactly was my point, although I’m certain that my point was buttressed by another book, You Only Swim Twice, without being immediately sure who wrote those two books. I didn’t dare use the actor names from the James Bond films, as that seemed too obvious and likely to be noticed. This felt like a very delicate game: if my teacher had the slightest suspicion, every line would look ridiculous. Nevertheless, I could combine the names, letting Sean Moore write one book and Roger Connery write the other. At fourteen, late on a Thursday, this was hilarious. The furthest I pushed it was The Man with the Golden Suit, because that seemed at least possible, albeit rather strange, though I didn’t have enough bravery to squeeze in License to Swim. Somewhere in my mind there was a rather loose, hazy line that I didn’t want to cross, and that looked like a title for someone who wanted to get caught.
Perhaps there’s irony in how much I labored over these sentences, wanting to get the tone just right, wanting to both conceal the references and have the essay flow along the page. Strangely, I strove to write an artful essay, one that presented clear points and clear examples. I labored over diction, voice, grammar, structure, writing and rewriting each sentence. Obviously it’s terrifically convenient to invent the evidence that supports your ideas, but that’s not quite what I mean: I focused on the words, on the sentences, on how the essay sounded, in a manner that contrasted with my typical, more lackadaisical, approach to schoolwork.
One paradoxical aspect of nearly all deceptions is that they typically demand more effort than sincerity. That’s certainly true with schoolwork, for it would have been quicker for me to just do the assignment. And I believe the principle is the same for larger crimes: it’s almost always easier to sell more products than to cover up your financials after you fiddle with your bank statement. Although if you look closely at some of the most famous cons, you start to suspect that part of the appeal is the con—the desire isn’t the payoff, it isn’t the money, it’s the con itself, the shiver that comes during the swindle. The person at the center isn’t trying to get caught, nor are they trying to get away: the goal is the con.
And the James Bond constraint was, for me, a tease, it was an illusion that I could manipulate with my words. All of a sudden I wanted to test whether I could accomplish this goal with clever and precise language. Part of the appeal was, yes, the ridiculousness of the conceit—just the humor. But I believe that I was even more drawn to the subterfuge, to using language for a deception, to the notion that I could be meticulous with my words and disguise such an obvious ruse. The James Bond references were stunningly clear on the page, and if you spotted a single one the rest would be impossible to miss. Yet I simply couldn’t resist the idea that I was shaping an optical illusion, where someone could read the lines without seeing what was visible.
Somewhere along the way, I had discovered the power of language, how words, phrases, the way in which I speak, alters the shape of the world around me, how it influences, beguiles, enthralls, how a precise sequence of words can end up vibrating with such intensity that it triggers intrigue or laughter or desire—and of course I yearned to possess this power. And it was that underlying curiosity about language that provoked my interest during English class. I didn’t always do the work. I certainly didn’t participate. But I had an unstated, unexplainable, unconscious desire to soak up secrets about language.
Even when I plodded along with writing assignments that seemed pointless, I still took, in some ways, care with my words; I felt a knotty, enigmatic yearning to get them right, not for any grandiose reason, certainly not for a grade, but because I enjoyed the brilliance of an exquisite sentence. There was musicality, a sweetness, whenever I crafted a sentence with precision. This desire felt atypical, though, as most people in the world appeared perfectly content without such an obsession. For most people, it seemed, words were artifice, as scaffolding for conveying messages. Implicitly there was a belief that there’s a correct answer when you use language—almost like a mathematical formula—without any thought toward playfulness, nor any curiosity about artful, delightful language, the way in which an eloquent story captivates a listener, or the way in which a pleasing sentence appears to dance in the air. Why did people ignore this sorcery? The way language charms? How words kindle sensations?
I don’t think I did very well on the paper, which is humorous in some ways, as when you make up sources you really should solidify your point. But the test in my mind was whether I could accomplish the task of filling a paper with James Bond references without being caught. From a distance the desire to keep this test private appears to be a puzzle. Ultimately, language is about connecting, it is social, relational, and precision with words is really just another way of saying accuracy in connecting. Yet, for me, this was a solitary, whimsical test that didn’t require an audience.
This might in fact be related to the importance I place on the words that I use, whether delivered to an audience or intended as a private reflection. It seems to me that my language constructs my character, that the words that I select to express my world often end up shaping that world. And if the language that I possess affects my perceptions, then it seems vital to be meticulous, thoughtful, to want vibrancy and artistry and brilliance, whether I’m whispering into someone’s ear or trying to amuse myself late at night long after everyone else has gone to sleep.
Too bad you don’t still have the paper, it sounds quite entertaining and creative. I wonder how many kids today are exploring their creative expression with words, absent the help of AI?