ABSTRACT

Sometimes writing hurts. Sometimes it’s delightful. Sometimes it’s—so many other things. By following games, chance meetings, failures, and mischievous friendships, this article offers the metaphor of “composting” to rot writing rules into fertile soil for other kinds of performance. Grounded in writing studies, art education, and queer methodologies, it asks, “Why am I writing what I’m writing? What else might I write? And what happens when writing itself is a smeared banana peel left over from last week?”