From one of the great travelogues, “Innocents Abroad,” by Mark Twain:
One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in the way of length, straightness, and slimness, used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say:
“Oh, I’m coming along bully!” (he was a little given to slang, in his happier moods,) “I wrote ten pages in my journal last night–and you know I wrote nine the night before, and twelve the night before that. Why it’s only fun!”
“What do you find to put in it, Jack?”
“Oh everything. Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino-games I beat, and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon, Sundays; (because that’ll tell at home, you know,) and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don’t ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always–wonder what is the reason of that?–and how many lies Moult has told–Oh, everything! I’ve got everything down. My father told be to keep that journal. Father wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done.”
“No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars–when you get it done.”
“Do you?–no, but do you think it will, though?”
“Yes, it will be worth more than a thousand dollars–when you get it done. May be, more.”
“Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain’t no slouch of a journal.”
But it shortly became a most lamentable “slouch of a journal.” One night in Paris, after a hard day’s toil in sight-seeing, I said:
“Now I’ll go an stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow.”
His countenance lost its fire. He said:
“Well, no, you needn’t mind. I think I won’t run that journal any more. It is awful tedious. Do you know–I reckon I’m as much as four thousand pages behind hand. I haven’t got any France in it at all. First I thought I’d leave France out and start fresh. But that wouldn’t do, would it? The governor would say, ‘Hello here–didn’t you see any thing in France?’ That cat wouldn’t fight, you know. First I thought I’d copy France out of the guide-book, but there’s more than three hundred pages of it. Oh I don’t think a journal’s any use–do you? They’re only a bother, ain’t they?”
“Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn’t of much use, but a journal properly kept, is worth a thousand dollars–when you’ve got it done.”
“A thousand!–well I should think so. I wouldn’t finish it for a million.”
His experience was only the experience of the majority of that industrious night-school in the cabin. If you wish to inflict a heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to keep a journal for a year.
(Twain, Mark (1869) The innocents abroad. Connecticut:American Publishing Company. pp. 40-42. Retrieved from Google Books.) See? UNC’s honor code has gotten to me.