Thursday, March 10, 2011

Not Without My Pen

   Some people assume that because I'm a writer I must be an isolated, moody, temperamental soul only holding onto a thread of sanity for as long as it takes to produce imaginative, insightful, revolutionary prose. I say that's just silly. I'm not like that...everyday. Just kidding. Okay, maybe I am on Tuesdays around 8:15p.m. to 9:20p.m. Then I have some ice cream, and all is good with the world.
   I must admit that I do have some quirks. I prefer to write all of my literary creations in longhand before I give into modern technology and transfer all documents onto my computer.
   My first drafts are special. When I write them, it's just me, my thoughts, paper and pen. It's a powerful time of expression. Therefore, not just any old pen will do.
Patricia G.
   I didn't think I would find it. All I saw in the stationery store were imposters and wannabes, but I simply couldn't yield in defeat. I had to keep searching amongst the selection of Bics, plain ball point PaperMates, unimpressive mechanical pencils and unsophisticated gel inks.
   All I wanted was another five and a half inch, roller ballpoint, fine black ink with a gray comfort grip pen. Was that too much to ask for? A friend was responsible for giving me my first one. The moment my fingers wrapped around its rubber velvety surface, I knew I had found my ultimate writing partner.
   My inanimate buddy lasted for a whole two months before literally cracking under the pressure...the pressure of my foot, that is. It wasn't my fault. Apparently, it had rolled onto the floor without my knowing, and I accidentally, completely unintentionally and truly remorsefully...well...stepped on it. Such a mighty pen should've held up better than it did under the circumstances if you ask me, but it's power was obviously more in its prolific ink than in its exterior. I gathered the remains of my pal in a piece of paper towel. My head had hung low as I reluctantly let it fall into the hollow depths of a garbage can.
   I felt like a bald Samson. What if my writing strength was gone now that I was without my preferred, pen partner? No, I couldn't think that way. I had to find a replacement for my dearly departed, writing mate. I could've picked one of the other types of roller ball pens, but none of them had the magic combination of the smooth comfort grip and slick marker-like flow that had made my former buddy so special. It was a tough search. I never thought it would end.
   Finally, I snapped. I reached out for a pack of retractable pencils. They're always fun, but once you get started with enjoying their clicking abilities, it's hard to concentrate on actually writing something. However, pencil lead is temporary. It can be erased. There's no real commitment. No worries for unnecessary attachment. These pencils and I would not have a lasting relationship.
   I began a slow, defeated walk down the store aisle. Then something caught my eye. A small pile of pens were scattered on a shelf on the opposite side of the aisle with a bunch of notebooks. Some customers probably decided not to buy them and just left them on the wrong side. My heart jumped. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Could my type of pen be amongst the tiny pile? Could I be lucky just once?
   I waltzed right over to the shelf and rooted through the scattered pens. I examined them closely. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then...eureka! It wasn't black like my other pal. It was green, but other than that the style was exactly the same. Special flowing, marker-like ink? Check. Soft, rubber comfort grip? Check. I nearly ran to the check-out line, beaming in delight with anticipation of the pea-colored prose I'd produce when I got home.
   Alas, I was complete. I was like Samson with a green toupee.

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