If ever there is an area in my life that needs deeper scrutiny, it is my pen fetish. I am an addict for the smooth, thick lined strokes of a good pen. I’m no ten-for-a-dollar clear cased freak, no sir. I need a pen with gravitas, with character, with passion.
And when I am without a good pen, I am a different man. You can be sure to see me rewriting the words that I have already written, in the hopes to make them darker and more punctuated. I’ll grumble so that you can tell that I have not settled for an inferior utensil. I will throw the substandard device back into a bowl of misfit pens and eraserless pencils, where they are doomed to a fate no worse than their office peers, the used staple, and the dried up white-out bottle.
A good pen in my hand feels like a sword of King Arthur’s standard. Ideas are created, and problems are struck down with a careful-yet-bold wielding of this weapon of choice. Saving damsels; check. Securing the castle: check. Dragon thwarted: double check.
Lately though, I’ve hit a dry spell on good pens. Not just a dry spell though, more like a full on midseason slump, the kind a batter gets that keeps him up at night wondering not if but when he will get sent back down to triple-A ball. Some have poor ink wells, while others don’t fit in my hand. Clickers have broken, and leaks have been too numerous to count. I’m beginning to worry that God is driving me away from the physical act of writing for a reason.
Pencils? Did you just say pencils?!?! How. Dare. You.
A Consummate Confessional 