Because I have done little writing by hand since high school, sometimes I forget that pencils exist. Occasionally I scribble reminders on sticky notes or make a list for the store. I even write the odd check for the trash guy who is too set in his ways to update his payment methods (he doesn’t even accept CCs!) But I always reach for a pen.
Look in your junk drawer. Look in the cup of pens on the desk. I bet you have a zillion pens lying around. How many actually still work?
Do you have pencils?
Until a few days ago, I couldn’t find a single writing pencil in the house! I say “writing pencil” because I need to differentiate them from the charcoal pencils and colored pencils in my art box. I couldn’t find a #2 pencil–the kind used by schoolkids to fill in the Scantron answer sheets–under beds, in the pen cups, in junk drawers, or forgotten on a bookshelf. Weird, right? Who doesn’t have a pencil lying about?
So I bought some. I have the plain USA Gold pencils (the yellow, plain janes). I bought silly little girly ones that are varying shades of pastel with butterflies on them. I even bought a few mechanical ones!
Now, the smell of newly sharpened pencil–well, there are few better scents in the world… The familiar scratch of pencil lead over paper, the grey lines and squiggles. It helps me forget about everything but the sheer pleasure of writing.
So I write. In longhand. In a notebook. Away from that glowing box on the desk.
And I like it!
The morning is almost finished, but here is how mine began: