Dear_____,
I take out a Pilot G2 pen and a piece of cardstock, and I start writing.
I look at something, hear something, or think about something, and I either think, what if, as in, what if this pen were filled with stories, and that these pens gather in coffee shops to share them with each other?
Or look for a particular meaning in that particular thing, such as what it means at this moment to sit and write a letter to a friend at this particular point in history. I spend more time doing the “what is the meaning of this item or moment” writing than I used to.
I still do plenty of “what if” writing. It has always had a kid-like energy, and I'm glad that my mind still works this way. I like imagining these pens in coffee shops, so eager to speak, so eager to share what's going on in their minds.
This makes me think about what each of these pens would sound like and how they'd take their coffee. Those classic Bic crystal pens, for example, would drink basic coffee from a Bunn industrial coffee maker. My Pilot G2 would prefer a better grind of coffee, but wouldn't want it prepared in any sort of way that's fancy. Just a good decent cup of coffee brewed well.
The pens would talk and talk. They'd argue over how to record the things they've seen and whether it's better to tell the story in the first person or the third person. The papers, meanwhile, would just sit and listen. They'd go from pen to pen, picking up one idea after another, and then perhaps sharing those ideas with other pens.
The papers would be really good at collecting and organizing everyone else's thoughts. Something that one pen said years before would suddenly come to life when a notepad shared those thoughts with a newer, younger audience.
So that's one way to think about a pen. Then there’s that other way, the one that's come more and more to the forefront as I've gotten older and learned to look and listen instead of just talk. It's the part of me that just looks at this one small thing, this one small action, such as using up a pen's ink chamber.
I always feel this quiet triumph when I use up all the ink in an ink chamber. I think: every word that came out of that cartridge was a word I wrote. I feel as if it’s evidence of a hard work, like when a long distance runner wears out a pair of shoes.
So yeah, that's my life. Go through pen cartridges. Read. Watch stuff. Play my uke. Be a good husband, in-law, nephew, cousin, friend, and neighbor. Repeat.
Be well, pal.