A Pen Pal
I do not have a dedicated writing pen. That’s not to say that I don’t have pens in my house - I do. They’re scattered around my office, in my husband’s office, sometimes making their way to the kitchen (for grocery lists and recipes, mostly.) But these pens are scraps, leftovers. The most reliable one I have at the moment came from a hotel chain. The one I used most before that was probably from the dollar store - I don’t remember buying it. These are cheap, plastic, ball-point pens, usually with blue or black ink, ink that tends to be sticky and skiddering rather than smooth. I had quite a nice one a while ago, in a dark floral print with a cap and everything, but even that was only a ball-point pen, and it had no way to refill the ink reservoir, so when its little interior plastic tube of ink ran dry, the pen became obsolete. The result is a pencil cup full of dried up, unusued, cheap plastic pens, all dead, and a handful of actually useable writing implements, nearly all of which will have their day in the sun as I write birthday cards and scribble notes to myself, and then will go the way of their older brethren: back in the pencil cup, untouched, until I grow frustrated with the clutter and throw them all out in one furious go.
But, oh, to have a dedicated pen, one that feels good in the hand and writes beautifully, with smooth ink, never sticking. And refillable, ready at a moment’s notice. I appreciate that most folks reach for their keyboards and phones to send messages, but I admit that I cling to paper and pens, charming little hand-drawn, hand-written cards, pleasant mail that makes a nice change from bills and junk. I am in the process now of organising the Christmas cards I send out every year, which simultaneously makes me feel about a million years old, and fills me with joy. Do the people at the post office give me strange looks at my handfuls of red and green envelopes, addressed in my tidiest cursive, or frown a little when I ask for more than one book of stamps? Yes, they do. I do not care. There is something connective, relational, real, about a handwritten note in the mail. I used to handwrite all sorts of things - notes, grocery lists, and rough drafts for schoolwork - but that has drastically dwindled, really down to the last little vestiges of paper mail I insist on sending, especially for the holidays. And wouldn’t it be so thrilling, so certain, wouldn’t it fill a person up with a kind of delightful sureness to reach for the same lovely, well-used pen for every Christmas card, every message of birthday wishes, every letter, every signature? I think it would.
Instead, I am left, as ever, with two much less appealing options: my tip-tip-tapping keyboard and computer, or a handful of nearly-dead plastic pens in ugly colours with broken or missing caps. It is a depressing thought - and yet, the Christmas cards must go out! It’s early, dear reader, I know, for holiday wishes, so instead I’ll send you hope for a comfortable pen grip, the smoothest ink, a smudge-less page, and the perfect pen to write with. Happy scribbling.
Jennifer