My husband would say that I have an ‘artistic temperament’ but I fear he is just being polite.
He’ll watch me patiently while I hop from one foot to the other and fling papers and books into the air while muttering vaguely threatening sentences. If pushed to the limit he will even drive me to the nearest newsagent just so that I may stock up on the missing object: my favourite pen.
My favourite pen has been an obsession for more years than I can remember even stretching as far back as school days I think. My favourite pen has no sentimental attachment (in the sense of a bequeath from a dying family member or the like); has no real value over a few dollars; is not especially pretty or artistically carved; and is not worth anyone else pinching it.
My favourite pen is simply a Pilot pen that you can get from (almost) any newsagent. (Though I have found to my disappointment that they are never in supermarkets.) A Pilot BP-S (whatever that means) Fine blue pen. It can’t be one with the clickety clackety push button on the top. Just the regular pen will do. BUT it must also have its top firmly placed on the non-writing end. Once a lid is lost the pen is practically useless as the weight in my hand is just all wrong.
AND… I have to have one of those thin foam rubber pencil grips over the part where my fingers hold it.
I don’t really understand why but when I have one of these pens in my hand the entire world is different. Easier. More inspiring. More beautiful. My words are no longer complete rubbish that no eejit would consider reading but words of potential greatness. My pen rolls across the page effortlessly and my handwriting is completely different. It is suddenly neat and round and (most importantly) legible.
So while I am happily writing my current novel in longhand these pens have risen even higher in the stakes of importance. I can have my desk and my cup of tea and my notebook and my inspiring music; but unless I have the right pen then not a word shall be written as I practically demolish the house looking for it.
The problem of course is that because I love them I carry them around with me wherever I go (like my cups of tea) and then promptly forget where they are. Thus the cycle of madness continues almost daily.
I wonder if anyone at the nice Pilot company would like to be the patron of an emerging Australian author?