ScatteredGenius.com

This essay-thing was Originally posted here. I’m going to repost it so it’s saved at the bloggyblog. I’ve changed a bit recently in how I deal with stuff, I’m not as pen-dependent but I still get the shakes when I lose a new and perfectly good pen. I’m also still taking a close look at organization and such in my life, so seeing this helps me reflect and learn.

Ahem!

I have a confession to make. I have an obsession. I have been dealing with it ever since I can remember. It’s something I deal with in my everyday life. I want to share it and air it out, in hopes that I can better understand it, and you can better understand me.

I keep a piece of paper on me, 99.8% of my waking life. The paper is folded in fours, so it’s to fit nicely in my left front pocket.

This paper can be any kind. I’ve recently made it a practice to print out a week from my calendar, so I can check up on things I have to do, as well. I also enjoy using graphing paper, because the lines make indenting and spacing easier.

This paper usually gets cluttered with random scribbles and notes that I jot down. Friends of mine have been witness to the tattered scraps of wood pulp that I frequently have out to scribble on. We have collectively dubbed them “Insane Papers.” Usually I ‘clean it up’ once a week, by sorting everything out. It’s done by organizing the scribbles; ideas get put in the appropriate idea collectors, songs get acquired, movie quotes get memorized, URLs get checked out, people get called, deodorant, soap, or garbage bags get purchased. This, however, is not about my Insane Paper. This is about something far more important. Something much more monumentally substantial.

I keep my pen, usually, in my right front pocket.

Many a thought has been rescued because of this pen-and-paper regimen. At a moments notice, I can quick-draw my pen and/or paper to record even the most mundane of thoughts. Anyone kissed by the Muse will tell you that creation and inspiration do not strike at convenient times. In the middle of the night. While Eating. On the highway. In an elevator. On the toilet. While kissing. This system I use seems to be the best-fit. It can’t anticipate and satiate the Muse’s lust for inspiration at horrible times, but it seems to work.

I have searched for a better method.

Hand held computers: At the time, they took too long to boot. The one I had, you could write on the screen with a stylus, or type using a very abbreviated and handicapped keyboard. However, it took about thirty-five to forty-five seconds to turn on, and by then my thoughts were onto other things. Usually about how frustrating it was that the thing took so long to boot up. Many a thought was lost.

Palm Pilot: A for Effort, F for execution. I had a program that allowed you to ‘draw’ on the screen. Being able to scribble notes on an endless digital pad seemed like a dream come true. The boot time was impressive, and within reason. However, my hand writing is truly appalling, and at the end of the day, I could not even decrypt my own hieroglyphics. Many a thought was lost.

Blackberry: Interesting situation. Instant boot time, easy to take notes. However typing with your thumbs isn’t always as intuitive as I’d like, not to mention it was incredibly difficult to do so in the dark. The Muse does not wait for proper lighting. Many a thought was lost.

Voice recorders: A genius idea, a horrible practice. As often as I have random thoughts, I would spend a good amount of time during the day talking to myself. And needless to say, the small code phrases and mnemonic devices I make up as to remember my thoughts definitely come across as space cadet material. To have to utter them audibly would most definitely be either embarrassing, or incriminating. All of this combined with the clunky aspect of having to transcribe the audio afterwards makes this method not very user-friendlyzug. Many a thought was lost.

The pen and paper is still the single best technology for recording information. It is as seamless a transition as you can get, from intangible thought to tangible reality. It’s the most fundamental form, a breathing of life from a thought to a slathering of ink into form. Everything else, even typing, is contrived. Typing is faster, of course, but I also make good use of space, and arrange things visually. With a keyboard, I’m confined to what logical rules the computer requires, mainly one letter at a time, in a standard left-to-right pattern.

My cycle starts simple. I realize I’ve been without a pen. I admit to myself that for a while, now, I’ve either been sans pen, or probably using a stock black or blue PaperMate medium point. You know the kind.

Sterile,

Anonymous,

Bought in bulk at work.

No personality.

They are lost or broken a thousand times over before they ever run out of ink.
Don’t get me wrong, these are all traits that are sometimes desirable. Consistency and reliability are important. But I get fed up of the repetitive, impersonal strokes and lines these pens create.

So it’s time to search for a new pen.

The drugstore down the street has been my matchmaker for many a pen. Usually, in addition to whatever I’m getting there, (most of the time as a result of cleaning up an Insane Paper, or just needing more Corona,) my pen courtship procedure begins.

I liken the event partially to going to a pet store to pick a pet. You are in search of companionship, something you can take care of, but will also compliment your life for the effort you give.

The feeling can also be similar to going to an infant ward to see your new born baby for the first time. This new thing is what you are going to be spending a lot of time with. You don’t know where it will take you, with what you are going to adventure with.

You can also liken the event, I would imagine, to the feeling of purchasing a new car. You’re making an investment. Not just financially, but on the grounds of reliability, or entertainment. You’re going to be spending a lot of time with it. It has to be something you’ll not only be ABLE to use, but WANT to use.
Likenesses aside, it’s important to remember that these pen manufactures try their hardest to replicate their products writing experience with consistency. As with any mass-produced product, you should be able to expect this uniformity within the product. It’s safe. It’s understood that the pen will perform as expected.

Now, a good pen can be chosen for many reasons.

What brand is it?

What color is it?

What’s the tip size?

What’s the tip shape?

What’s the amount of ink within the pen’s reservoir?

What kind of ink, (gel, liquid, something fancy) ?

How small or large is the tip?

How much does it cost?

The former experiences with all of the above can affect the selection as well.

Once the pen is selected, a relationship is built from that point on. A personality develops.

Mistakes are made.

Air bubbles.

Splatters.

Do you need to rev it up to speed before it writes consistently?

How hard do you have to press?

At what angle do you have to write?

What does the smell of the ink on a word-covered paper remind you of?

How fast does the ink dry?

What is the shade of blue?

How dark is the black?

Does it smudge?

Do your fingers get ink on them?

How long, do you think, this pen will last?

What have you written with the pen?

How personal were the words?

What drawings or scribbles have you birthed with the pen?

If I opt to try a new brand, all of this is a virgin voyage. A fresh, new relationship is built.

After all this, it’s easy to liken the pen to a creation tool. It could be considered, if you look into it, awarding a mild god complex. You are creating and destroying with this object. It’s Zeus’s lightning bolt. A magic wand. A weapon. Mightier then a sword. In it’s lifetime it will see hours of toil, grief, elation, struggle, confusion, wonder, and curiosity.
Of all the objects in the world with a consistent association with passion or creation, why not the pen?

Think of all the pens that have ever written. And what did they write?

First things that come to mind:

The Declaration of Independence.

The Constitution.

The Bible.

The Koran.

The Book of Hammurabbi.

Endless love notes.

Even more endless Dear John letters.

Poison Pen letters

Letters of apology.

Poems.

I won’t even get into drawings.

I by no means consider myself a writer. I think I’m even less of an artist. I do, however, pride myself in being an exceptional communicator. And I do attribute a good amount of this to my friend, the pen.

I have never owned an exceptionally expensive pen. I know people that scoff at these pricy writing utensils, thinking it bizarre or ridiculous as to why you would spend sometimes hundreds of dollars on ‘just’ a pen. I, myself, as odd as it may seem after all of this, don’t think I would enjoy using or owning a pricy pen. Apart from usually being exceptionally heavy, I just feel that they are too counter-productive. You don’t use those pens, they just seem to exist to sign checks or open letters. They are fat cats that lie around all day, occasionally being pet.

I have lost pens. It’s amusing how annoyed I get. I feel like my relationship has come to an abrupt and unjust end. The pen did not deserve to be lost. I get frustrated with myself for losing it. A wonderful life, cut short.

A long, healthy life is lived with your pen. But like with all things, it must end, eventually. Some pens give you foresight, in having a window to spy upon the ink level. It starts with the occasional sputter. Others are surprises. Some die, easily and gradually over time, fading to a grey. Some give you no foresight at all, and abruptly end, of course, never at a good time. All leaving ghostly indentations where words should be.

I cannot, however, describe the satisfaction I get out of seeing a pen to the end. It’s this feeling of completion. You saw something to the finish line, to the end, to the conclusion. The only better way to describe it is like finishing a good book. You are sad to have to walk away from the relationship you developed with the characters in the book, but are happy and satisfied to have added another story to your mental stomach.

For a while I used to keep my empty pen skeletons, in a row, taped to my wall. Mostly during college when I was doing an exceptional amount of note-taking and writing. It was a visual acknowledgement of an amount of work I did. How productive the work, however, was debatable.

Time passes, and the intimate dance begins again. Another pen is chosen, another relationship and friendship garnered and developed. I don’t see it ever stopping. Each pen tossed in the garbage, each trip to the store, like any cycle, shall repeat. As technologically savvy as I am, I do not ever foresee a deviation to another form of recordation. Hopefully, after all this, you won’t judge me. I won’t be stoned for my freakish behavior, or burned alive at the stake. I just think that we should never, ever forget the powerful tool that is the pen.