Even at a blurry distance, the personality of each pen is not mute.
Some scream, like the Flaming Canary Yellow Catholic Center one.
Some murmur, like the average-Joe Black Penmate one.
Some giggle, like the Sparkly Robin's Egg Blue one.
Some hiss, like the gleaming Silver one.
And some, like the melodramatic long-handled Calligraphy pen, stage operatic concertos.
I have only a professional relationship with my pen collection. I have found them and gathered them. Somethimes, I've even bought them.
But I do not love them. They are tools, and they understand this as much as I do.
However, writing with each one, I can't shake the fact that each one brings with it an internal difference to the way and subject I write. Some days, you can bet I'm relying on the even-keeled BIC to pull me through the lecture. With a sign in front of my desk written in Highlighter, I was forced to know that on Sept. 13 I had to get my act together and RSVP for the Ira Glass lecture before it was too late.
I use them distinctly, too. One is so heavy that I never ever use it. One is so effeminate that I fear mockery. One is so politically charged that I only use it in privacy (the Planned Parenthood one I got from who-knows-where).
Iv'e gained many of them, and lost even more. I do not use all of them. But I respect of them.
Them's my pens.
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