The Pen that Pierced My Heart

Yesterday, my day started out fabulous.

Until it wasn’t.

A medical appointment that was booked months ago, and confirmed two business days in advance, was supposed to happen.

But it didn’t.

 

For whatever reason, the administrative staff at said medical facility had called all other persons to reschedule due to the doctor being on vacation. Except me. The little box with my name in it on their schedule calendar was covered by another little box saying the doctor was taking vacation. They didn’t see it, so I didn’t get a call.

 

An inconvenience to be sure. But I was about to let it ruin my day. Instead, I decided that some retail therapy was in order.

Mindful of my ability to spend large quantities of money that I would soon regret, I opted for the dollar store (where everything isn’t a dollar anymore).

 

As soon as I walked in, I was greeted with the newest displays of back-to-school items. All the pens, pencils, notebooks, journals, and office items that makes my heart go pitty-pat.

 

I found gel pens that wrote with coloured ink. I found black ink pens, with cushions for comfort when writing, in all the soft colours I adore. There were felt-tipped markers in bold colours that I like using when I need to edit documents. Erasable pens too, which are great for writing in my journal and notebooks (because sometimes my brain is faster than my hand and I tend to make mistakes). Using pen and paper when writing does something for me. I must purposefully slow down my thoughts to make the words on paper somewhat coherent.

 

The composition books further down the aisle were displayed in an array of colours and patterns that made it difficult to choose. I found journals with contemporary quotes of encouragement, praise, and wisdom. There were notebooks of differing shapes and sizes, both coil-bound and stitched. There is something to be said about a blank journal or notebook, eagerly waiting for a story or memory to be painted upon the lines and pages in ink.

 

I am a sucker for a beautiful blank notebook or journal. Especially if the page edges have been gilded or deckled. Instantly, my mind wanders to the story that I could put in between its lines, maybe a romantic tale or something dark and full of doom and gloom. I have imagined myself an author, a write, spending countless days in a sun-filled room, at a desk, tales pouring from my imagination through my fingertips. Tasteful sketches of flowers, leaves, and insects adorn the corners of pages throughout marking the moments where I mindlessly doodled while I let my mind work through the next section of the story. A steaming mug of tea steeps nearby, and the dog snores softly on the rug near my chair. This is where the magic happens, where it all takes place. Kingdoms are built, and chance encounter romances become love stories for the ages. I pause thoughtfully, considering where all the copies of my books are – homes of gentle readers, in the laps of people sitting under the trees in a park, in the lunch or laptop bags of working folks, or the to-be-read stacks of the voracious readers among us. I wonder how many of those who read my books are fully able to immerse themselves in the story, like I often do when I am reading a thriller, a mystery, or a steamy romance novel? Do others find that they are able to completely escape their reality and find themselves surrounded by the world I have created for them with my words? Are the younger readers able to see themselves as the hero/heroine of the tale, regardless of their sexual identity? Does it help those who have little imagine a life filled with abundance and excess?

 

Those are the kind of stories I wish to write.

 

And so, I take the brand-new pen, and the new notebook, and I put the pen to paper.

 

And I write.