Pen

Our writers’ group prompt this week was: Describe an object that describes you.

I am a pen.

Sometimes thinner, sometimes clunky, I am a pen. I occasionally leak or even run out of ink. I am always in need of spilling out words, whether to create a well-tuned perspective on paper, or simply a bunch of jumbled letters onto the page like Scrabble tiles, waiting to be sorted and then placed into words. Sometimes I remember to try for the triple word score, requiring extra patience while exchanging words with someone else. Concentrating, planning and listening help provide those extra bonus points.

Sometimes I just don’t work. I click my brain cells, waiting for the point to appear, but it stays inside my shell. These are times I need to unscrew myself in the middle and pull out the ink refill. I’ll shake the refill a bit with a new perspective, or a new place to write, or a new start to my story, and I’ll get going again. At other times, I invest in a whole new pack of refills by spending time in meditation.

I smile to remember the four-color pens of my youth.

 My life seems fragmented like this. The blue pen is for inspirational writing and articles about peace or prayer or unity. The black pen is a true writing color, when I’m moving ahead in the groove of a piece. The red pen of self-criticism tends to show up from time to time, but when I write in green, I enter a whole new world where I really don’t try to fit in.

Green is my favorite.

This is the color I’d choose at my writers’ group when I am allowed to be off-color with my tribe of like-minded creatives.