I have a pen.
I have a beautiful pen. It has a metallic body, is matte black with carbon fibre bands, the cap is magnetic, it as a circumference that a small ant would require a picnic to traverse and in an emergency it caries enough weight to hold its own in a duel with a police control baton or to bludgeon an unfortunately unarmed person to a sickeningly painful and blood wetted death.
I honestly don’t know how it would fare against a sword because I’ve seen a navy seal knife slice a bullet on YouTube that one time. It could probably fare well deflecting bullets though; I’d try and deflect with the carbon fibre parts but if a seal knife can cut a bullet I’m almost certain I could smack one away with my pen.
However I have been medically diagnosed as being ‘Unco’ so no doubt I would swing, miss, lose my grip on my beloved pen and it would hit a chemical factory and annihilate it thereby triggering some manner of nuclear explosion or at the very least knock over a silo of acid poisoning the towns water supply.
In short, I have a really cool pen and I love it.
It took me a lot of research to land on this particular pen and the fact that it’s referred to as a ‘Regatta sport’ is irony that is not lost on me given my strong inference for sport which is eclipsed only by my fear of water. (Where do you think we get Krakens from?)
Originally I intended to purchase this pen in its fountain design because I thought owning a fountain pen would not only improve my handwriting but grant me some sort of mystical creative prowess that would see me churning out works as often as I churn out disappointing behaviour in the eyes of friends and family but alas, a fountain pen is not for me. Not just yet.
I write in a spidery chicken scratch. Imagine a chicken sized feathered spider with a beak. That’s almost nearly as scary as my handwriting.
I write fast and I write compact, apparently that style of handwriting really isn’t suited to a fountain pen. Sure it could handle the speed with its ink flow but it came out thicker than 50 cents enunciation.
The lovely girl that served me in the pen shop gave me what I believe to be fantastically genuine customer service. I know the type. It was the type that started off a little abrupt and cold but as they get into it they gradually warm to you and your goal and end up genuinely invested in helping you find exactly what you want and you know at the end of the transaction you have the best item to suit your needs not the best item to earn them money.
Coco (? I honestly am horrible with names) at T.Sharp & Co in Perth city WA rocks out loud and offers brilliant service.
It took me ages in that shop trying to pick the right pen, testing on their paper, testing on good paper and finally testing in my crappy notebook which is where the pen would be bleeding for me 90% of the time. At one point I stopped and showed her a few full pages of text to give her an idea of my handwriting and, after her eyes stopped bleeding, she asked me with genuine curiosity, “What do you write?”
And here we are.
The point of this whole yarn.
I stood staring at her for what felt like a full decade Wracking my brain, wondering internally what it is that I actually write about early of a morning when I could be sleeping, or what I work on any time of the day inside my head when I should be concentrating on things like driving, listening to my wife and paying attention to customers.
Yes I’m putting words down but what in gods name are those words about?!
After I caught several flies and a small Pidgeon from open mouth gaping and imitating a refrigerator compressor with my humming I managed to mutter out “Umm… Kind of, horror? Multiverse sort of… Have you ever read anything by Tom Holt? No? Well, people usually die in my stories?”
Anyway long story short I bought the pen and she also gave me a pity chocolate because I seemed a little downtrodden after that. It was cookies and cream, I was pretty stoked.
A few days later, while doing some reading on some writing blogs I had an epiphany in regards to the genre that I both currently and intend to continue writing in but that’s for later. I feel as though I’ve abused the generosity of your time enough for right now.