I’m very picky about my pens. So picky, in fact, that I can safely say that I’ve spent most of my academic and adult life (post-pencil years of middle school and prior) in constant search of good pens.
I want an even, dark line. I want to be able to write on both sides of a page without bleed-through. I want to be able to close my notebook or journal when I’m done, and not smear ink all over my precious words.
The wrong pen makes writing a chore. It makes it difficult. It makes it ugly. It takes away that smooth satisfaction of writing by hand. But the right pens are hard to find – for the last five years or so, every time I’ve run out of pens, I’ve tried out a new kind. A new brand, a new style, a new size. Over the years I have found a few that worked well enough for me, but rarely any that I truly loved. None that I stuck with. Not until about a year ago.
Our love story starts in the 4rd-floor study room of my University’s library. I usually preferred the 5th floor stacks, but that day fate sent me elsewhere.
It was sitting on the floor, under the chalkboard and amongst a rather foul mixture of dustballs, candy wrappers, chewed up gum and other equally unpleasant debris. I don’t exactly make a habit of grabbing abandoned pens out of corners that haven’t been cleaned in what looked like decades, but I had been using a horrendous freebie pen from some fundraiser or bank ever since my last extra fine-point Pilot Precise V5 had exploded on an airplane (yeah, that was a mess). I had been lethargic about getting new pens, since the Pilots had been far too inky and the task of choosing and trying yet another kind gave me a frustration headache. So when I saw this big, honking silver pen, cover in lint and frighteningly close to a wad of dried up chewing gum, I figured it was better than what I had and pulled out some hand sanitizer. And I fell in love.
Now this pen was so old that most of the markings had been worn off. I could make out something like U**Ba** and maybe a t or an l. I checked every store I went to, trying to find it by simple recognition. I scoured Amazon, Google, pen reviews, Staples…if I put as much work into my writing or school as I put into that search, I’d probably be a wildly rich and successful author by now. Well, maybe.
But I couldn’t find it. Despite my desperate search, knowing my beloved pen would soon reach the end of its days, I never found another of its kind. To this day I have no idea if they even make it anymore. When it finally ran out of ink, I was at a loss. I would borrow pens from the boyfriend or my friends or my classrooms, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the hunt, not for a while. I needed to get over this pen before I could be ready for a new one. Delete its number. Eat some ice cream. Burn the notebooks we made together.
But eventually, as with all things, I was ready to try again. Refreshed and hopeful. Plus, I knew something now – Uni-Ball. Maybe I couldn’t find the exact pen, but surely the company made something similar, right? So I put on my most daring lipstick (alright, I was probably wearing sweatpants and hadn’t brushed my hair in a week, but I like the relationship analogy) and marched confidently into my local Office Depot.
I found the writing supply aisle. I found the pens. The Uni-Ball section.
I have a few criteria when it comes to pens: black ink, rollerball, preferably 0.5mm if not smaller. That usually narrows it down to just about nothing in your average CVS. In this Office Depot, sticking to the Uni-Ball section, there were maybe two options. I read the boxes. One of them sold me with some nice key phrases like “bleed-proof”, “consistent smoothness”, “thin, neat lines”. I took a leap of faith. I bought a 12-pack.
And boy oh boy am I glad. I just plain enjoy using these pens. It’s easy, it’s smooth, it’s satisfying. Writing in a journal with that even, neat ink flow is up there with a glass of wine in the bathtub or a nice foot massage. It just feels good.
And what feels good, we want to do. I started writing a lot more by hand. I started thinking of writing as a leisure activity on top of part of my work. And it gave me the extra push I needed to get my shit organized.
I’m not going to pretend I’m the neatest, most detailed or scheduled person. I’m not. I tend to be a bit all over the place, if I’m being honest. But I also know myself, and I am not someone who thrives on chaos and spontaneity and constant change. I work best with a routine. I get things done best with a general kind of schedule. So I gave myself some structure: a basic daily routine, including time to write. One chunk of time to type up my next blog post or a short story for editing or submission, and another chunk to sit down with my journal and my (lovely) pen and write whatever I like. Daily thoughts. Insecurities. Lists. Memories. Hopes. Brainstorms. New stories and essays. You know – journal stuff.
The key to being a writer is to write. Everyone says it, all the time: you won’t always have the motivation to write. You won’t always want to. But you have to do it anyway, and that’s where structure comes in. If it’s a habit, when your inspiration passes you’ll still be able to do it, you may even still want to do it. Structured motivation.
So find yourself the right pens, the right tools. Find yourself the right things to do with those tools. And do them – regularly.
And for the record: the pen that currently has my heart is the Uni-Ball Vision Rollerball, micro point (.5mm), available on Amazon and most likely your local office supply store.