My precious pens

I am a writing tool bigot. I think it started when I was but a wee child in school. We were not permitted pens in early elementary school, only pencils (with the useless little pink stubs on the end, all but gone in one childish fit of erasing). I wanted a pen. They wrote so smoothly, the ink went on dark and even, and the sound was the quick and quiet swoosh of real writing. I was a quiet, shy kid, but on paper I wanted to be bold and bright and to make my mark visible.

Pencils are scratchy and skittery, and they break easily when you pushed too hard (which I inevitably did; I’ve always had a heavy hand). Their marks are lighter and are designed to be removed, erased from existence. I quickly grew to dislike pencils, and the calluses they left on my fingers.

In those long-gone days, I yearned for pens. Whenever possible, I pushed aside pencil crayons (superior colouring instruments for shading though they are) in favour of markers. I loved the rich, even colour that coated the paper completely with even the lightest touch. I loved the way they glided. I loved how pretty they were and how they never got worn down and uneven the way pencils did with repeated sharpening.

In grade five, we were, at long last, allowed to use pens, the erasable kind. I carried several at all times, in a little green pencil case, and from that year on, the only time I would use a pencil was on standardized tests and when measuring off a cut line.

My dad gave me an elegant wooden pen set once. It came with a mechanical pencil. If there’s anything I hate more then pencils, it is mechanical pencils. They make tentative, thin lines, like they are scared to commit to the paper. And they are fragile little things, constantly requiring refilling with more Capellini-like strands of lead. Useless!

Sharpies, on the other hand, are extremely useful. When I was younger, my sister and I would spend hours making shrink art. The perfect writing utensil for shrink art is the Sharpie, and so we had a beautiful collection of the fine-tip markers, including all the colours available and always extra black ones. Now, many years later, I hoard Sharpies. We have a selection ranging from extra-fine to extra-thick. We have the range of colours. Russ even has a push-up Sharpie that doesn’t need a cap. In the store, I lust after the adorable Sharpie Mini pens. At every excuse, out comes a handy Sharpie to label a package or container. I think I am looking forward to getting a deep freeze because of all the labeling opportunities.

My love of marking things up extended beyond just pens and markers as I developed a love for highlighters at a job where the beauty of those brilliant, translucent colours were sometimes the highlights of my day. When I left that job, my staff gave me a gift pack of highlighters, including the mythical, rarely seen, red highlighter.

But despite my love for all other writing utensils, I still hate pencils. I will not use them even in situations where they would have been the logical choice. Thus, my messy and passionate affair with white-out. Some days I come home with my hands caked with the stuff; I love that it hides my mistakes, but I get impatient and end up rubbing it to try to get it firm faster.

I discriminate against pencils, and I am not ashamed. I will stick with my highlighters, markers and pens. I will even continue to indulge my love-hate relationship with white-out. All for the love of making bolder marks on a piece of clean white paper.