Magical Pen
I’ve been leading a group of writers through the process of writing and publishing their books. For five years a poet, a short story writer, a young adult free verse novelist, and a non-fiction writer and I have gotten together monthly to coax each other on. This is the best group I have ever led and it’s largely because of the amazing women in the group.
For our April meeting, we gathered to celebrate. I popped a bottle of Prosseco open and we toasted our works in progress. I celebrated getting an agent. It was a powerful moment of acknowledging our work.
They gifted me with a pen. It’s rare that a pen I am given actually works for me. But this one is special. Its heft, its ink flow, its design – cancelled stamps – are perfect for me. I’m blessed.
The pen is so nice I almost considered leaving it safely at home. But what’s the point of having something you’re not going to enjoy?
I bought back-up cartridges. The woman at Two Hands Paperie showed me how to refill the pen. In my novel, my character steals a pen from a pawn shop. Later she has to buy ink and the shopkeeper shows her how to do it. The parallels to my novel and this trip are almost creepy.
Fast forward three weeks…
Lost Pen
It is with great sadness that I write to you. No, I am not dead. But very sad.
I lost my pen! OY! Did I know this would happen? Did I know it would happen so soon? I feel terrible.
I was away this weekend in Sintra, a town near Lisbon. It was a wonderful trip and I was on the train this morning to go enjoy a local beach. A little voice said, “Check your pen.” I looked and it wasn’t in its normal spot. I got off the train and looked all through my bag. Panic!
I went back to the room I had rented. The woman overturned the beds and the bedside table – no pen. The last place I had seen it was the Indian restaurant where I had dinner the night before. (I know – what am I doing eating in an Indian restaurant in Portugal?)
While I was waiting for my spicy mixed veggies, I got out my notebook and wrote and filled in some stuff on a collage page. I think I had gotten out the good pen but maybe not. I tried to compare the ink from an earlier entry to make sure it was the pen I used, but I couldn’t tell.
When I realized the pen was gone, I walked back to the restaurant. They weren’t open. The guy from the shop across the street said they’d be there around 11 or noon. It was 10. I wandered away, gathered my thoughts, went to the bathroom in a pastry shop. Then I went back to the Indian restaurant.
Long story short, once I got inside I searched the place. I didn’t look in the garbage and I hope I don’t always wonder if it was in there! I went back to the place where I rented a room – no not there. I looked in my bag a hundred times. It’s amazing how the mind will refuse to believe it’s gone.
Finally, I got on the train to go back to Lisbon. I couldn’t focus on enjoying the beach. Tears spotted my jacket.
I feel horrible that I lost something that had been given me with such love. I loved that pen from the minute I used it. Elizabeth was afraid that I would lose it, but I thought, “No, I can’t live in fear. I can’t pack this pen away and leave it behind.” Now I wonder about the wisdom of my choice.
I can only try to make something of this loss. 1) I experienced quite a bit of emotion, and while that was happening, I really tried to feel what I was feeling. I wanted to see if I can use some of the sensations of panic, sadness and loss for my character, similar to the way Fran is trying to really get into her characters.
2) This was the first time I cried in a long time. Through all of this transition, I have been very calm and stable-feeling. Strangely, I haven’t felt a lot of emotion. Sometimes I think things like this happen so we can express what we repress.
Both good things to gain but I wish I hadn’t had to lose the pen to do it. I wrote to the woman who hosted me on Saturday night – perhaps I left it there. I can’t believe I would have left it at the table. I went to the bathroom once and maybe someone took it while I was gone but remembering the few people in the restaurant, I doubt it.
So, my pen is out there somewhere having its own life without me. I am sorry I lost it. I will replace it when I get back to Colorado. Maybe there’s some other lesson here I don’t know.
I’ve been leading a group of writers through the process of writing and publishing their books. For five years a poet, a short story writer, a young adult free verse novelist, and a non-fiction writer and I have gotten together monthly to coax each other on. This is the best group I have ever led and it’s largely because of the amazing women in the group.
For our April meeting, we gathered to celebrate. I popped a bottle of Prosseco open and we toasted our works in progress. I celebrated getting an agent. It was a powerful moment of acknowledging our work.
They gifted me with a pen. It’s rare that a pen I am given actually works for me. But this one is special. Its heft, its ink flow, its design – cancelled stamps – are perfect for me. I’m blessed.
The pen is so nice I almost considered leaving it safely at home. But what’s the point of having something you’re not going to enjoy?
I bought back-up cartridges. The woman at Two Hands Paperie showed me how to refill the pen. In my novel, my character steals a pen from a pawn shop. Later she has to buy ink and the shopkeeper shows her how to do it. The parallels to my novel and this trip are almost creepy.
Lost Pen
It is with great sadness that I write to you. No, I am not dead. But very sad.
I lost my pen! OY! Did I know this would happen? Did I know it would happen so soon? I feel terrible.
I was away this weekend in Sintra, a town near Lisbon. It was a wonderful trip and I was on the train this morning to go enjoy a local beach. A little voice said, “Check your pen.” I looked and it wasn’t in its normal spot. I got off the train and looked all through my bag. Panic!
I went back to the room I had rented. The woman overturned the beds and the bedside table – no pen. The last place I had seen it was the Indian restaurant where I had dinner the night before. (I know – what am I doing eating in an Indian restaurant in Portugal?)
While I was waiting for my spicy mixed veggies, I got out my notebook and wrote and filled in some stuff on a collage page. I think I had gotten out the good pen but maybe not. I tried to compare the ink from an earlier entry to make sure it was the pen I used, but I couldn’t tell.
When I realized the pen was gone, I walked back to the restaurant. They weren’t open. The guy from the shop across the street said they’d be there around 11 or noon. It was 10. I wandered away, gathered my thoughts, went to the bathroom in a pastry shop. Then I went back to the Indian restaurant.
Long story short, once I got inside I searched the place. I didn’t look in the garbage and I hope I don’t always wonder if it was in there! I went back to the place where I rented a room – no not there. I looked in my bag a hundred times. It’s amazing how the mind will refuse to believe it’s gone.
Finally, I got on the train to go back to Lisbon. I couldn’t focus on enjoying the beach. Tears spotted my jacket.
I feel horrible that I lost something that had been given me with such love. I loved that pen from the minute I used it. Elizabeth was afraid that I would lose it, but I thought, “No, I can’t live in fear. I can’t pack this pen away and leave it behind.” Now I wonder about the wisdom of my choice.
I can only try to make something of this loss. 1) I experienced quite a bit of emotion, and while that was happening, I really tried to feel what I was feeling. I wanted to see if I can use some of the sensations of panic, sadness and loss for my character, similar to the way Fran is trying to really get into her characters.
2) This was the first time I cried in a long time. Through all of this transition, I have been very calm and stable-feeling. Strangely, I haven’t felt a lot of emotion. Sometimes I think things like this happen so we can express what we repress.
Both good things to gain but I wish I hadn’t had to lose the pen to do it. I wrote to the woman who hosted me on Saturday night – perhaps I left it there. I can’t believe I would have left it at the table. I went to the bathroom once and maybe someone took it while I was gone but remembering the few people in the restaurant, I doubt it.
So, my pen is out there somewhere having its own life without me. I am sorry I lost it. I will replace it when I get back to Colorado. Maybe there’s some other lesson here I don’t know.
Bless your heart, Cynthia! Of course the loss of your beloved pen makes you weep. I think that pen represents a lot more than just a pen--it's your writer's group, your life back in Colorado, it was the bridge between your old world and your new one. And in spite of your loss, you write of it beautifully with such wit and pathos. If I was there I'd give you a big hug!
Posted by: Monica Parker | May 24, 2008 at 08:19 AM