What Happens to Pens?

What Happens to Pens?

Where do they all go?

I acquire so many, pens that I select with care and pay too much for, more than the average pen costs. Pens I imagine will bring panache to my writing, and thus my life. Pens I imagine will change something important about me, my very essence. Our relationship begins with so much promise and then before I know what's happened or how, I find myself using the same old tired ball point pens I always use. Pens from forgotten chain motels and conferences. Giveaways with no particular attributes or qualities to recommend them. Pens I picked up and tossed in my purse or giveaway tote bag, pens that cost me nothing, freebies.

And here I am, or there I was, clutching my ball point pen, scribbling in my red ruled composition notebook from Rite Aid. An aging white woman with no special attributes, much like my ball point pen and Rite Aid composition book. Is that what I am, like one of the dozens of run-of-the-mill, common-place, mediocre pens that litter my draws and the various jars and containers on my desktop and throughout the house, often remaining there until their ink solidifies and they aren't only common and mediocre, they are past their prime, their sell-by date, more cheap plastic trash. Oh dear. Yet until that date, their ink flows, much like my words, more or less serviceable, together we spew. Ink comes out of them for a time, sure. But is a think of beauty, or import, created, anything memorable, for the ages? Is that the measure, the yardstick? Is that what we're after. All these ballpoint pens and me? Sure it is, always has been. 

And is that sad, or reassuring? Affirming or pitiable? Both? All that and more? Is there something to be said for consistency? Much? Little? Somewhere in the middle, like the rest of my life? At least my life thus far, which, to be honest, means most of my life, as it's mostly over.

I'm 70.5. Yikes, man. That's a life, man. I could literally keel over at precisely any moment, or live another twenty years. It's true. No way around that one, mate. It's all me, me, me. On me, about me. I'm not being egotistical here. It's just the truth. I could choose to stay in bed. Yep. I could do word puzzles on day, right there in bed. I could garden, write any manner of drivel with ball point pens or fancy pens, or not. I could be a burden to myself and others, or not. I could take myself to an ice flow or an isolated cave in the desert and leave myself there, or not. It's all me. 

It's always been all me I suppose. Since I emancipated myself. Which was when? Yesterday? That's the thing, I am just beginning to fully grasp my right to own my days, by which I mean all the hours, nights included. I think many women don't understand this, and perhaps it isn't only women. That the choice really is ours. To do or not do. To be or not be. To live our lives in the manner and fashion that feels most honest and right. I don't mean to suggest I've been anyone's slave, that I don't recognize my relative privilege and that my life has been overall good. I blame no one.

At seventy and six months of age, I resist molding my image, my nature and my creative spirit. I want instead for it to guide me, to show me new ways of seeing and creating. I want to write from the subconscious part of my mind, perhaps even to live more from that place, not even fully knowing what that means, but trusting that my mind knows and will find the stories that need to be told and the best way to tell them. 

Welling up inside is what? Self-respect? And does it help? Yes and no. There's no one else to blame when I botch things up, but that was, is always true. Not that much of what I do has serious consequences. Other than swearing at my twelve-year-old grandson last week and taking my hurt and frustration out on him. That was bad. I apologized and said lots of adult words to him that I don't know if he grasped, but was it enough, did I do damage? Don't we all do damage to our loved ones at some point? Isn't it inevitable? I march forward,. I create goals, a vision for my imagined future self. I've been doing this for so long, it's a well-travelled yellow-brick road. I know the Dorothy Wizard of Oz skip-dance routine well, the songs we sing, the familiar roadside attractions where we will pause for snacks and to take in the pleasing vistas and take selfies.

Yes, an all too well-travelled road. Every once in a great while I do reach "goal," whether it be a "body" goals, meaning a magic number on the scale, how I look in the mirror, followed by a flurry of shopping and the high of a new wardrobe, or publishing a book, or other major professional accomplishment. The glow of those lights lasts awhile, buoys the spirits for a while, then it fades, doesn't it? The weight creeps back on. Each time faster than the last, alarmingly so. And here I am, at 70.5, doing it again. But this time is different, right? Do I sound like an alcoholic? Do I sound like my mother? Please, don't tell me I look like her too. Please not that. But really, I know that I do. And it's alright. We share genes, of course I look like my mother. But honestly, I swear, this does feel different. No, it is different.

Yeah, I know, I'm singing the alcoholic swam song. "It's different this time." I'm following the program. I have a sponsor, But I am, and I do. I'm doing it for me. I'm my own sponsor, the only one who counts. For the same reason I must free the stories trapped inside me, I must free the body trapped inside me, the lithe girl spirit, the forgotten dancer, the woman I haven't allowed to move freely her body for so many years, because she shamed me, because I wouldn't allow her to feel loved, because she was waiting, waiting, for what? Validation, appreciation, acceptance, because she didn't think she deserved those things. Because even thought women told her she was beautiful every day, even though she herself saw it in the mirror, felt it in her own skin and bones, she was bred and read to need to hear it from a man and the words didn't come, the words didn't come. 

Well fuck that. I'm 70.5 years old and it's time to tell myself what I need to hear, do whatever it is I need to do, write what I need to write, say what I need to say and just generally get on with what's left of my life. 

As for the writing, my new stuff is kind of weird, certainly not everyone's cup of anything. It may well be crap. So far this year, everything I've sent out has been rejected. So be it. There's value in having done the work. Finishing a new novel is not nothing. Even one that may not find a publisher. It's was worth doing if only to prove to myself that I could, that I'm not a quitter. Right?
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