the pen salesman

After much long, arduous thought, I now know that I should have married that pen salesman. Finding the exact pen takes years. The ink must flow from its well in a precise rhythm. The circumference must fit neatly between my woman's thumb and index finger. And for anyone who understands what I'm talking about: it must slide across the paper at a precise speed: slow, steady, soft. You think I'm joking. I assure you, I am not.

I can't find any damn pens this morning. Something is shaking my bones. I went to bed at midnight, woke at 1:30, and rose at 5:19. I'm all juiced up with strong coffee, ready to take on the bills, the blown-off writing moment, the emails to people I'm not really sure care to hear from me that much. Or-gan-iz-ation. Ready. I can't find a pen, not even a bad one.

If I had only married that pen salesman. He would buy me boxes from his company at low, unheard of prices. I would wait in the fat brown chair in the living room; he would walk in with a box; he would spill the pens on the floor, smile and say, "Honey. I'm home." I would drop to my knees, and I would inspect them carefully making sure I didn't get a second.

Maybe then I would be a real writer ... if I owned a thousand good pens.

I've never met a pen salesman. But I'm thinking that would have been good.