First, consider the pen you write with. It should be a fast-writing pen because your thoughts are always much faster than your hand. You don't want to slow up your hand even more with a slow pen. A ballpoint, a pencil, a felt tip, for sure, are slow. Go to a stationery store and see what feels good to you. Try out different kinds. Don't get too fancy and expensive. I mostly use a cheap Sheaffer fountain pen, about $1.95.... You want to be able to feel the connection and texture of the pen on paper.
A great gift would be a cheap pen, mounted on a wooden plaque, with the accompanying label that reads, 'This is the pen that was first used to write down these words. This is history. This happened. Now, go write your own history. But use another pen, because this one's not only super glued to the wood, but it's out of ink.
I have a real aversion to machines. I write with a pen. Then I read it to someone who writes it onto the computer. What are those computer letters made of anyway? Light? Too insubstantial. Paper, you can feel it. A pen. There's a connection. A pen goes exactly at your speed, whereas that machine jumps. And then, that machine is waiting for you, just humming "uh-huh, yes?
I write on a computer, but I've run the complete gambit. When I was very young, I wrote with a ballpoint pen in school notebooks. Then I got pretentious and started writing with a dip pen on parchment (I wrote at least a novel-length poem that way). Moved on to a fountain pen. Then a typewriter, then an electric self-correct. Then someone gave me a word processor and I was amazed at being able to fit ten pages on one of those floppy discs.
Charles de Lint
Okay, let me get a pen." There were rustling noises. "I can't find one." More noises. "Okay,shoot." "You found a pen?" "No, but I have a can of Cheez Whiz. I'll write your number on the counter with it, then find a pen and copy it." Jaine recited her number and listened to the spewing noise as Shelley Cheez-Whizzed it on her countertop.
A PEN AND INK WENT TO THE STORE TO BUY ME A PEN THE PEN WOULDN'T WRITE SO I TRADED FOR A HEN THE HEN WOULDN'T LAY SO I TRADED FOR A RAY THE RAY WOULDN'T SHINE SO I TRADED FOR A VINE THE VINE WOULDN'T SWING SO I TRADED FOR A RING THE RING WOULDN'T FIT SO I TRADED FOR A HIT THE HIT WOULDN'T RUN SO I TRADED FOR A GUN THE GUN WOULDN'T SHOOT SO I TRADED FOR A FLUTE THE FLUTE WOULDN'T BLOW SO I TRADED FOR A HOE THE HOE WOULDN'T HEAVE LIKE HOLES IN A SIEVE LIKE FOLDS IN A SLEEVE AND I THINK IT'S TIME TO LEAVE SO DON'T UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF THE PEN BECAUSE THE POWER OF THE MIND TRANSLATES INTO THE PEN AND IF THE POWER OF THE PEN COMES FROM W/IN LIKE THE POWER OF THE MIND THAT MAKES YOU THINK JUST THINK WILL THIS PEN EVER RUN OUT OF INK? THE PEN KEPT GLIDING ON A PIECE OF PAPER THE HAND WAS GUIDING IT 'CUZ SOONER OR LATER THOUGHTS WOULD EMERGE EVERYTIME I GET THE URGE TO WRITE ON A PAD ALL THE THOUGHTS I EVER HAD WE WRITE THE RIGHT RHYMES SO DON'T TRY TO BITE MINE IN SPITE OF THIS YOU STILL WRITE TO SPITE WE WRITE THE SONGS THAT MAKE PEOPLE SING ALONG YOU WRITE FOR A FEE AND MAKE A LOT OF ENEMIES YOU DIG FOR THE DIRT GET CASH FOR THE TRASH HOW MUCH WOULD IT COST FOR YOU TO KISS MY ASS? BECAUSE THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD HEAVENS TO BETSY, OH, MY LORD! IF YOU BELIEVE, YOU SHALL RECEIVE AND IF YOU DECEIVE, WE WILL BESIEGE BECAUSE THE POWER OF THE MIND TRANSLATES INTO THE PEN AND IF THE POWER OF THE PEN COMES FROM WITHIN LIKE THE POWER OF THE MIND THAT MAKES YOU THINK JUST THINK, WILL THIS PEN EVER RUN OUT OF INK? YEAH?USE A PENCIL
There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen. Other pleasures fail us or wound us while they charm, but the pen we take up rejoicing and lay down with satisfaction, for it has the power to advantage not only its lord and master, but many others as well, even though they be far away - sometimes, indeed, though they be not born for thousands of years to come.
In that first national election after 9/11 in France, Jean-Marine Le Pen did not win the presidency, but he did get to the final round. He was in the general election. Now, this week, in the first national elections in France after what many people have been calling the French 9/11, the attacks in Paris three weeks ago, this time it's Jean-Marie Le Pen's daughter, Marine Le Pen and the National Front, which is still a far right pseudo-fascistic party, they came in first place in France.
When you read a manuscript that has been damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years, your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you are at once a pen flying of vellum and the vellum itself with the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it. The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds over it.
I was a pen pal with one guy, a long time ago. I think we only wrote to each other twice. We didn't really keep it up that long. But, I love it. I think it's really sweet and very creative and freeing, when you get to put a pen to paper, 'cause you don't really do it that much these days, with all this technology.
I had got this far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying.
I got to take classes in writing with a fountain pen, and actually, something you make is your own textbook. So, while you're learning about something, you have to write essays on it, and then you handwrite in cursive, in fountain pen, your essays out on beautiful paper and you bind it together into a book that you hand in at the end of the course.
I pen you words from my heart neither paper nor pen would do as I lay them out in flowery fonts what more could you ask for as I am writing in your heart the love that I want to endure I am no Keats nor am I anyone but me a poetess longing for your touch get lost with me in my words as I serenade you with a forever quill.
When I sit down with pen and paper to write, I have no idea what words will flow forth. Life is like that. We can do all the planning we want, but ultimately the day will be decided by what comes out of the 'spiritual pen" residing within. If you fill it with the ink of compassion and Love, you will never regret a day of your life.
In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when the moment came, our lives -- and time itself -- would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose boundaries would be at first undiscernible.
In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when the moment came, our lives - and time itself - would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose boundaries would be at first undiscernible.
I used to write exclusively with one particular Montblanc fountain pen, although lately I have had to use a roller-tip fountain pen, because I find it harder and harder to control the fine muscles of my right hand during prolonged periods of work. I buy boxes of Deluxe Uni-ball pens, use them until they start to drag, and then change.
One of the police found a garden chair that I could stand on and they eyed me suspiciously as I tried to slide through the window. The fleece that I was wearing was padding me out too much so I took it off. I tried again, and this time it was my pen, pen-torch and scissors in my shirt pocket that got in the way. I moved them into my trouser pocket. One of the police asked if it would help if I was buttered up. I pretended not to listen to him. Or the giggles of my crewmate.
Muses are fickle, and many a writer, peering into the voice, has escaped paralysis by ascribing the creative responsibility to a talisman: a lucky charm, a brand of paper, but most often a writing instrument. Am I writing well? Thank my pen. Am I writing badly? Don't blame me blame my pen. By such displacements does the fearful imagination defend itself.
Why ask for a pen, and why ask for ink? Write within your heart. Remain immersed forever in the Love of your Lord and Master, and your love for Him shall never break. Pen and ink shall pass away, along with what has been written. O Nanak, the Love of your Husband Lord shall never perish.
Sri Guru Granth Sahib
I've found that I snack less and concentrate better when I chew on a plastic stirrer - the kind that you get to stir your to-go coffee. I picked up this habit from my husband, who loves to chew on things. His favorite chew-toy is a plastic pen top, and gnawed pen tops and little bits of plastic litter our apartment.
'I haven't used the veto pen very often since I've been in office,' Obama told NPR. 'Now, I suspect there are going to be some times where I've got to pull that pen out. And I'm going to defend gains that we've made in healthcare; I'm going to defend gains that we've made on the environment and clean air and clean water.'
By agreeing to these terms and conditions, you will be signing your right to freedom of expression, all artistic credibility, all of your free time and your soul over to us. Do you agree?" I grasped the pen. "Yes." I scratched my name down fast, before i could stop and reevaluate the situation. The grinning skull's face started to fizzle out. "Welcome to Hell... " The contract and the ballpoint pen evaporated just as the floor opened to reveal the portal back. "So, what'd you do today?" "I joined DeviantArt.
I know from experience that to one who thinks much and feels deeply, it often seems that he has only to put down his thoughts and feelings in order to produce something altogether out of the common; yet as soon as he sets to work he falls into a certain mannerism of style and common phraseology; his thoughts do not come spontaneously, and one might almost say that it is not the mind that directs the pen, but the pen leads the mind into common, empty artificiality.
Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot, I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise.
I wonder what Thoreau would have done... [H}is greatest story, I thought, was his life. He knew that anything is possible when you wield the pen and claim your life as your own. But the truth is so few have the privilege to write their own stories. People are born into poverty without a hope of redemption. Children are abused and damaged. Disease and war and famine and a million other things prevent them from wielding the pen. But for those of us who can, should it not be our great privilege to live the lives we've imagined? To be who we want to be? To go on our own great journeys and share our experiences with others?
The dragonets found the carpenters to be even more fascinating than the furniture, and followed the poor men from pen to pen, crowding around to watch, tasting the wooden planks, trying to steal the tools. It made for an interesting day for everyone, as the boys tried to keep the dragonets away from the carpenters, and the dragonets tried to get at the carpenters, and the carpenters worked probably a great deal faster than they ever had in their lives, sure that the dragonets would go from tasting the wood to tasting them.
I cannot find any patience for those people who believe that you start writing when you sit down at your desk and pick up your pen and finish writing when you put down your pen again; a writer is always writing, seeing everything through a thin mist of words, fitting swift little descriptions to everything he sees, always noticing. Just as I believe that a painter cannot sit down to his morning coffee without noticing what color it is, so a writer cannot see an odd little gesture without putting a verbal description to it, and ought never to let a moment go by undescribed.
SO FEEL FREE TO NOT MIND ME IF YOUR USED TO BOOSTERS DRUG DEALERS AND SHOOTERS ITS ON WAX CAUSE MOST OF YALL NIGGAS FABRICATE FACTS ANYWAY I COULD HAVE EASILY CHEAT AND LET THE 44 PLAY LIKE A 2 ON 2 ORGY BUT I BEEN THERE AND IT BORES ME GOT TO THE POINT WHERE IT DID NOTHING FOR ME AT 40 I WANT TO AFFORD NOT TO RECORD BULLSHIT IN MY STORY, AND IM MAD YOUNG SO ID RATHER DO IT NOW BEFORE MY CAREERS DONE, THIS IS PAIN PLUS GLORY VICTORY IS HERE, IF I CRIED YOU COULD SEE STRENGTH AND PRIDE IN MY TEARS I DO IT FOR THE KIDS, I DO IT FOR THE 23 HOUR LOCKDOWNS DOIN TIME IN THE PEN AND MY PEN IS THE ONLY THING I GOT FOR HIP HOP TO CHANGE THE GAME THEY'LL REMEMBER MY NAME AS THE RELEVANT
then things got even stranger. Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air. Mrs. Dodds lunged at me. With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day. Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes. My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword. She snarled, "Die, honey!" And she flew straight at me. Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword. The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss! Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.
Two hundred Romans, and no one's got a pen? Never mind!" He slung his M16 onto his back and pulled out a hand grenade. There were many screaming Romans. Then the hand grenade morphed into a ballpoint pen, and Mars began to write. Frank looked at Percy with wide eyes. He mouthed: Can your sword do grenade form? Percy mouthed back, No. Shut up.
Speech is the pen and the sword of humankind and it is the foundation of their kingdom. Wherever the flag of speech waves, the most powerful armies are. defeated and scattered. In the arenas in which speech shouts out, the sounds of cannon balls become like the buzzing of bees. from behind the battlements on which the banner of speech has been raised, the sound of its drums are heard. In the precincts where its march reverberates, kings shake in their boots. The Master of Speech smashed to pieces many insurmountable walls, in the face of which Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and many others despaired or retread; and the pen of Speech, imparting and compliance, was saluted and praised.
M. Fethullah Gulen
After a long while he sat upright with great effort, exhaled a sigh and reached for a clean sheet of lined paper, smoothing it out on the desk. He unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen, laid it perpendicular to his paper, and began to write. Often he compared his writing to white water. He had only to leap in to be dragged away on its rapids, thrown this way and that with his own will rendered impotent. While writing he found the words came from the muscles in his hands, the feel of the shaft of his pen, the locked joint of his elbow. the scratching noise of the nib marking paper and, underneath all that, some coordinating impulse in his guts. Certainly not from his mind.
Did you know that Bharatiyar used the pen name 'Shelley-dasan'? He admired the poems of Shelley so deeply that he wrote under the name 'Shelley's servant'. Wasn't that a wonderful gesture of humility by someone who was such a great poet himself? And later, Bharatiyar had his own dasan, the poet Subburathinam, who took the pen name Bharathidasan. Subburathinam's poetry inspired yet another poet who wrote as Surada, short for Subburathina-dasan. And to think this long chain of inspiration spans centuries, going back to the poets who inspired Wordsworth, who inspired Shelley, who inspired our own Bharati.
Six months after 9/11, Jean-Marie Le Pen was almost elected president of France. There were a number of leaders and a number of parties running in the French national elections that year in the spring of 2002. But it ended up being not just a shock across France, and not just a shock across Europe. But it ended up being almost a worldwide shock when in the spring of 2002, Jean-Marie Le Pen came in second in those national elections. That put him in a two-man runoff for the presidency of France, spring of 2002.