Just a note

When asked to share any one item from my bag, I pulled out my pen. For others it was a photograph, or a favorite shade of lipstick, even a grocery receipt. Personal items. The purpose of the exercise was to demonstrate the gravity (both supportive and damaging) of assuming a narrative. My character feedback was that of success. A pen, they said, represents my freedom of expression, ability to accomplish, and drive towards social justice. I remember their words as clearly as the frayed edges on the arm of their gray and blue diamond-stitched couch.

I've written with one kind of pen for almost a decade now. The last of those pens ran out of ink this morning.

I was always told to write what I know. And that what I don't know, I do. The professor that said the latter saw in me something I didn't see in myself, and truthfully still don't. He also said that truth is stranger than fiction, but good fiction, resonant fiction is truthful – true to the heart and true to the head and true to the gut.

I recall that group of faceless individuals as I clear away today's dozens of post-its and napkins full of scribbles - an inspiring quote, an idea to research later, another blog post that won't get published. But I won't dismiss the exhausted pen until my promise is complete, until I am at a place of ease. It's going to be a long summer.