The Slow Agony of the Pen

There’s a frustration in a notebook.

I’m sitting at a craft fair, ready to sell books. The doors open in twenty minutes. The table is set. I don’t need to do any more work to be ready. This morning I’m solo; my wife will join me in about an hour after shuttling kids to various activities.

I’m ready to write. Eager. There’s pressure in my chest: Create. Create, Jon. It’s time to weave worlds out of words. Create!

But I’m revising a novel on my laptop. Of course the laptop isn’t here at the craft fair. And my notes for my next project also reside on the laptop.

Ah, but I have this notebook. Blank pages and a pen beckon.

And its tyranny is unbearable. The pages call to me, scream at me, tempt me to get in the water and drown in the waters of creation, gasping for breath as characters come to life with inkstains.

But the worlds that await cannot be on this notebook. They live on the gift of the laptop, where keys keep to the speed of imagination, unlike this pen, flowing ink as quickly as it can. The pen is a loyal companion. It needs no electricity. And it is here. Today. But it is slow.

And my story—it’s not here. It’s not in this notebook.

So instead of a world, I write myself, my frustrations, spilled on a page too slowly, in ink I make myself a character.

The doors just opened. People flow in.

I’d rather be creating.