I have, of late, and wherefore I know well, written a great deal more than I have in years past. Indeed, thanks to a couple of factors, I have put more of my thoughts into words in 2016 than I have in almost any other year of my life. Since this time last year, I have finished three novels (Conduits, Dante, and Ash and Fire), become prolific on this blog, updated my website, tweeted and posted thousands of thoughts, and hand-written dozens of pages in a personal notebook.
In a lot of ways, I have increased my writing so much that I almost feel like I'm a writer. Because of this output, I have also passed a milestone: I have run out of ink in my favorite pen.
This mayn't sound too terribly tragic, nor even worthy of a paragraph, to say nothing of an entire micro-essay, but that's because I didn't explain this pen.
Almost three years ago, I went to London for the first time. As the group leader of a tour, I had the pleasure of picking our different stops throughout the legendary city. Consequently, I chose to visit the grave of John Milton, the prophet-bard of Paradise Lost fame. Our tour guide, a week before we arrived, had taken a special visit out to St. Giles'-without-Cripplegate in order to make sure we wouldn't get lost when we arrived. It was the first request she'd ever fielded for this visit.
When we got there, the organist was practicing her art, filling the gloomy church with beautiful music. Daylight faded outside as we shuffled through the empty pews. There, in the nave, was the stone marking Milton's final resting place. Busts of him, as well as a statue off to one side, paid homage to the most famous of the parishioners from the area. I was very happy--the students were ambivalent, bored, or tired.
A folding table close to the door, with a donation box next to it, had the prices for paraphernalia from the church. Like many European churches, St. Giles' is struggling financially. Fewer believers means less money, and so almost every church and cathedral I saw begged some alms. In this case, though, it wasn't charity; it was a souvenir. A postcard watercolor of St. Giles' and a blue pen. It cost me a couple quid to get both; the former hangs on my wall in my classroom, the latter has been my go-to writing utensil for the last three years. With it, I sketched out ideas for a couple of books and wrote a quantity of pages in a notebook Gayle gave me.
And today, it ran out of ink.
I've put in a replacement piece, but it doesn't work quite the same. I feel a twist of sadness seeing the pen go, even though I'll keep it around. It is, in many ways, the final farewell* to my first trip to London. I'm returning there this January, but I highly doubt I'll find my way back to St. Giles', though I personally would love to return. My desires, however, have to be subsumed into the needs of the group, and I can't, in good conscience, hijack the tour group to buy another quid-priced pen.
Strange how producing--creating--has led to loss and emptiness.
---
* I bought a pen from the Globe Theater gift shop, one that says "To be or not to be" on it, but the pen has never really worked well. That one is a piece of hollow plastic with some words on it; the Milton pen was something more.
In a lot of ways, I have increased my writing so much that I almost feel like I'm a writer. Because of this output, I have also passed a milestone: I have run out of ink in my favorite pen.
This mayn't sound too terribly tragic, nor even worthy of a paragraph, to say nothing of an entire micro-essay, but that's because I didn't explain this pen.
Almost three years ago, I went to London for the first time. As the group leader of a tour, I had the pleasure of picking our different stops throughout the legendary city. Consequently, I chose to visit the grave of John Milton, the prophet-bard of Paradise Lost fame. Our tour guide, a week before we arrived, had taken a special visit out to St. Giles'-without-Cripplegate in order to make sure we wouldn't get lost when we arrived. It was the first request she'd ever fielded for this visit.
When we got there, the organist was practicing her art, filling the gloomy church with beautiful music. Daylight faded outside as we shuffled through the empty pews. There, in the nave, was the stone marking Milton's final resting place. Busts of him, as well as a statue off to one side, paid homage to the most famous of the parishioners from the area. I was very happy--the students were ambivalent, bored, or tired.
A folding table close to the door, with a donation box next to it, had the prices for paraphernalia from the church. Like many European churches, St. Giles' is struggling financially. Fewer believers means less money, and so almost every church and cathedral I saw begged some alms. In this case, though, it wasn't charity; it was a souvenir. A postcard watercolor of St. Giles' and a blue pen. It cost me a couple quid to get both; the former hangs on my wall in my classroom, the latter has been my go-to writing utensil for the last three years. With it, I sketched out ideas for a couple of books and wrote a quantity of pages in a notebook Gayle gave me.
And today, it ran out of ink.
I've put in a replacement piece, but it doesn't work quite the same. I feel a twist of sadness seeing the pen go, even though I'll keep it around. It is, in many ways, the final farewell* to my first trip to London. I'm returning there this January, but I highly doubt I'll find my way back to St. Giles', though I personally would love to return. My desires, however, have to be subsumed into the needs of the group, and I can't, in good conscience, hijack the tour group to buy another quid-priced pen.
Strange how producing--creating--has led to loss and emptiness.
---
* I bought a pen from the Globe Theater gift shop, one that says "To be or not to be" on it, but the pen has never really worked well. That one is a piece of hollow plastic with some words on it; the Milton pen was something more.
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