What is it about mid-middle-age or the falling dollar that suddenly I only write in pencil? I always was a Bic Girl, with that medium-to-fine point more-royal-than-navy blue. I had no use for pencils. I didn't like the look of my scrawl, messy as it is, smudged in graphite.
But somehow, in the past six months or so, I've given up ink. I realize that pencil becomes indistinct, with thick gray letters stumbling over a dullish textured page. But I don't mind. I can sharpen my point when I think it's important. I like to erase. I don't mind so much that my writing might fade.
Every few weeks or so, Owen (who has perfect penmanship and ever-sharp points) gathers up all the pencils around our place to sharpen them. He's noticed he does it more frequently than he used to. Other than that, he hasn't noticed a change in my convictions or presentations. When I start to mutter and equivocate, we'll know empire is over and I'm past my prime. For now it's just in my notes, in books and on student papers, on grocery lists. Right now, I take satisfaction in knowing I can change what I write.
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