I am sitting here in a professional development about inquiry in writing and I have been asked to write a small anecdote about my own school experience. Here it is:
My Cross pen is always, always by my side. Slipping it over the edge of my pocket feels grand. It is that extra insurance for everything I do. I will never be without an idea because the idea instrument exists. It is connected to me.
I will use it on mundane homework, the calculus equations that fit so perfectly on the page. But, its real work, the strokes it was meant to make are the ones in my titled notebooks.
I sit in the cubicles that look like a swastika, only because they are the quietest place I can find. I pen the prose that only my best friends will see. This pen is for me, just like the time. I own it, forgetting all other writing implements, all other worries.
I am a cross pen moving the page to meet my needs. I am the world of ideas, stroking ego and creating the colossal theories that outline my outlook, my personality.