Not a Work of Darby Conley

So you’re reading my paper right now? While you sit here to read what I have written, have a look in your hand. What’s in it? A green pen? A red pen? A number-two pencil, perhaps? Think about that writing instrument for a moment. How long has that item been in your possession? What have you put on paper with it? Have your emotions flowed through you as you spilled onto parchment your thoughts and feelings through that tool? Has it created images of the creatures you dream of? Has it followed your words as you read over a written work? Has it been your loyal companion? Do you feel it is worthy of the title “Implement of Literature”? Or perhaps, “Creator of Art”? Does it carry a very piece of your soul, a piece that only comes through use, through abuse, and through love? For the pencil that was in my hand when I wrote this, I can easily say, “Yes.”

I was in Target, doing some school shopping when I found my pencil. I was going to start my freshman year of school in a few short weeks, and the nervousness was starting to grow. Walking down the school supplies aisle, I contemplated the future and realized I needed a new pencil.

One must understand that I never cared for the regular wood and graphite pencils. Their erasers were bad, they were messy, and they constantly needed to be sharpened. To the opposite end, most mechanical pencils were a pain to write with for long periods. With that in mind, I went looking for a more comfortable pencil than the cheap plastic ones I had used. Something with a good grip and better lead than the standard 0.7 millimeter utensil. Plucking through the packages that hung in front of me, nothing seemed interesting until a silver flash caught my eye. It was a metal pencil with a black plastic grip. The 0.5 millimeter lead was along the lines I needed, so I bought the pencil to try it out.

At the beginning of my freshman year, the pencil was only a pencil and nothing more. It went with me in my pocket from class to class, five days a week, for nine months. Only at the end of the year did I realize that I hadn’t lost the pencil. In a seemingly magical way, a pencil had stuck with me for that long time. I recall thinking, “This thing must have it’s own guardian angel.” However, as soon as the year was over, the device was tossed in a drawer in my desk as I vegged out for that summer in the usual, near-catatonic way.

My sophomore year began, and the pencil gained a little more meaning to me. I had already gotten my new school supplies from a store and had forgotten about the old pencil. The night before my classes started, I realized that I hadn’t put pencil lead in with my supplies in my book bag. I opened a drawer in my desk to retrieve a container of lead when the same shine of light I had seen the previous year hit me. Lying on top of everything, the “silver wonder” stared back up at me. I tossed it in my bag and closed the drawer.

It was sophomore year that I began to really write. I had written poetry the year before, but it never really meant anything to me. My second year in high school, however, put a stress on me that I had a hard time dealing with, and I found that writing could sooth my soul. My weapon of choice in the battle against a blank sheet of paper was the little metal pencil as it was somehow always at hand. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I poured out poetry and short stories at speeds I couldn’t comprehend. Most found their way to the recycle bin, but a few found their way to copyrights and one that was first put down with the pencil found its way to a publishing.

The pencil gained a value to me then. It had served me well and was always with me. When the school year ended, it didn’t get tossed back in the desk. No, instead it sat on top of the desk, next to the keyboard that always translated the wildly scrawled to the conveniently typed. It even followed me to the sketchpad.

When I couldn’t write, I drew with this enchanted pencil. My poor artistic talent vexed me, and many times my pencil would be hurled across the room. But even through mistreatment, my pencil served me well, the way a loving parent or a close friend does. It came to my aide, it guided me, and it released me from what was inside my head.

And in its truly spectacular way, my pencil followed me to where I am in life now. It has lain to paper the first fifty or more pages of my novel, it has drawn art, it has never been lost. It comes with me to every class, to every sheet of paper, to every word. I look now at my pencil as it lies by my keyboard as I type this, and I silently mouth “thank you” to it. If any inanimate object could ever be considered a friend, my implement of inscription would be one. I look at the discolored tip and think of the times I have put it to my lip in thought. I look at the lettering and think of how it has been rubbed away by my hand as I created hundreds, maybe thousands, of pages of text. I look at the eraser and see that it is gone from use. I look at my pencil and see a piece of my heart here to guide my hand through school, through art, and maybe even through life.