On a Mechanical Pencil

I’m not here to say that the mechanical pencil is the noblest of writing implements. I’m not here to extol its #2 merits, its 0.7 mm wide lead, or little plastic pocket clip. I’m not here to say that it writes more effectively, or in a prettier script, or in a way that cramps the hand less. That’s not the mechanical pencil’s style. The mechanical pencil is completely unpretentious. Unlike my oversized pen with a wooden monkey’s head that was my favorite in middle school, the mechanical pencil does not beg for attention through outrageous or impractical gimmicks. The mechanical pencil’s one intent is utility—it is designed to get the job done.

Mechanical pencils are a dime a dozen—well, not literally. They’re usually a dollar in the back to school bargain bins (which, instead of raising their prices, have conveniently cut the number of pencils per pack in half—but I digress). I go through a pack a semester, loaning them out with the air of a philanthropist, and sticking them in every drawer, pocket, messenger bag, or binder that will hold them. At the end of the year, they’re like sand after a beach trip—you discover them in everything.

And why not? The mechanical pencil needs nothing else. It is completely self-sufficient, unlike its Ticonderogan cousin who needs a sharpener the size of a Humvee in order to maintain its sharpness. I wish that I could be that low-maintenance—that no matter how much homework I write, all it takes is one or two clicks of the eraser, and I am just as sharp once again. Who needs this endless grind, the annoying shavings, and the likelihood that you’ll end up blunting your tip, or breaking your lead shortly after your sharpening?

But, like all things, perfection is an illusion. The mechanical pencil is not flawless. It breaks easily, it gets lost everywhere, and eventually it runs out of lead. There is no feeling more frustrating than frantically clicking a mechanical pencil, desperate for another inch of inspiration to complete an assignment, take notes, or bubble a few more scantron questions, but nothing comes out. It is a hopeless, empty feeling. Nobody expects their mechanical pencil to run out—but it always does, and at the worst possible time.

           I used to think everything that came from my monkey pen was inky inspiration. I didn’t need to write in pencil—why shouldn’t everything I write be a permanently inscribed tablet of my brilliance? That younger, nerdier version of myself used to proclaim to everyone that he was “going to be a writer,” as he churned out an amalgamation of short stories plagiarized from the pages of whatever genre to which he was currently addicted.

            But not anymore. Now, writing scares me. Not in the same way that snakes scare me, or dark water scares me, but in the way relationships scare me—that no matter how much attention and devotion you put into it, it may not love you back. That’s why I dislike writing in pen.

People that write in pen still unsettle me—from the community college dropout that swears he’s writing the next Lord of the Rings, to the Starbucks-sipping twenty-something that is “working on his screenplay.” When people write in pen, they think too highly of themselves—they pay more attention to their monkey pens than the words they write. They don’t see anything greater than themselves—they don’t marvel at anything other than their own brilliance. Without wonder, there is no true creation. Writing should instill us with wonder at the subject, and the power to catch that subject—to suspend that subject in time with words. Writing should fill us with amazement for all things other than our own cleverness.

Writing functions as a means to understand the world around us; to see ourselves as the source of this power is to raise a golden calf to our brilliance, without paying tribute to the many who came before us, and brought writing to where it is now. Writing demands the utmost humility and respect, for it is not an act from ourselves, but an act larger than ourselves, that we can engage in—a centuries-long conversation of which we are allowed a few moments.

But maybe I am trying too hard; after all, writing is a common tool, just as often used to write warning labels as Don Quixote. But like the man of La Mancha, I want something to be sacred—I desperately want the shaving bowl to be a helmet of legend, because if writing is just a means to an end, then something is terribly wrong. In a world of blogs, myspaces, and snappy statuses, I wish more people were illiterate, to keep them from profanely proclaiming their ability as writers.

To write is to create, and creation is a powerful, awe-inspiring thing. To create mimics the Divine—a mini-Genesis with unknown implications. Writing transcends the particulars and touches the universal; it allows us to connect our experience with the experiences of all humanity, something so powerful that I dare anyone to call this giant a windmill. Creation is a microcosm of God—an ability given to us as images of him.

Why would I write my life in pen? There’s no room for wonder to rearrange my words.

            But it’s terrifying to write in pencil—to know that all your words can be erased in a flurry of eraser bits. The mechanical pencil’s life is a desperate race to express all three sticks of lead before it gets lost in a messenger bag, or dropped behind a desk. It is a thankless, uninspiring, terrifying existence. No one wants to be lost with two and a half sticks of things to say.

But we should learn from this humblest of writing utensils. We never look at classroom notes and admire the reasoning of the mechanical pencil. We never examine the shading on a legal pad doodle and compliment the technique of the drawing implement. The mechanical pencil is never praised, and even if it wanted to, it shouldn’t. The goal of the mechanical pencil is not to draw attention to its superior features, or amazing design. In the end, it’s a cheap piece of plastic with an eraser that always is used up before the lead is, because it produces more mistakes than brilliance. The glory of the mechanical pencil is not in himself, but in the attention he draws to the one who uses him to create.