I lost my pencil

[Just realized this got stuck in my drafts and never published back on the 12th]

This morning, trying to do too many things on the way out the door, I placed my writing clipboard on top of the car, forgot it there, and drove off. Thankfully, I only lost a few sentences from yesterday’s writing, which is great, but I also lost my pencil.

Um, it’s a pencil. Big deal. Get another one.

Fair point, and I did in order to get this evening’s 15 minutes done, but that pencil was kind of special. It was the last one of a pack of 20 or so pencils I’d purchased in Stratford-upon-Avon, more than 15 years ago. They aren’t special Shakespeare pencils, though; they’re just plain round pencils with a cutesy teddy bear print that I would worry at and peel off in small patches when distracted during a writing session. In fact, there’s nothing terribly special about them at all.

Except to me, of course.

I’ve used them to write all the books I’ve written. Not every page, of course, or I would have run out well before now, but the vast, vast majority of them, and therein lies their special-ness. When I used them, working each one down to within a couple inches of nothing, I was always reminded of —

Hey! Are you still talking about that pencil? Don’t you have a book to finish?

Right. Sorry.


  1. I hope we find it in spring after the snow melts… Or perhaps a neighborhood squirrel has already absconded with it to write the great rodent novel…on bark or something.

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