As a writer, I have my superstitions. Like an athlete, I rely on a good luck charm, my special pen to write the bare bones of the scene. Then I flesh it out into my computer. This one pen has my manuscript in it. Other writing implements exist, but none has my story flowing from its tip. Crazy, I know, but… superstitions are strong, magical forces.
During the days, the cats, Sonja and Izzy, were mellow. At night I heard paws scurrying over the hardwood floors. Toys and empty dishes crashed. One evening, I left everything on the dining table. After midnight, the cats began their shenanigans. Morning dawned and I emerged to find a thief had stolen into the house. The TV, stereo, and my laptop were still in their places. The only missing item: my pen. My manuscript-infused writing instrument. The pen that molds to my fingers, that warms to my touch, that flows across the page as my story flows through its body.
I narrowed my eyes at the two felines whose expressions said, “Who, me?” I searched everywhere. No pen. Panic intruded. I shuffled to the dining table and sat to mourn. My bare foot landed on a bump under the throw rug beneath the table. I whipped back the edge.
Eureka! My beloved pen.
I eyed the suspected thieves. Izzy meandered over with a mischievous gleam in her eye and swiped at my pen.
I clasped it tighter. “Mine.” The sassy cat tried again. “Not on your nine lives.” Next time, I’ll make sure to hide it from the Pen Gremlin.
Maybe I’ll go out tomorrow and look for a perfect pen. I could use a bit of help for my writing. Do you ever lend it out?