The Pencil

A few months before we moved to Arizona, I was scurrying back to my car in the middle of a cold Fall rain shower—the kind that is a harbinger of coming winter, which we would soon be avoiding—when I spotted a pencil balanced against the curb. As a writer, I rarely use pencils, but because I am a writer, such things always provoke a storm of ideas.

How did the pencil end up there? Who did it once belong to? What words came from it? Why was it so perfectly balanced against the curb?

Such is the mind of a writer.

But a desire to escape to the warmth and safety of my car forced me past the pencil and the thoughts from my mind.

Fast-forward to our arrival in Arizona. We settled in, eager to explore the many hiking trails in the surrounding desert. One day, I slipped behind the others, my camera in hand, capturing images of the stunning landscape.

As is my habit, I also scanned the cactus and surrounding bushes for signs of rattlesnakes, scorpions, or tarantula spiders.

While the lack of live creatures disappointed me, something more intriguing caught my eye: a pencil sticking straight out of the sand.

I was miles from the trailhead, in the middle of the Saguaro Desert, with little sign of human habitation other than indistinct footprints in the sand, and a pencil sat in the middle of my path.

I was reminded, for this is how my mind works, of another such encounter with a pencil in an unexpected situation.

The questions flooded back from my memory of the last chance meeting. How did the pencil end up there? Who did it once belong to? What words came from it? How did it end up in a desert?

I bent down, picked it up, and put it in my backpack. A pencil needs a desk, and it seemed I was its only hope then. I’d always regretted not saving the one against the curb.

During the rest of the hike, the pencil faded from my memory, except when we were done.

As we loaded the backpacks in the car, I asked, “Hey, did you guys see the pencil in the trail?”

The looks of “oh, oh, he’s had too much sun” answered my question. And the subtle eyes telegraphing incredulity were not lost on me.

Ah well, I had rescued the pencil and would rehome it in my desk where, most likely, someone would look at it after I died and laugh about my strange habits of holding on to such things.

When I returned home, I emptied my pack and put the pencil in the bottom drawer of my desk next to the spare keyboards, memory sticks, and digital recorders.

And I gave it no more thought.

*****

Two days later, as is my habit, at 5:00 A.M., I rose from bed to write. I found a handwritten note with a story idea on my keyboard. Now, this was nothing unusual. I have hundreds of notes in places I may never remember, and I often make notes when a spark of an idea arises in my mind.

But I didn’t remember writing this one…and it was written in pencil.

Now, not remembering writing the note was also not unusual. I often get these ideas and scribble things I can’t recall doing. But this was in pencil; I never did that because I didn’t have a pencil.

Or do I, a voice said in my head.

I pulled open the bottom drawer where I had put the pencil, but it wasn’t there. I pulled out all the keyboards and assorted electronics, found two pieces of Mentos, which I kept for later consumption, and emptied the drawer.

No pencil.

Hmm, I could have sworn…then I opened my top drawer. There sat the pencil wrapped by an elastic band to the stack of index cards I used for notes.

I was confused. Perhaps I had gotten too much sun and didn’t remember putting the pencil with the cards. It might be something I would do, trying to find a way to use the pencil as a tip of the hat for writers who existed before the world of computers and word processing programs.

Ah, well, no matter. I tucked the pencil back in the drawer, reread the note, decided it wasn’t such a great idea after all—which happens more often than not—and dove back into my current novel project.

The next morning, I received another note. The words were bolded this time, and little faces looked at me. Once again, it was in pencil.

I do not believe in ghosts or things from the great beyond, but this bordered on weird. I considered one of two possibilities: Alzheimer’s or a dream.

The dream was easy to eliminate; I was clearly awake on this second day of seemingly anonymous pencil notes appearing on my desk. Alzheimer’s remains a possibility, but how would I ever know?

So, I dug into the trash and reread the original note. In this second review, the idea did have merit. But raw ideas aren’t stories. Writing is hard; there are millions of ideas for good stories—few become great stories—but all require effort.

If all it took was a good idea, everybody would be a writer. Ask any writer how often they have heard, “I have a great idea for a story. You write it, and we can split the sales.”

I answer that it’s like asking me to provide all the materials and build a house based on your plans, and then you’ll live there.

Thanks, but I’ll pass.

But back to the story idea. I opened a new Word doc, typed in a working title—knowing it would change—and started writing. And the story just poured out. By the end of a couple of hours, I had several thousand words. But it just didn’t feel right. When the muse is working, the words just flow, this was forced.

I closed the doc and moved on to other writing.

But I couldn’t quite get it out of my head. I guess inspiration comes from the most unexpected sources. A pencil was somehow asking me to write a story. Or so it seemed. But I am a sceptic at heart, albeit with a strong helping of optimism, so I still wasn’t sure.

I would give it another test.

I took the pencil, put it inside a locked fireproof safe, put the safe in my garage with a table saw placed on top. If magic was afoot this would surely reveal it.

I’d like to say I didn’t sleep that night, anticipating being astounded when a note and the pencil once again waited for me in my office. But it was not to be. My desk was its usual mess with notes in my own hand about my newest book and that was about it.

I resigned myself to the world of reality sans magic and went back to writing.

Come the weekend, another hike was planned. This one involved a circuitous route through a narrow canyon and vistas of the distant mountains south towards Tucson.

I’ll admit, along the way I had an eye out for any writing implements laying in my path, but it was just the usual furry bundles of coyote scat, the occasional feather from a roadrunner, and pawprints of a mostly domestic dog variety.

Making my way back to the car, I slung my pack of my shoulders and tossed it into the car. Being a bit deaf I didn’t hear anything hit the ground but my wife did.

She bent over, picked something up, shook her head, and turned to face me. “You dropped this,” she said, handing me a pencil.

I almost didn’t take it as I tried to hide my shaking hand.

“You just can’t resist picking up junk can you?” she said, walking over to the passenger side of the car and climbing in.

We didn’t talk much on the way home. Not really unusual after a strenuous hike, but for me I was calculating the chances of another pencil lying on the ground and what I really had dropped was still back there.

I didn’t want to believe the alternative.

As we pulled into the garage, my heart started to race and I stepped on the brakes a bit too enthusiastically.

“What the hell?” my wife said.

“Sorry, a bit overtired and I slipped.”

But I didn’t look at her when I spoke. I was focused on the table saw back in the spot before I placed it on the fireproof safe, which was no longer there. Trying to avoid giving my wife concern that I was going insane—she already suspects it to some degree—I tried to slow my steps instead of dashing into my office.

Holding the door for her, we made small talk about dinner plans and chores for the afternoon. I begged for a few moments to write some “notes” about things I had thought about while hiking, something she has grown accustomed to, and strolled nonchalantly to my desk.

PLEASE FINISH THE STORY

A notecard stared up at me, with the pencil resting with its tip at the midpoint of the line, like an arrow giving directions at a detour. As an afterthought, I looked in the safe just to be sure, no pencil.

So here’s the story…

Want more? Let me know by comment, message, text, smoke signals, or whatever way work for you…depending on interest I may reveal the pencil’s story…

JEBWizard Publishing (www.jebwizardpublishing.com) is a hybrid publishing company focusing on new and emerging authors. We offer a full range of customized publishing services. Everyone has a story to tell, let us help you share it with the world. We turn publishing dreams into reality. info@jebwizardpublishing,com