I’m an old fashion writer. I need a pen and pad to bring my words to life. I can sit at my computer for hours, staring at a blank screen, with not one word typed. I’m not out of ideas nor stuck. My mind is actually running a mile a minute, words trapped inside, but the peck of a QWERTY keyboard is not soothing enough. I need ink. Ink that spills onto my hands as they slide across the paper. Ink that runs out of one pen, but is full in another. I need paper. Paper with blue horizontal lines and margins that bleed through, as I continue to write despite where I should stop. My hands may get cramped and at this point I wish I was ambidextrous, so I don’t have to stop. I could just switch the pen from my right hand to my left hand without missing a beat. But, I am not. I have to take a break and stretch my hand before I can begin again. But that’s okay, I wouldn’t have it any other way. There is a satisfaction in seeing my work written down. I could not call myself a writer if I didn’t collect pens. I could not call myself a writer if I didn’t buy notebooks, journals, and loose leaf. I could not call myself a writer if those two never meet. So I’m closing my laptop and going back to what I know best…My pen and my pad.