A DESIRE TO CREATE I lift the sketchbook, weighty but comfortable, and place it carefully on my lap. On it is a faint sketch, a witch in the palest graphite. An electric anticipation, small and sharp, fizzes within me as I hold my new pen. It’s loaded with special black ink, the kind that doesn’t bleed when wet, but keeps its lines neat as I paint colours upon it. The fountain pen is cheap and cheerful in orange. Full of promise. I scribble in the margins, to get the ink flowing to the nib. A big, shuddering breath; I begin. The pen glides, black lines against white. It is mostly faithful to the pencil marks, chasing them across the page, but not without its own quirks. I’m getting to know the pen with each passing second; where the line thins a little, or bloats when the nib catches the grain of the paper. I turn the pad for the trickier bits, my tremor that dogs my work making the pen flutter a little in the air as I squint at my sketchbook. But on the page, the weight and shape of the pen doesn’t allow the tremor to take hold. My lines are smooth, without the kinks and squiggles I am used to. My nerves and frustrations slowly ease, my shoulder relax, my breathing steadies. A small but persistent satisfaction begins to glow within me. I can do this. I can draw what I want without worry. The pen is companionable, growing warm in my hand. Nearly finished. A small mistake here and there. A slip of the pen. An error of the eye made permanent in black. But mostly it is as I intend it to be. I sit back suddenly. It is done. The small glow is now shining bright within me. I feel tingly with a new anticipation; I imagine all the things this pen and I can create. I smile. The inky witch smiles back.
- Ellen Forkin 83
