Happiness Is a Warm Pen

I like writing so much better than speaking.

Writing is like composing a delicious secret to which you have the ultimate publishing rights. When you finally choose to release it, it's all there, on paper, in its complete and purposed form. Nothing that you haven't chosen to reveal. No slip of skin, like a tabloid photograph. No betraying facial expression. No concealing tone. You open your hands and release it in your own perfect timing. It refuses to lie, even if it is in itself a mistruth.

I wonder how many heroes' histories have been forged by the scribes, the poets, the bards.... I had the good sense long ago to learn the pen rather than the sword. I mean, knock yourself out slaughtering all the dragons you want, but at the end of the day, if your secretary hasn't been there to take dictation, your fantastic feats are naught but worm chow, perhaps good for credit on the purchase of your next mighty steed.

Maybe that's why I've kept diary since second grade. Even at the age of seven, I realized it as the golden gun of passive aggression. Like a boy, but too self-conscious to pin him to the playground fence and smear him with cherry lip gloss? Journal your every shared interaction obsessively. Shaken by your teacher, and afraid no one will believe you? Write a clever, thinly-veiled poem about her hairy moles and cash in some smart kid points to get it published in the school newsletter.

Ahhh, precious control. You are the dime bag that makes my out of tune pawn shop Fender sound like Eddie Van Halen's solo in "Beat It".