I love pens.

Black felt tip or,

very smooth blue ball point medium,

 only medium.


I’m a freak for notebooks.

Small black Moleskins for quotes.

Medium black ruled journals for ideas and diary.

Old composition style, from the drugstore, for family history and lore.

My Grandpapa used to keep family info in an old blueline journal from 1964.

Mostly dates of birth, baptism, weddings and deaths.

When I was a child I used to plead for him to read L’Histoire de Famille, out of the book.

When he died I inherited it.

I have been making a new one for my Godson, Jerome.

I want him to know where he comes from.

Won’t be too many baptisms and weddings in there,

 Québec is pretty much a post Catholic society.

I have these beautiful sky blue Gap notebooks, that I write poems in.

I used to use colourful Claire Fontaine notebooks.

Now, I find them too pretty.

I prefer the more staid Moleskin.

Above all else in writing implements,

 I love the typewriter.

When I was growing up we had an old Underwood in the house.

I never knew why, nobody typed.

I spent hours pounding on the keys,

pretending to be a writer,

 a reporter,

 or a Clarence Darrow like, Legal Eagle.

Whole movies and books being imagined in my head.

I always wanted a Royal,

 because that is what my man Hemingway used.

I have a picture in the bookstore,

 of Ernest typing on his Royal,

 he’s so cool.

My favorite bookmark is Snoopy typing,

“It was a dark and stormy night”

I always wanted to be a writer.

I like my laptop just fine, when I get my new Mac,

 I may even grow to love it.

But, to me,

 nothing says writer like pen, notebook and typewriter.

The astetics of the written word.

Later girls


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