I bought it on a trip to Paris.
I was blocked. Staring at blank paper day after day, week after week.
What better inspiration to write stories and poems than with an extraordinary pen purchased in this
city, home to so many great writers.
Simone de Beauvoir
and Gertrude Stein to name but a few.
And so I bought the pen.
I'd seen it in the window of a stationary store on my walks to and from the café every morning.
It beckoned me toward the window with it's intricate silver design.
I'd managed to admire it in passing for days, but now it was becoming an obsession.
I broke down and bought the pen.
It was extravagant and expensive but with a pen like this one could, no, one must write wonderful stories.
It is seven years later;
I was cleaning out a drawer and there was the pen.
Still in it's box.
Upon my arrival back home all those years ago, I had tried to use the pen but it was too heavy and
bulky. Too difficult to write with easily.
And so it was retired to the drawer.
Never used to write the masterpiece it was meant to write.
Maybe I'll try it again, who knows...