I have an addiction. They say that admitting it is the first step to recovery, but all admitting it has ever gotten me is a bowl full of strange looks and pitying laughter. Even so, I press on and admit again, I have an addiction. I cannot help myself, I love the pull of the sweet swirls, the joyous brightness that erupts as the pressure pops the fluid down across the smooth white paper…yes, I am addicted to colored pens!
See, there’s that look. The wide eyed, sideways glance, a little cough to hide the giggle…there ya go. Welcome to the world of the non-afflicted. Yes, this is real. I see a colored pen and I need it. I have to work overtime to not purchase new packs of pens, or just grab them off the shelf, open the package, and take off! I love the colors, the plethora of ways to use them. I write my books in rainbow ink. Each character, each place, each novel has different colors denoting their roles in my life. I cringe when I have to fill out paperwork that says “please use blue or black ink.” I prefer purple, or pink maybe…sometimes green, or orange, or rust. I love metallic silver and copper colors on crisp paper. I can write, doodle, sign my name, and write some more all on one page and make it look like an art major’s pad. I have note cards covered in precise lines of color and can tell you at a single glance who and what those notes are referring to. Can you do all that with a simple black ball point? I think not!
Oh now I’ve gone and done it, I need a fix. Luckily I have a small metal briefcase that holds 36 ink pens, 32 of which are not plain black or blue (there are a few beautiful blue pens with glitter or lightened colors, I’ll use those on occasion. I’m not too picky!).
May all your addictions be as pleasant as mine, may you all be surrounded with colorful lines. May your days and your nights be comfy cozy, and may your blessings be bountiful as blooming posies.