stream of consciousness

It’s a rainy Sunday. I sit on the kitchen table and stare at my computer’s screen. The page is completely blank, apart from the word “TITLE” which is glaring back at me.

Nowadays, there are many productivity apps to enhance concentration and writing tasks. They come in many functions and forms, from cute and colourful trees growing while your focus is being timed to dressed by ethereal music minimalistic screens which look like flimsy old paper ready to be written on by a fine feathery quill. On my smartphone screen, a little sunflower is growing while preventing me from using SNS. On my computer screen, the cursor blinks. With each blink I’m counting another second I spend not writing.

I let out a sigh and put my computer to sleep.

Despite these aids, I continue to rely on the simple pencil and paper, when I want to produce any text. Whether I am drawing plans for essays, looking for inspiration for creative articles or reflecting on personal stories, my first words are born by the pencil. My first thoughts come more readily to paper. From then on, I never know where I will end up.

I pick up my old dark pansy-purple mechanical pencil and order myself in focus. Its surface is always cold and soothing at first touch; the right amount of light for writing comfortably, the right amount of heavy for telling my brain I’m supposed to be writing. Before long, it shares the temperature of my hand. Despite its years and many grazes, its plastic and metal body feel sleek and smooth. Its 0.7mm tip, always flows swiftly and effortlessly. I can’t remember when I bought this pencil, I only know that I’ve carried it for more than 10 years now, and it’s become indispensable. It has become a symbol of inspiration; at times my invocation of the Muse, at times my calculator for facts and factors.

I open my notebook gathering my thoughts. Its matte pages feel thin and dry but are neither smooth nor rough. I try to find words to describe the texture, but I am not certain which would be most accurate. I flip a few pages, the recycled paper rustles between my fingers. I flatten the notebook determined to start writing. I put down a couple of words. I consider my topic and draw a couple of lines.

Since childhood I was always told to make outlines before I started writing, but especially lately I’ve been trying to map my multiple items out and find the relation between them before I begin. The sketchbooks we’re urged to use in my laboratory have greatly contributed in this. At thirteen inches, my first sketchbook originally felt like my computer’s screen. Big, all blank with somewhat glossy pages, my pencil’s scribblings disappeared in it. I was intimidated. But as I got used to it, it became essential part of my fieldwork tools. With it, I made bolder moves when taking down notes or thoughts. I switched to pens and markers. Soon came the shapes and arrows, colour coding information, et cetera. I’ve become more carefree with using sketchbooks and I am about to finish the pages of yet another very soon. I have confidence that my data is safely waiting for me in them, but it hasn’t been my only deposit of information. Simultaneously, a large part of my data gathering at fieldwork has been conducted through other media and technology, such as cameras and voice recordings.

Over time, I may have started to neglect my pencil that is too delicate, too discreet to leave a mark on the sketchbook, and of course unable to write on memory cards and voice recorders. But sketchbooks, colourful pens and technology, who for me are an excellent tool for input and organisation of information, have in very few ways strengthened my ability to express myself. It is this pencil in my hand and the sound of lead tracing the paper which puts my thoughts, my expression and words into motion.

Now, half-way through but still far to go before finishing my research, it is important to hold my pencil firmly and continue to write.