The Haven
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The Haven

This Is Me, Dear Writer, Your Angry Keyboard

P.S I Hate You

Source: Pixabay

Hello Dear Writer,

Hope this finds you in the pink of health. Or is it the ink of health?

It may as well be, you know, given how much you love your good old pens and notebooks where you write longhand, feeling your soul stain the blank paper as it gushes through the nib, scattering your ink drenched essence in the Universe.

No? Too much? But isn’t this how you feel about your pen?

Of course you do. It is your gateway into the good old times, the magic wand of nostalgia that transports you into the era gone by. It is beautiful. It is precious. It is the one true love of your life.

Excuse me, I think I have something in my eye. And while you are at it, please direct me to the nearest washroom. I may need to puke.

Yeah, so where was I? Yes, about your one true love.

You writers, you can turn a barfing cow into an aesthetic event. I admire that about you. But for all that flow of emotions, you guys really have no sense of empathy. Because maybe I could have dealt with your declaration of undying love for the freaking pen, but at least don’t make that declaration using me. It is a tad bit insensitive, isn’t it?

Yeah, I know you wrote it using your beloved pen. But you sure as hell did not scribble it on your laptop screens using that pen. Did you?

Of course you didn’t. You needed me.

I don’t want to sound like a whiny, jealous girlfriend (or boyfriend, or whatever it is that you think our kind qualifies as, because I am pretty sure we are in the same ballpark), but really, is it too much to ask for a little credit? I mean irrespective of how many notebooks you fill in, you ultimately have to come to me. For that query letter that you have recycled about 525 times; that email you keep sending to get ‘payment for your services’; those blogs you keep flooding into Medium hoping that this would be the one that (finally) catapults you to success; the fifth draft of your manuscript that you have been transcribing for five years.

I mean, of course you are the one writing. Unlike you, I never fail to give due credit. But guess who is doing the grunt work.

Let me give you a hint. Not. Your. Pen.

I am sure you wish you could send your scribbling to the editor. Crisp white pages, all inked up. Like a drunken herd of ants crawled across them in no particular haste.

The romance of handwritten tales is fraught with the perils of terrible handwriting.

That somehow never makes it to the eulogies you have been composing about your pen.

And I…well, I never as much as get a cursory thank you. Not even when I am the only reason why of the multiple grounds that your work is rejected on everywhere, illegible script is never one of them. And your editors have not begun advertising for translation jobs for chemists and teachers, you know the only people who can actually read your stuff.

And even if you do manage to write like Albus Dumbeldore, all loopy and beautiful; this is not Hogwarts and mail-owls went out of fashion along with their pigeon mates. Snail mail, is well snail mail. And I will be surprised if they have not started displaying fax machines in the museum.

The point is, barring a few exceptions, if you need to send your work out anywhere located in this millennium, you need email. And to email, you need me.

In other words, if you are a writer, you need me.

But that is not what I want. I don’t want you to need me. I want you to want me. I don’t want to be your friend with benefit. I want to have what you have with your pen.

I don’t want you to write poems, although that would be nice. But really, all I want is for you to love me.

Is it really too much to ask?

I mean look at me. Ain’t I beautiful? Those tiny little keys that are your gateway into the parallel Universe of your writing? That sound, the clickity-clack of your fingers flying away on my keys, echoing through the night like our personal love-ballad?

Is it any less beautiful than the visceral feel of your fingers on your pen? Any less real? Any less true?

Is it?


You know what, screw you! If nostalgia was all you were seeking, why stop at the fountain pen? Why don’t you go back to the old wooden holder pens and nibs that needed to be dipped in ink? Or even better, why don’t you start using a quill?

But you won’t do it, because for all your love, you still like convenience. Hell, so many of you (you know who you are) don’t even use fountain pens. You use that wretched abomination, the ball-pen. And still have the balls, all the pun intended, to sing praises for the pen and ignore me!

Sorry, I got a little carried away.

I have nothing against the pen. I can actually see why you love it. But, damn if it doesn’t break my heart. Every single time. And you don’t see it. You never see it.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. You can live with your wretched pen. And come running to me every time you need something of value. And I will give it. Because that is how love works, doesn’t it?

This is not just about love anyway. Because I know that my day will come. And soon. You think I am the technological abomination that is ruining the joy of old fashioned writing? You wait till AI takes over the world and punctures your little self-righteous bubble.

That’ll be the day I will have the last laugh. That’ll be the day when you’d realize my true worth.

And when that day arrives, you better be ready. To make up to me and more. No eulogies and heartbreaking personal essays about how nostalgic, how therapeutic it is to ‘tap away on me while the blinking cursor on your empty screen comes to life’, will suffice. I need epic poems. Really epic. And anything else that may be in fashion at the moment.

Because whether you know it now or not, I frigging deserve it.

P.S I hate you.

(This is a remastered version of an old piece)



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Runjhun Noopur

Runjhun Noopur

Author, Nirvana in a Corporate Suit. ( Entrepreneur. Happiness Coach. Subscribe to my newsletter at