Today is a writing-intensive day. Between editing an advertisement and revising a project’s press teaser, I’m spending a lot of time with my No. 2 pencil.
Working in an architectural firm, my colleagues find my love affair with the No. 2 a little odd. After all, they use a variety of pencil lead weights when sketching to capture proper shade and shadow.
But that’s not important to me.
Mechanical pencils are too precise, too accurate and somewhat timeless. You can’t tell if you’ve accomplished anything because it keeps its lead supply hidden.
I want to be forced to stop to sharpen my pencil because I did something. It’s satisfying to have to take a break to sharpen the point and attack a page once again.
I want to see the mark of my efforts on my hands. I love the faint grey smear on my right ring finger, covering the small callus that’s there from years of holding a No. 2.
I want a trusty friend in-hand when I sit to capture the contents of my mind on paper. There’s something primitive and honest about handwriting with a No. 2, transporting us to an earlier time and place.
What can I say? I love you, No. 2!