We write or we are written upon. The whole of our lives is the clumsy attempt to wield the pen with grace.

Pen-bereavement is a serious matter.

I never do anything I don't want to do. Nor does anyone, but in my case I am always aware of it.

I look up into the sky to see all the drops falling on the ground before they make contact. I realize the drops have more in common with me than I think. We're all just falling until we're not falling, and we don't really have a choice where we land.

I prefer the pen. There is something elemental about the glide and flow of nib and ink on paper.

When I started writing I wanted the best tools. I skipped right over chisels on rocks, stylus on wet clay plates, quills and fountain pens, even mechanical pencils, and went straight to one of the first popular spin-offs of the aerospace program: the ballpoint pen. They were developed for comber navigators in the war because fountain pens would squirt all over your leather bomber jacket at altitude. (I have a cherished example of the next generation ballpoint, a pressurized Space Pen cleverly designed to work in weightlessness, given to me by Spider Robinson. At least, I cherish it when I can find it. It is also cleverly designed to seek out the lowest point of your desk, roll off, then find the lowest point on the floor, under a heavy piece of furniture. That's because it is cylindrical and lacks a pocket clip to keep it from rolling. In space, I presume it would float out of your pocket and find a forgotten corner of your spacecraft to hide in. NASA spent $3 million developing it. Good job, guys. I'm sure it's around here somewhere.)