There's something special about the scent of freshly ground pencil lead. The feel of a pencil's faceted wood between my fingers, even the crumbling bits of eraser left after changing a mistake, tug me closer to any topic about which I write. Typing onto a keyboard doesn’t inspire me as deeply as the snick of a sharpened pencil moving over lined paper. Somehow, it adds distance between the idea and the page.
Perhaps, technology acts like artistic static. Nature, in all its forms, generates mental and emotional intimacy. It plucks the heartstrings of the writer, like the skilled hands of a harpist. A walk along the lake, a run through the park, or a moment of stillness beneath a tree can reconnect us with our inner and outer worlds, stimulating physical senses and mental acuity.
Gretel Erlich said, “Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.”
The look of a leaf, the scent of its sap, the firm yet gentle feeling of its ribbed edges against your skin, stirs deeply buried remnants of imagination. Words you know but haven’t used in a while rise to mind. Writing becomes both visual and mental, composition an all-encompassing journey, as the senses reawaken the enthusiasms of youth.
As a child, I used to stop each time I sharpened a pencil, holding the point under my nose and sniffing, luxuriously. The scent of the lead was as satisfying as the smell of fresh bread.
So, stop and smell the pencil lead. It may be just the stimulation you need to breathe authenticity onto the page.
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