I Play with Pens and Ink when I'm Alone

And sometimes Legos and books and bonsai trees

Feb 01, 2025

For the first time in at least a month, I had some time to myself. Those moments are rare with a family, so I wanted to take advantage.

Except I was paralyzed. I’m so accustomed to having no time to myself that I suffer from choice paralysis. Do I eat? Do I nap? Do I play with myself? Do I make art? Read a book? Build my Lego McLaren? Fix the dishwasher? Watch a movie? Honestly, I’d love to do all of those things, but I only have a few hours.

So I got a shower and made myself some dinner, watched an episode of Man In The High Castle I’ve been meaning to get back to, and then decided to make some art.

Painting and drawing have become a critical part of my life. When I got sober a few years ago, I had no idea how much of a role they’d play. It was easy to see that writing would be a huge part of it because I needed to process so much. But after that initial wave, I stumbled right into art.

It’s been a weirdly interesting path to making art that formed whatever this mess is I call my artistic style.

As a kid, I was weirdly fascinated with stationery and pens and pencils, notebooks and Trapper Keepers. I’ve come to learn that these are common interests in the writing community, but I wasn’t a writer then. I just knew I liked that stuff.

Several years ago I discovered fountain pens. I got my first gateway pen, a Pilot Metropolitan for about $20, and I was hooked. I loved how it felt to hold, how it wrote, and how refined it seemed compared to anything disposable. I then had to try a Lamy Safari, a TWSBI Eco, and there was no going back. It was a civilized weapon in an uncivilized age.

I eventually graduated to gold-nibbed and hand-built pens by craftspeople around the world. Maybe I should do a photo essay of my favorites with some writing samples and such, though I’ve wanted to do it for years and haven’t.

Along with trying new pens came trying new kinds of fountain pen-friendly papers and inks. When I learned there were as many colors and formulations of ink that I could handle, I couldn’t wait to play with them. Inks and pens were showing up every other week. I was showing them to my friends and making them try them. Of course, no one cared but me. But I was passionate and entertaining myself in a somewhat healthy way.

Then one day I spilled a blob of ink in a nearby notebook and, absent-mindedly, decided to push it around. It didn’t behave like I thought it would. Different sheens and colors began to appear. Fascinated, I started sketching and spilling ink on purpose. Manipulating it, mixing it, sloshing it around and experimenting was cathartic and meditative.

From there I just kept playing. Along the way, I have ideas and try them. I’m not afraid to fail because I don’t care. I’m not making a living with this stuff, and I’m not even trying to sell it. I’ll give it away if anyone wants a piece, or I’ll send a print for nothing. I’m just having a good time, and I have a day job that pays the bills.

Tonight, in my “studio” (garage), I painted 3 skies that I’ll use as a backdrop for something else. Trees or landscapes or something fantastical like a mechanical island in the sky. Sometimes I don’t know until I start, and that’s the best part. If I don’t know how to draw something, I take the time and learn, then plop it on a pre-painted backdrop.

Sometimes, though, they’re perfect on their own. I get to decide.

In the meantime, the world feels like pure chaos. I’m disgusted with the way people are behaving, with the things happening in the US. With my wife and kids constantly on their devices, consuming “content” produced by “content creators” which is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

I understand the desire to make a living from your art, but with everything already a commodity, how loud do you have to be to even be noticed? Everyone is screaming for attention. Everything is a subscription. Everything is an advert. Everything is monetized.

We live in a fractured, desolate, chaotic wasteland of money and idiots with big mouths.

It’s not that I’m hiding from the world or burying my head in the sand, but I think art is my way of coping. I’m off of all social media except Substack, and I’m careful with scrolling Notes. Aside from that, I’m reading books again, meditating, writing, and making art.

This week I started the sequel to Wanderers by Chuck Wendig, Wayward. It took me a minute to remember where the story picked up, but I love it so far. I recently finished Starter Villain by John Scalzi and Ascension by Nicholas Binge.

I’m also working on this thing with my son: