The Therapy Pencil

Lightning stuck! Thunder boomed moments later! The birds scattered around, crying to the others. The air buzzed with energy as the battle begun! The

I stopped writing. Writer’s block, fun. I tapped my pen against my notebook, which was sparkly and had a bunch of mythological creatures on it. At little childish for someone in their twenties, but I find it inspiring sometimes. Unfortunately, right now is not one of those times. I’m a hobby writer, my actual job is that I am an on-call CSI. Not the most well paying job and it gets traumatizing sometimes, but its a job I like. Ish. I’m going to do this for a few years until I can afford a Ph.D. and become a whole forensics scientist. Its a little different that the career choices my parents told me to follow, as all Indian parents do: doctor, engineer, lawyer, or businessman, but after they gradually understood.

I groan in frustration. I can’t seem to figure out how to write this stupid battle scene. Its taken me weeks to even write one measly chapter. I used to be able to write like 2 chapters a day on WattPad. But then again, that was fan fiction that I’d stop writing once exams hit and I got writer’s block. To this day, I’ve never finished writing a book. That’s why I never took it up as a career. That and its not a steady job, unless you’re lucky enough to sign on with a publisher and end up on New York Time’s bestselling list. Or BookTok. I stand up and pace around my small living room. My cat meows loudly, probably thinking I’m the one with zoomies. She does that when I anxiously pace around like that. Suddenly my toe crashed into one of the table legs and I cried out. “I HATE EVERYTHING!” I plop back into my chair and put my head down. Why am I so frustrated?

“Why do you hate everything?” A high pitched voice asked.

My head jerked up. “Who said that?” I look around but nobody was there. I don’t have any roommates.

“Me.” The voice said. I look down to find that my Ticonderoga Smart Mechanical Pencil standing up. I blink. Did I suddenly develop dementia? Am I hallucinating? I had a migraine earlier and took my migraine medication, is this a side effect? I stand up and back away. “Hey why are you backing up? I just asked you a simple question.”

“No no, you’re a pencil, I’m hallucinating that you’re talking and standing and-”

“Trust me, this is real, calm down, would you like to do a grounding exercise with me?”

“Wha- no- I need to call my therapist or maybe 911-” then I remembered I stopped seeing my therapist because it got too expensive since she stopped accepting my insurance. I found out that the hard way when I was sent a bill for $1000. I had to donate plasma twice a week for a month to pay it. “Okay maybe not my therapist-”

My cat, a ginger cat named Gingermelon, jumped up on to the table and pounced at the pencil. “Hey! Get off!” It cried. The pencil rolled off but I stepped forward and caught it. “Nice catch.”

I stared at the talking pencil in my trembling hand. “If my cat attacked you because you were standing up… I guess I’m not hallucinating… unless I hallucinated Gingermelon attacking you.”

“I can guarantee you I’m real. I know its crazy, but its true.”

“I didn’t think a smart pencil means it could talk, not just automatically push out lead. How come you didn’t talk before? I bought you months ago.”

“Oh well uh.. Let’s just say my spirit is here now.”

“You’re a ghost?”

“No-no ghosts aren’t real… Look I can’t explain a whole lot, just know I’m not an Earthly Spirit and I’m not a ghost. I like to find artists and talk to them. Your energy brought me here.”

“My energy?”

“Yes, well, you seem very anxious and frustrated.”

“Right but I’m not an artist, I’m a CSI.”

“You write, right? Writing is an art.”

“Yeah.. well I don’t write a lot… I like to write as a hobby… I’ve never finished writing a book.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Its never been the most important thing in my life. I love writing, I really do, but I get writer’s block and I find that I give up on a story, sometimes I go back to it, and then I remember I have to make actual money. My parents even said writing is a waste of time because it doesn’t help my career. Like in school and even in college, I was juggling assignments and extracurricular. Now I have my job, and sometimes I’ll side hustle so I can make a few extra bucks just to afford something nice or medical bills.”

“That sounds stressful. What got you into writing?”

“Hmm..” I sat on my sofa and put the pencil down on coffee table. “I was in elementary school. I just moved, and started writing about magical tales, involving me. I’d be a superhero or something. As I grew up, it became something to escape reality, like reading books. Only when I write, I felt like I could control the story. Especially when I got bullied.”

“So maybe you wanted to control your own story, but since you couldn’t, you wrote stories. Perhaps with some version of yourself that was someone you wish you were and with a happier story?”

“Yeah..” realization hit me. “I guess so. I could write myself as a cool, better looking version of myself. I once wrote about a spy who stopped a cyberattack. That was during a time where I got bad grades and my parents called my useless.”

“Did you feel useless when they called you that?”

“Yeah.. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right.”

“And the spy in your story, they were probably very smart, and was praised by an authority figure after the spy stopped the attack, right?”

“Spot on, pencil. What should I call you, by the way? I feel weird for calling you pencil.”

“Umm..” the pencil wobbled a bit, as if to be thinking. “Call me Dixon, I guess. That’s the brand right?”

“Yeah.. Okay well my name is Hemadri.”

“Nice to meet you, Hemadri.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Lets get back to what your parents were saying about you.”

“Oh.. we don’t have to go back to that…”

“It sounds perhaps your parents hurt you a lot?”

“Wha- yeah.. but aren’t you supposed to be helping me with my writer’s block? Not therapy me-”

“You said you never finished writing a book. You also said your parents thought writing was a waste of time because it didn’t help your career.”

“Yeah…”

“Writing is not just a hobby for you, its a release, its a coping mechanism. You get to take control of the story, give it a whole universe of your design. That’s what art is, really, creating something from your own inspiration. It may not be as important in your life as your career but its something beautiful and important for your soul.”

“Huh.” For a formerly inanimate object, Dixon is quite insightful.

“Perhaps its time to look within yourself and think of writing as important. Now, you shouted something earlier, which is when I-I uh woke up.” Dixon hopped to the other end of the table pointed toward the dining table where I was writing.

“Oh I stubbed my toe-”

“There’s something more going on right? What in your life is stressing you out? I assume you were stressed out because of something in your life and you were writing.”

“What- oh- well what adult in their twenties isn’t stressed. I got rent to pay- OH CRAP-” I flopped up and yanked my phone out of my pocket.

“What happened?”

I started tapping buttons. “My paycheck was delayed by a week, and I didn’t get a lot of hours this month, so I couldn’t pay rent earlier. In fact, I’ve been charged a late fee of $50 already. If I don’t pay in about 3 minutes, the landlord will add another late fee of $150. Plus electric bills-”

“Did you tell the landlord about your situation?”

“Yeah. And they said to try the Flex program next time. But that requires a credit score of 650. And mine is 522. Student loans man.. Ugh stupid internet.” My internet always chooses the worst time to slow down.

“Wow…. I can see why its frustrating. Did your paycheck come in?”

“Nope. Gotta overdraft.” I clicked pay and the rent was paid. I do not want to look at my bank account. “I’m going to have to skip milk in my coffee for the next few weeks. And maybe donate plasma again. So many bills ugh…"

“That’s stressful.”

“That’s reality. Which circles back to why I like writing new realities,” Gingermelon hopped on to my lap and started purring. I felt a little more calm. “I could write a world where landlords are more fair or where alien’s drop cookies at my doorstep because I helped them solve a problem or anything… I’m just so lost in life. I mean yeah I have a job and I repaired my relationship with my parents and my brother thinks I’m cool but I just.. I don’t know. I want to escape my reality.”

“Why don’t you try writing again, but maybe this time think of your predicament, write it into your story metaphorically. And then get your main character out of this predicament.”

“Why?”

“Like you said, escape your reality. Write one where you fix the issues you’re facing. It might not be the answer to your problems, but you can get a break from it, even if its a short break.”

“Hmm.. you’re right…” I got up, picking up Dixon and going back to the table where I was writing. I look at Dixon and smile. “I hope there’s no copay for this therapy session.”