My youngest brother Bruce (Norman Bruce Duffett III) got me an electric pencil sharpener this Christmas. I had put it on my list for two years running, but somehow no one seemed to take the entry seriously. I got lucky, however. The Christmas Eve frenzy set in, and I walked into the kitchen to witness my other brother, Jason, fielding an emergency phone call.
"Becky. Do you have a guide book on France?"
"Ooh! Tell Bruce I really want a pencil sharpener."
Jason stares.
"Please? I don't want any guide books."
"But aren't you going to France?" Blank look.
"I just really want a pencil sharpener! Why does nobody want to get me a pencil sharpener? Tell him they're cheap."
My wish was granted, because, surprise! The next morning I unwrapped a shiny, bullet-shaped gem, which now greets me in the office every morning.
At first, my coworkers were a bit distressed. One of the Julias asked me if I was doing some light drilling at my desk. No, not I! I am sharpening pencils! I introduced her to my new friend. I explained that my younger brother, Norman Bruce Duffett III, was the source. Julia gets this. We once bonded over the joys of lining up new rubber erasers in a straight row.
Now she and various others stop by occasionally for a grind. Designers, I've come to learn, are prodigious users of manual pencils. Honestly, I would expect no less. Designers are tremendously cool people. One of my favorite designers has a Depression-era glass jar on her desk, filled with pretty pencils. Things like this make it clear to me why the rest of us will never be able to keep up with designers.
I suspect that new school supplies are so immensely gratifying because of the sense of possibility. When you sit down with a freshly sharpened pencil in the morning, you can tackle anything (or at least any sentence) the world has to throw at you. Misused comma? I'm on it. Making every word count? You betcha. To quote the Stanford Writing Center: Saving the world, one thesis at a time.
One of my favorite parts of my job is that I actually get to work with paper and pencil. I love it when someone drops a stack of pages on my desk, and I get to spend the remainder of the afternoon not looking at a screen. I think very many people today are deprived this simple pleasure. Of reading. And writing. By hand. Moreover, one of the biggest delights of making books is that you're actually making books. Meaning that after months of thinking about something, and working on something, that something actually shows up on your desk, bound and printed and gorgeous. And you get to hold that something up and say, Hey! I helped make that.
And so, this morning, as I did when I was eight years old, I select my weapon. I sharpen it to within a point of its life. I line up my erasers, and take my seat. I consider the page with a wild surmise, silent above a peak--and then I really get down to scribbling.
