They are the implements of our creativity, the wellspring of our words. I’m ever so slightly picky about pens: I far prefer blue ink. Ballpoint is fine, I’m not a fountain pen snob. Purple is even better than blue if I can get it, but it feels like an extra special occasion and sometimes the words jam up for fear of wasting it. I do like a nice grip to hang onto, but of course that’s not a must.
I suppose I’m less picky than I often think. Any tool will do in a pinch—I’m using black ink now, and it isn’t really slowing me down any.
I write large, filling the lines almost completely from bottom to top even with my lowercase letters. When I get properly inspired, I ignore the lines altogether and write even larger, in crazy malformed scribbles that others would likely have a hard time reading. Just as well they don’t have to: such pages are my pre-work, initial ideas and basic structures before actually launching into the writing of a scene for a novel.
And in this way, the blank page of pixels does not stymy my efforts.