Writing is best done with a pen—not with a pencil, and definitely not on a computer.

Since elementary school, my teachers have denounced my use of pen in their classes: “It doesn’t erase! What if you mess up? It’ll look too sloppy.” Although pens have always been my favorite writing utensil, I doomed them to the depths of my bookbag, their cellmates crumpled paper and broken pencil lead. But for too long have I listened to those teachers, and for too long have I been writing the wrong way.

And yet, sometimes I still stray from the path of pen-enlightenment. A few months ago, I stayed home from school—sick. In my Benadryl-induced fatigue, I thought that this day would be the perfect time to obsessively compose and edit my September op-od. I pulled out my laptop, opened a fresh Google Doc, and stared at the overwhelmingly white screen: I had forgotten that the first step was to have an idea. So I sat. And I thought. I typed out a sentence, then immediately deleted it. And I thought some more.

After 45 minutes, I had that glowing rectangle burned into my retinas, and still, nothing on the page. It was as if the screen put me into some sort of trance—I was paralyzed. I wrote out a meek sentence after gaining the willpower to try once more.

But of course, that sentence too suffered the wrath of my backspace key; no argument, idea, or thought I had would ever be good enough. I couldn’t help but imagine a ruthless critic (who looked awfully like myself) reading my uninspired sentences and glaring contradictions. I kept imagining what he would say. I felt his leucotome of rebuttals poking holes in my arguments so deep that they perforated my prefrontal cortex—but maybe a lobotomy was what I needed at this point.

At that moment, I realized that I had dug myself too deep into the hole of thought. With a defeated sigh, I closed my laptop, stepped carefully over the puddle of brain matter that had melted out of my nose and onto the floor by my desk, and made my way to the kitchen for a snack—a break. 

While munching, I thought some more. I tried to determine why I seemed to be incapable of writing down even a single coherent thought—and why I always seem to have this issue. Why does the mere thought of sitting down at my computer to write render me immobilized, when writing, for me, is as essential to my survival as food, water, or shelter? Why must I feel the need to create but be so poor at creating?

Maybe I just need to stop thinking.

So, with a clear desk and a clear mind, I replaced the laptop with a sheet of paper and the mouse with a pen—my favorite pen. A pen that glided smoothly along and deposited a perfect black ink onto the page. And then, I wrote.

In my pursuit of perfection, I had ultimately created nothing; I had typed down nothing because I was trying for something perfect, when perfection does not exist. And my computer had been the foil that led to my creative demise: it was too easy to write with, I didn’t have to commit to anything I typed because it was only a tap away from never existing at all.

With pen, though, writing is different: it is permanent, and that is exactly why it is the overthinker’s greatest tool. When writing in pen, you must commit to your ideas; you must realize that perfection and neatness are never the goal. Only then will you be free to create.