No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Like everything, what compels one to put pen to paper is a great question.
I couldn't write because my nervous system was so bad - I couldn't even use a pen.
I'm not happy unless I have a pen in my hand, it's really that simple.
The pen is the tongue of the mind.
A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
Lapped in poetry, wrapped in the picturesque, armed with logical sentences and inalienable words.
I pick up my pen. It flows. A building appears. There it is. There is nothing more to say.
But with writing, all you need is a pad of paper.
It's called a pen. It's like a printer, hooked straight to my brain.
There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.