Pen Without Ink

hus marks my first post.  Or should I say “blog” instead of “post”?  Hmm. I think I’ll just compromise and call it a “pog.”  So…thus marks my first pog.  To dirty this canvas strikes me as an intensely daunting task; therefore, I choose to be brief (which rarely ever happens in my writing, as I’m sure you’ll see) and simply say that I look forward to future pogs and wherever they may lead me.  And you.  And creation.

A word (or 50) regarding the title I chose for my blog… I’m not a skilled translator or anything, but “Je ne suis qu’une pauvre plume” was a line written by the 19th-Century French Romantic author, Alfred de Vigny, in his posthumously published Journal d’un poète. Translated into English, this line would mean “I am but a poor pen”… poor in every sense. Basking in the imposing shadow of the great Victor Hugo, Vigny felt enormous pressure — from his contemporaries, but primarily from himself. Both his mother and his wife fell ill and required his care, which he dutifully gave. And which drained him. Add a temperamental mistress who was the star of the Romantic stage, and you have a pretty exhausted dude. Sometimes, when we most need the ink to run freely and consistently, the well can dry up, leaving us flat.

Incidentally, good ole Alfred is the subject of my as-yet-to-be-completed dissertation, so… he often flitters about and readily makes himself available to me. Vigny both gently soothes me and violently shakes me, head to toenail.  And he understands me better than most. But much time remains to discuss such things in future pogs. Don’t get too excited.

For now, my inkwell crusts over and barely a drop remains. I am drained. (And I’m kind of thirsty and craving a Mountain Dew.) So, until the cool, liquid darkness threatens to overflow and stain me, I shall remain creatively impoverished and shamefully silent. (Yet full of Dewy love.)

À bientôt.

(*Note: I am not sponsored by Mountain Dew. But I should be.)