You know it.

The muffled breath of a dulled lead pencil.
The intelligent scratch of a fine tipped pen.
The round hum of a ballpoint.

These are the sound effects to the creations of words.

There is something so beautiful about a good pen.
Silver. Slim-line. Weighted at the tip. Blue ink - I write better in blue. But it's not just what the pen looks and feels like. It's what the pen is.
My pen has a most intimate connection to my mind. I don't have to speak. It knows the words sometimes even before I think them. My pen knows things about me that not a single living creature does.
And it never tells.
Now, Pilot Pens I do not love - however, I would not bring myself to hate them. They are altogether too light. But they give me a fantastic sense of importance, because they have this habit of leaking right where your fingers grip. The ink soaks into your skin at the tip of your first finger and the knuckle of your third, making you look like a very serious, devoted, splendid writer, instead of the sporadic dabbler of unfinished stories that you are.
Pencils are just bad for book writing, for they oblige you to erase your mistakes instead of scribbling them out. I don't know about you, but I fell so progressive when I look back on a page full of scribbles and tiny, crammed, scrawled corrections. I appear to be simply brimming over with mad creativity.
I know these opinions are intensely personal, and you may not agree with any of them at all. Yet there is one thing upon which every write must agree, and that is this: There is nothing, no sound so frustrating, hopeless, and grating as that of a dry pen, scratching meaningless holes in a sheet of perfectly good paper.