Stash pens everywhere around your house, your place of business, your commute, and daily rounds.
They come in handy for both writing stuff down quickly and also in case you are attacked and have nothing with which you can defend yourself.
When I hide the pens, and you may or may not choose to adopt the same disposition, I like to imagine myself a sort of Easter Bunny of pens, depositing them hither and thither with the practices aplomb of a master of disappearing.
“Will I ever be struck by the spark of inspiration whilst I hack away at a bagel, its stubborn crust unwilling to give up the (hopefully) soft innards? Better chuck a pen in the knife drawer, just in case.”
“My best ideas come in the shower, better tape a pen to the wall beside the towel rack. And better stock towels on which I can jot notes, which will sell for millions when I die.”
And that thought will bring you to one of those home goods stores, scouring the aisles for good writing towels, which, surprisingly, there really aren’t any. So you head off to buy a trough and a wood chipper. (This Internet search, by the way, will bring an interruption of FBI agents to your door for a brief but ultimately unfruitful chat.)
At home, clear a room to allow yourself plenty of space to chip your wood almost directly into the trough, which should be three quarters full with a water and sugar solution. Choose a nice pine or that damned tree in your front yard that has rendered the paint on your car spotty and patchy thanks to its prolific sweating of sap.
I would also recommend ear muffs to muffle the roar of the wood chipper, unless you’ve got the Ninja series that run so whisper quiet.
Chip the wood, and slosh it around for a day or two, keeping the wood chips moving in the solution to soften up the pieces until they begin to feel an affinity for one another like gentle drunks after midnight at a party they hadn’t intended on staying at for too long, but there they are, feeling good, both with lips, drawn to the salty residue of margaritas on the other’s.
On the second day, towards the end, press down on the primordial soup as if you were trying to drown it. Press it down uniformly until the paste begins to stick to the bottom. At this point, you will need to run out to get a collection of heat lamps. Perhaps there’s a fast food restaurant going out of business near you.
Place the heat lamps, still smelling of fries, grease, and disappointment over your trough of wood chip mud. Turn them on medium high, NOT high, otherwise you’ll be putting out a wood pulp fire, which, from experience, is one of the worst kind to try and put out.
After four days, your paste will be a hideous, somewhat serviceable giant trough-shaped piece of paper. Using a straight razor, cut this monstrosity into towel-sized chunks and hang them in your bathroom from the towel rack.
One thing to note: after a few showers you may notice your new towels dissolving in a disgusting glop onto your bathroom floor from the humidity in the bathroom.
Hide a pen in your new wood chipper. If you forget about it before you begin making your next batch of writing towels you’ll have a lovely ink splotch spewed all over your wall, which you can then dip your fingers into to take notes.