Pen Stories

I am so worried about Will. Such a disappointment. When I married John Shakespeare, we agreed that we wanted a large family. By the time Will was born in 1564 we had already had two daughters die in infancy. When it was clear that Will was going to survive, we were so relieved, and John used to say that Will became a symbol of love’s labour not being lost. When, at three-years-old, he disappeared into the woods, we were d...

I pick up my pen and paper to write, but my head is blank, empty of words. Blank like a clean lonely slate that will never know the pleasure of words written on it for company, empty like the hollowness of nothing. I feel like a soul still searching for purpose and meaning and finding none, begins to believe anything that offers even the smallest succour, that offers a way out even if it's the wrong way out. I stare at th...

Pen and paper, ink and words, drips of wax and candlelight. A hunched up figure at a desk writing through the night. A brainful of imagination, a well of unpenned thoughts, trickling slowly to the page in letters, words, inkblots. Scratching, scrawling, scribbling fills that small scriptorium. Curls, serifs, and cursive swirls spin words for tales to come.