I started what I thought was a great job, where I hoped to stay a long time. It was in public relations at a large, prestigious firm. I had been at a public relations agency that had laid me off, and I wanted a stable environment. This was definitely a good career move.

I had moved into public relations from journalism. It was getting harder and harder to make a living in the world of journalism. I had seen my salary cut and hadn’t had a raise in years. With small children now at home, I needed something more lucrative, and public relations was an obvious move.

More than a decade later, I have an impressive resume of PR jobs and titles. My journalism background helped me with media relations—I had once been one of them, and I understood their pain. I used my

ear for news to help the clients and executives I worked with understand what to expect and how things would be portrayed. I missed journalism, but I enjoyed being involved in the news cycle in a significant way.

The latest job was promising. I would work with lots of smart people at the top of their field and build relationships with journalists. I showed up every day enthusiastic and willing to help. I followed up on every idea, took calls and meetings from every player and operative, and set about my best work every day. The people running the business liked what I did, and I got along well with everyone.

At some point, though, something shifted. I don’t know when exactly; it might have been shortly after a high profile executive mentioning the PR guy at his old company was great and asking if he could be brought over. It may have been after the holiday party, when people noticed that I didn’t drink, or that I networked too much—or not enough. But at some point, the managers of the public relations department decided I was no good. Every question or interaction was either a probing inquiry to uncover some unknown fault or else a quiet put down. Every call or meeting with the managers made me feel dirty afterwards. I needed more approvals to get things done, and my emails that needed approval sat in my boss’s inbox for weeks, sometimes more than a month. There were more hoops to jump through, and while I jumped through every single one, I couldn’t help but notice that this wasn’t asked of my colleagues. People running the business units I worked with had good things to say about me, but it didn’t matter. Everything was under a microscope and nothing was right.

Each day, the ax over my head felt a little closer.

One of my routines when working in an office is to walk around. As a PR person representing different business groups, it’s important to have face time, no matter how fleeting, with the people you represent. In past jobs, this paid dividends. Seeing my face reminds people of things that they need to tell me or send me. And I would often learn something new or meet someone I only knew from emails or conference calls.

On every floor of this company’s office, there are small photocopy and printer rooms that also house basic office supplies, including pens. Most of the pens are clear Bic Cristal Ball Point Pens, which are perfectly good pens. But nestled among these clear pens were Bic Round Stick Ballpoint Pens, which are solid colors with better look and usability; I like these much better. Finding one of these pens is a rare treat, and I wanted to do my work using only these pens.

So, when I was doing my daily walks around the office, I would look in these supply rooms to see if I could find the one Bic Round Stick Ballpoint Pen in the mass of Bic Cristal Ball Point Pens. It was a small joy that gave me something to look forward to in my day. I didn’t take too many—only what I would normally use or keep as backup pens. Having these pens made me a little more enthusiastic about my work.

Most writing is done by keyboard these days, but the act of writing helps generate ideas and ignites the mind in a way that keyboards do not. Writing longhand is creation and imagination at its most primal level. There is something in the heft of the pen, no matter how cheap or primitive, which is empowering in a way that hacking away at a keyboard will never be, though hack away at the keyboard we must. Maybe someday computer chips will read our thoughts and somehow commit our perverse imaginations into instant animated videos and storyboards, but so far the content that is powered by the latest in Artificial Intelligence looks fake and hackneyed. Maybe some of us are doomed to be the last remnants of a dead civilization—“My granddad still writes with a pen!”—then I will gladly be that old relic, still scribbling poems and story ideas on ancient paper, and be considered verboten for using products that killed trees. I’ll be that old monster. 

I continued to show up to work every day ready to work hard and get publicity for my employer. I generated lots of ideas that went unread and kept chasing award submissions that were being sat on by the supervisors. No one could accuse me of not doing my job. If they were still paying me, I was still working.

One Tuesday last summer, I got an email from my boss inviting me to have our regular weekly meeting in a conference room. My boss usually ignored our weekly meetings entirely without giving me the courtesy of a cancelation notice, so the sudden interest and use of a conference room meant only one thing: I was getting the ax. This was confirmed early the next morning when this calendar invite appeared in my email again, this time with an HR person included. I washed my coffee mug and packed up my things.

I offered no apologies and made no excuses and walked out an unemployed but free man, with my head held high and about half a dozen choice pens in my bag.

Pens last longer than they used to. We don’t write as much in longhand these days. It’s easier for me to type and my penmanship is terrible. Still, I fill notepads with drafts of poems and ideas for stories, random ideas and reminders. I still feel naked and unprepared without two pens in my pocket whenever I leave the house. I prefer ballpoint click pens for travel because they’re easier to use one-handed and there’s no cap to lose.

The pens from my former job are the go-to pens in my home at the moment to write poems and ideas; I have them stuck in the spirals of my notebooks, like arrows in a quiver. They are a trophy of my time in the corporate world that proves, if only to myself, that I have come through with my spirit intact. Each poem, each oddball joke or strange idea that I jot down, is a small victory.

I am financially poor and still struggling, but have a much richer life. I am doing more writing and enjoying my days much more.

These pens will eventually run out, but the exodus from an unhealthy environment will pay dividends.

But first, on to gainful employment.