Steinbeck spent two months in preparation and research for the writing of East of Eden – and a good bit of that research went into the pencil he would use. He declared the Blackwing 602 to be "the perfect pencil." He was said to sharpen 60 Blackwing pencils each morning so he didn’t have to stop writing in order to sharpen one over the ambitious six-hour workday. And he had an eccentric rule about how long they would last: “When the metal of the pencil eraser touches my hand, I retire that pencil.” He called the electric pencil sharpener a needless expense, but one he was willing to indulge because it saved his hands for writing.
The slogan on the original pencil is, “Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed.” I miss seeing that slogan on the new Palomino pencil, though it otherwise feels and acts the same as the original which went out of production in 1998. Steinbeck has much to say about the Blackwing in his book, Journal of a Novel, which is a sort of diary of his daily life and thoughts behind the writing of the Eden book. He talks freely about the daily interruptions from friendly callers, carpet cleaners, carpenters, an ex-wife, etc. And he has a lot to say about Blackwings – the speed, the glide, the precision, the hexagonal barrel, the extra length, the no-break points – all praiseworthy and practical reasons to use them. But as I sit to write with my few remaining Blackwing 602s – and now a full box of the new Palomino Blackwings from http://www.pencils.com/ – I wonder if Steinbeck ever brought the pencil to his upper lip, as I do, between paragraphs, to inhale the fragrant California cedar . . .
. . . transporting me to river banks where freshly caught salmon is smoked over embers of cedar and ash – bronzed skin toting planks for the smouldering pile – the rush of freshly fallen water, cascading white over rocks worn smooth by centuries of never ending sound – echoes of the source of all sound – a rhythm of dance, the beat of drums, the hum of cicadas at night . . . that is where my Blackwings take me . . . to that place where sound begins. Was Steinbeck ever there? Is he there now?
But I am brought back too quickly . . . the phone rings . . . the Bradford pear trees need trimming and here is the estimate and the prognosis . . . my phone caller sparks numbers at me, the time he will arrive, the cost . . . the heat pump clicks on, that noisome smell of burnt dust on electric coil . . . I should call to get those cleaned . . . I boil filtered water for tea, thinking about all these things . . . inhaling cedar once again, longing to take flight to that place where writing can begin . . .
