Every time I walk into a store—big box, local, pharmacy—I drift toward the stationery section. Even if I’ve already seen it. Even if I was there last week. Same store. Same aisle. Still, I check. The ritual of revisiting a place that somehow reflects some part of who you are.
There isn’t anything I’m looking for exactly. But there’s something about those familiar displays. BIC, Papermate, Pilot, Pentel, Sharpie, Uniball, Zebra.
All lined up. All ready to spark a little tug-of-war in my brain.
Dialogue
I scan the shelf.
“I’ve tried that one.”
“Ooh, I haven’t tried that one yet…”
“The Pentel ink is better, though.”
“Still… there’s something magical about a classic 20-cent Bic. But the ink’s too light. And there’s a cap. Ugh. Caps.”
“What about that Jetstream pen I saw on JetPens’ YouTube channel? Haven’t tried it.”
“I don’t need it. But I could try it. Just one. I can afford it.”
“…But that’s not the point.”
And then, just like that, I walk away.
From the outside, it looks like nothing happened. I didn’t even pick anything up. But internally? A full mental negotiation. Thought. Temptation. Logic. Taste. And ultimately, restraint.
Daiso
The bigger test of restraint? Walking into a Japanese stationery store. That same mental conversation? It becomes a full-blown war.
This happened recently at a Daiso—a Japanese dollar store chain. We don’t have one where I live.
I kept pace with my group. Stayed with my partner. Eventually branched off—solo mission—into the stationery aisle.
Notebooks. Stamps. Binders. Binder clips.
I walked slowly. Taking it all in. Saving the glorious pen station for last—like saving the best bites for the end of the meal.
And there it was.
All the pens. Unpackaged. Out in the open. Sheets of paper nearby, already covered with scribbles from fellow pen nerds (I assume).
Well. Don’t mind me!
The ritual began.
Click. Scribble. Compare. Pause. Repeat.
After slowly testing pen after pen, many I’d never owned before…
I left the section empty-handed. Well—except for the fresh test marks now smudged across my left hand.
Novelty
I walked back down the stationery aisle to meet my partner.
We stood at the end of the aisle, scanning the usual wall of miscellaneous things. A visual collage I’d seen a hundred times before.
Except—
Wait.
“Tally counter.”
I picked it up. My partner laughed: “Oh no…”
(The “I knew you’d go for it” kind of laugh. She saw it seconds before I did.)
I walked around the store with it in my hand. Clicking. Thinking. There was something elegant about it.
A small, perfectly built object. No screen. No setup.
Just… a click.
I imagined the possibilities.
- Number of coffee-related accidents in my office.
- Number of commits on a side project.
- Number of times I switched pens only to return to my tried-and-true favorite (it happens more than you’d think).
This wasn’t a pen I’d seen before. Wasn’t something I could compare to past experience. It was something new.
And unlike the visits before—Not driven by indecision, but a clear, intentional choice not to bring home anything that wouldn’t earn its place—This time, I walked away with something.
Not a pen. Not a notebook. A tally counter. An experiment.
Let’s see where it goes.
Click... Click... Click...
Click
There’s a small kind of discipline in saying no to things that almost fit. Things that are good—but not quite right.
It takes practice. Attention. Restraint.
But every so often, something new surprises you. Not because you reached for it out of habit. But because you waited. And noticed.
And made space for it to click.