Why I’m Picky About Pens (and Everything Else They Never Made for Lefties)

Why I’m Picky About Pens

I’m picky about pens. But there’s a reason for it.

I want the ease of pushing a pen across a page without resistance. No skipping ink. No tearing paper. No second-guessing my capabilities because the tool won’t cooperate.

What writer—of any age or prose—wants to lose a good thought to a bad tool?

Yes, we have devices now. But the pen still has a place.
Even Apple and Samsung agree—they keep tucking styluses into the sides of their tablets like it’s the future and the past rolled into one.
The moment of putting ink to paper—or stylus to board (yes, even the stylus can be that way)—slows the world down just enough for you to hear yourself think.

Being Left-Handed Means Always Adjusting

Spirals, scissors, and the quiet art of adaptation.

Being left-handed means these things are noticed automatically—
because the simplest parts of life have a way of making ours just a little more difficult.

Pens that only release ink from one side.
Notebooks with spirals exactly where your hand needs to rest.
Desks in school where the armrest mocked you from the other side.

Scissors are always suspect.
And the “universal handle” kind?

Still works great for Righties. Lefties—you’ll struggle, but at least your thumb won’t be sore.

And knives?
Every damn knife.
It’s getting harder to find a left-handed one, and I need one.
My right-handed husband sharpened mine—
it’s now a “universal” blade.

Being left-handed means adapting. Flipping. Tilting. Working around things that weren’t made for you.
Over time, it builds something: flexibility.
The kind of thinking that makes good engineers, problem solvers, or at the very least, excellent adapters.

Strategic by Nature

What it means to be part of something rare.

How many right-handers give any thought to where they sit at a table?
A lefty does—without thinking about it.
If you’re made aware of it, chances are, you’re sitting next to one.

We try to be strategic.
And when we can’t, we’ll say something.
Not to be difficult—just to keep everyone’s elbows from being bruised.

We’re still pretty rare, and I like that (only about 1 in 10 people are left-handed).
I’ve always been proud to be left-handed.
There’s an easy connection when you come across another one in the world.
A quiet recognition—no big moment, just a subtle shift.
Like you both know how to move around the same invisible edges.

I Grew Up Watching Lefties Work Wonders

Both of my parents were left-handed. Rare for their generation.

They made me feel proud to be part of a unique club from a young age.
And not just any club—a quietly resilient, wildly creative, deeply capable one.
They personified the strengths of left-handedness.

My dad was an test engineer, often tasked with finding the problem in a part that failed.
He had a way of listening to everyone’s theories and then went to work to find either a solution or a workaround.

My mom was a creative genius with the sewing machine. There is family lore about her making a pair of pants in seven minutes—with a zipper—for an emergency situation.

She was also great at drawing, painting, and landscaping, and she created a successful business with pottery. Culinary arts were not something she enjoyed, and we all paid for that one.
I still can’t eat zucchini to this day.

But she did find an interest in woodworking and made some beautiful pieces—bold, intricate, and true to her vision, even when it meant working with difficult woods like Purple Heart as an accent.

For me, seeing them thrive—even in areas where being a lefty can be dangerous—was reaffirming and empowering.

Left Is Left

There are moments when your confidence in who you are is so steady, not even the most mismatched accommodations can throw you.

I wasn’t bothered when teachers suggested I should switch hands or when kids tried to poke fun at my paper being almost sideways for me to write.

It’s that quiet confidence from my family example that allowed me to take pity on a frantic, disheveled, older P.E. teacher who proctored my S.A.T.

He was late and couldn’t find the right key to the room.
Feeling the time pressure, he was impatient and gruff but was clearly told by someone he had to make accommodations for people—including left-handers.

He asked each one of us as we entered if we were left-handed.

Things were going well for him until he came across me and my left hand.
He quickly scanned the room for a left-handed desk—there was none.
Flustered and clearly not sure what to do, he decided left was left.

“Well, just go sit on the left side of the room.”

I didn’t say anything, just laughed and moved to the left side of the room, sat in a right-handed desk, and adapted.

We Just Want Things to Work

We are masters of the workaround.
However, there were times when enough was enough.

You’d hear my mother’s frustrated yell ring out from the garage or the backyard when she was fed up with a tool or machine:
“I just want things to work!”

I think that’s the mantra of most lefties.
We silently adapt. We make things work for us.
But once in a while, when it becomes too much, the frustration breaks through.

“We just want things to work.”
We want the basic, everyday tools to just work.
To make our lives a little easier.
One less thing to think about.

The Quality of Life We’re All Looking For

So yes, I am picky about pens. And notebooks. And tumblers.
But I’ve learned that being particular about the little things isn’t about being difficult—it’s about being deliberate.
A thoughtful choice at the start saves time, frustration, and energy later.
And sometimes, that’s the difference between a day that drains you and one that moves a little more smoothly.

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Let’s hear from you:

What’s your experience with being left-handed—or living with someone who is?
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