I like that original romance of having a pen and a legal pad and

Hear the gentle yet profound words of Alice McDermott, who spoke of her craft and her love for simplicity: “I like that original romance of having a pen and a legal pad and going anywhere in the world and being able to write a novel with just those two things.” In this reflection, she reminds us that the heart of creation lies not in machines, nor in luxury, but in the human spirit and its humble tools. The pen and the pad become symbols of freedom, of discipline, and of the timeless connection between thought and word.

The origin of this saying lies in McDermott’s own life as a novelist, one who writes not only to tell stories but to explore the depths of human existence. In an age where technology surrounds us, where laptops, screens, and endless distractions seek to claim our attention, she points back to the simplicity of writing by hand. The romance she names is not mere nostalgia—it is the sense of wonder that creation needs nothing more than the courage to sit with one’s thoughts and commit them to paper. With such simplicity, a world may be born.

History is filled with examples that echo her wisdom. Consider Dostoevsky, who, imprisoned in Siberia, carved stories into the margins of scraps and pages. Or Anne Frank, who, in hiding, filled her diary with words that would outlive empires. Neither needed technology, only the determination to write. The pen and the pad have been the companions of prophets, poets, generals, and dreamers. With them, constitutions were drafted, revolutions planned, and novels that shaped nations composed. The mightiest of works often began with the humblest of tools.

What McDermott calls romance is also resilience. With a pen and a legal pad, a writer is unbound by place. One may write in a café, on a train, beneath a tree, or in a crowded room. No wall can confine imagination when its only instruments are portable, simple, and free. The power lies not in the object, but in the spirit that wields it. This is why her words strike deeply: they remind us that the essence of creation is within us, not in what we own.

The meaning of her teaching extends beyond writing. It is a lesson about life itself—that greatness often emerges not from abundance, but from simplicity. The tools of creation are often already in our hands; what matters is the will to use them. In a world that clamors for the newest device, the fastest system, the most advanced aid, McDermott’s words whisper that the soul requires very little to bring forth beauty. The romance is in the act of beginning, not in the possessions one carries.

The lesson, O listener, is that you need not wait for perfect conditions to begin your work, your art, or your dream. Do not tell yourself that you need more money, more tools, or more time before you can create. Begin with what you have. A pen and a pad are enough for a novel; your own hands and will are enough for the first step of any great work. Creation does not demand luxury—it demands courage, patience, and faith.

And what shall we do in our own lives? Take up the tools that lie before us. Turn off the noise, silence the screens, and embrace the simplicity of thought and word. Practice the discipline of daily creation, even if it is but a line or two. Seek the romance not in distant perfection, but in the act of writing, painting, building, or dreaming today. Teach your children that art and truth are not bought, but born, and that they too may shape the world with the simplest of tools.

So remember the teaching of Alice McDermott: that a pen and a legal pad, wielded with devotion, are enough to bring forth a novel, enough to summon worlds. Cherish simplicity, honor creation, and never delay your work for want of luxury. For the spirit that creates is greater than any tool, and the smallest beginnings may one day echo across generations.