For my birthday, last year, a friend gave me a box of pencils. They were all adorned with beautifully de-motivational statements like “Mistakes are stepping stones to failure.”

I loved them.

A few weeks ago, I had a bunch of friends round for an afternoon of puzzle-solving. Since pencils were required, I broken open the de-motivational pencils and shared them around. They were much admired, but I also noticed while scribbling pseudo-nonsense and bits of answers…

They’re really nice pencils. They’re fun to use.

I took to tucking one into my pocket just in case I needed to… you know, join in with a crossword or something.

I haven’t significantly written with a pencil since I was at junior school. Pencils are kind of scratchy, and a bit smudgy, and just generally not as good as pens. I have a lovely fountain pen, and many, many ballpoints (including the particularly exciting one that has pandas on it and writes in six colours) and a nice fineliner and some highlighters. To be honest, pencils don’t feature very often.

But these yellow failure-pencils? They actually seemed … nice.

And then, in the general ruck and run of my podcast-listening, the latest of the Boring Talks came up. That is to say, a whole episode of Brian Macklewells telling me why "we should all appreciate the pencil a little bit more".

There are few things in life more exciting than listening to an enthusiast talking entertainingly on their subject. By the end of the podcast, I was already regretting my long-term dismissal of the pencil.

I often write first drafts of stories long-hand in a notebook. To save space, I write small and fit two lines of writing to every ruled line - which boils down to around 500 words per page. However, I am famous for my love of stationery, and I accrue presents in the form of notebooks considerably faster than I actually use them. I don’t need to write so small.

So this week, I’ve been experimenting with writing in pencil. My writing is much larger, and I get around 120 words to the page. If nothing else, that equates to a huge sense of achievement as I gallop through the notebook. I’m remembering the way you have to twist the pencil as you write, to make sure that it remains reasonably pointy instead of wearing flat. It has surprised me to find out how quickly a pencil wears down and requires sharpening. I have been enjoying the noise the pencil makes as it scrapes across the page, although I do stick to my claim that it’s all a bit smudgy.

I’m not sure if this is a long-term choice, but for now I’m quite enjoying scribbling away with a pencil that tells the world “False hope is better than no hope.” I’m enjoying the feeling of progress the pencil engenders. I’ve been eyeing up my old box of currently-unsharpened, proudly-named “Venus” pencils, which are very keen to announce they’re manufactured by the Colloidal Process British Patent No. 216420 (I have no idea).

Maybe I can learn to love the pencil after all.