Neon Pencil

by Beatrix Wei, 10th Grade, CO, USA

I rewatched the video again and again, a neon pink pencil dancing between some masterful hands, looping around and tucking under, even jumping up into the air. Watching these hypnotizing videos with a pencil in hand, wondering how in the world I could learn such a skill, became a very common occurrence for me. Two years ago, I dove into the art of pencil spinning as I would search up how-to tutorials and pencil spinning competitions. I was obsessed. 

After starting to experiment, I fell in love with the meticulous but gratifying process. Eventually, spinning a pencil became my partner in crime that accompanied me wherever I went. I was committed to replicating transitions and sequences I observed in random videos, other people’s tricks, and freestyle combos I came up with on the spot. In those early weeks, I loved every moment and progressed fast.  I didn’t know then that my passion for mastering this craft would soon lead me through many moments of deep frustration.

I remember the struggle vividly: as I stared at the neon yellow pencil that fell on the ground for what felt like forever, feelings of frustration, disappointment, and desperation blocked any efforts of even simply picking up the fallen pencil. The movements were deceptively similar to another spin I already knew, which only caused my muscle memory to betray me—my fingers fumbling or sending the pencil flying. That night, I went to bed distressed, unsure how to process such discouragement at a young age.

After taking a couple days off, I found myself itching to try again. I came to accept that success wouldn’t come on the first, second, or even tenth attempt.  After struggling for many hours, many pencils, and many hand cramps, I was finally satisfied with my mediocre rendition of the Sonic spin. Satisfied would be an underexaggeration. I vividly remember my first time completing the spin successfully, then jumping up from my chair and whooping as loud as I possibly could, only to be silenced by my startled mother. The Sonic was and is not the best demonstration of my ability of the art, but rather tackling a skill that challenged me so thoroughly gave me pride unparalleled by my other spins. 

This past summer, I began learning a piano piece from a culture and language I had no prior experience with: the Philippines. The piece, chosen for multiple competitions and my tenth year auditioning for the Guild, was completely outside my comfort zone. Filipino compositions often have an entirely different style of playing—erratic dynamics, abrupt accents, repetitive rhythms. It was the opposite of the lyrical music I was used to. I often found myself frozen at the piano, overwhelmed and defeated by how little I connected with the piece.

But I reminded myself it was not the first time I found myself challenged by something I was passionate about. As with many pencil spins I have learned, I continued playing with the understanding that the piece wasn’t going to be perfect after the first few--or many--attempts. After many difficult days, the rhythms became easier to handle, and the notes less threatening. Eventually, I performed the piece with confidence and won first place. 

The piece challenged me more than any sport or class had ever challenged me in my piano career, and as a result the work was that much more rewarding. Though these challenges often test my patience, they’ve awakened a quiet courage in me — a belief that each struggle is not a wall, but a doorway to growth.