I write in order to engage in self-exploration and deepen my understanding of who I am and how I perceive the world. My central aim is to use writing to recognize patterns in my thinking and in areas where personal growth is necessary, making it an essential tool for my ongoing process of self-discovery.
But for three years, I managed to avoid doing just that.

I have a Japanese writing machine, a Pomera DM250. The keys are in odd places, and some have Kanji on them—I think. I learned to use it the way you move through a dark room, bumping into things as you go. That’s just how it was.
When the US edition came out, designed for people who read and write in English and maybe shop to feel better, I did what any grown man with a mortgage might do. I bought it.

"Simplicity and an easy process demanded it." That’s what I told myself. I actually believed it, which is a bit embarrassing—maybe more than a bit. Somewhere, a marketing analyst probably has a slide about me: Customer, male, fifty-seven, already owns the thing, but buys it again.
I learned about the American edition from a Reddit post. I clicked the link, and less than a week later, it was in my hands. The Japanese version of the 250 I named Ponyo, after the movie. It took me a while to name the US 250, but eventually I called him Lester.
To be fair to Ponyo, she wasn’t my first. Four other machines came before her, each promising to be the place where I’d finally finish my writing. I kept searching for something to help me do the work only I could do. I never named any of those other devices.

It has been about 36 months since Ponyo arrived from Japan. I opened the lid. Typing, "Hello, I am checking out the felk of the keyboard and de...." This initial attempt was far from self-discovery. When I accidentally pressed an unfamiliar key, the screen suddenly filled with characters that looked like a parade of ants. Frustrated, I closed the lid and beat myself up for investing in yet another device that helped me avoid writing. Then I opened the lid again.

One early morning, rushing to get out the door, I grabbed Ponyo, my pen, and a paper notebook.
In the scramble of dancers and parents rushing around, I rebuilt my writing process step by step, using only what I needed. I brainstormed on paper, then moved the draft to Ponyo. There, I freewrote, deleted, wrote more, saved, and compared versions. I never decided she was the answer. At first, she felt like a machine I couldn’t connect with. But over time, we learned to work together. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t go a day without her.
Strangers often interrupt me. They stop me in coffee shops to ask about the long, slim gray box and where I got it. I say Japan, and they mostly reply with a simple, "Hm," before walking away. It seemed like too much effort for them to find one, and it did take real effort. I bought a second one.

"Simplicity" was my excuse. I told myself I needed the keyboard and spell check, and those reasons were acceptable; spell check would have caught "felk" on day one, without the parade of ants. Yet these were only part of my conundrum. I also wanted to remove every distraction so that, if writing still felt impossible, I would have to face the fact that my real struggle was internal. I bought new gadgets to avoid taking responsibility for my creative blocks, hoping a better tool might fix what was really a problem of self-doubt. Recognizing this helped me see that real self-discovery in writing meant confronting my own discomfort rather than looking for external solutions. Only by accepting this could I move past avoidance and fully engage with my thoughts and experiences.
I really do want to learn who I’m supposed to be. I spent real money on a machine that left me with no excuses. That was my goal: to sit down and write full pieces of work; honestly.

But who would I be filtering it for? I don’t show most of my writing to anyone, and I’m not sure if that’s about privacy or fear. The only person I’d be hiding from was myself.
Now I have two machines on the table. With Ponyo, I had to adapt my writing speed. I had to translate everything I learned about myself as if I were explaining it to someone who didn’t speak English as a first language. It was the hardest part. Was I translating to her or to myself? I keep her because she’s well-used and holds the writing that started my practice. I’m still closer to her than to anything else I’ve bought.
Now I use Lester for my project work. He and I are like buddies. He’s more like me, so I don’t have to translate anything. Lester knows a more refined version of me—the one Ponyo helped me become.

I sold the four machines that came before Ponyo right away. I can’t promise Lester will be the last one. But I can say the others never got names, and these two did. For me, it’s something strange and special—giving a writing device a name and becoming close to an object.
I write sitting outside my daughter’s dance lesson, watching parents come and go. I write in a coffee shop where my son worked during high school. I’ve even brought one of my machines to music open mic nights, capturing idiosyncrasies I find interesting about others. By writing in these varied settings and using devices like Lester and Ponyo—both of which fold up small enough to sit unnoticed beside my notebook and keep my drafts safe—I notice how each location and machine shapes my focus and mood. Writing becomes more intentional and grounded; the quiet of my own backyard or the confusion of a coffee shop encourages me to stay present with my thoughts. In this way, each setting, each interaction, and each tool deepens my ongoing process of self-discovery, making the writing feel singular and purposeful.
Everything I’d been holding back eventually came out when I used Lester—my faith, my stories, and what they made of me. I couldn’t hide any of it. I didn’t expect to find healing, bravery, and grace inside. Ponyo witnesses from the sidelines. She still is next to me, oddly.

I no longer avoid writing; instead, I approach it with renewed curiosity and a commitment to ongoing self-exploration, recognizing that the journey of discovery through writing is far from complete. Both hold that place in my heart.

Jason Edleman