On the other hand, several days later at the Frick, my pen was flying.

"Happy are they who don't doubt themselves and whose pens fly across the page," Gustave Flaubert wrote in 1847, when he was 25.

The book jumped up and his pen flew through the air in lazy somersaults that he found even more annoying than the unfilled pages before him.

His pen flew over the diagram, pointing various things out.

Amanda's pen flew across the pad, copying down the final words of the message.

Miss Wick's pen flew across her pad.

His pen fairly flew on that day and, with the running start he then got, he soon finished his dissent.

Her pen was flying over the notebook.

The little pen flew over the tablet.

The pen flew back and forth and up and down, seeming to do so of its own accord.