I need to make a confession. My passion for writing moves beyond the simple need to express my thoughts and stories. I love the act of writing. There is something magical about putting pen to paper and leaving a trail of ink that becomes something greater than the sum of its parts. The pen is a synthesis of a tool and instrument; both utilitarian and artistic. But its not just any pen that creates this kind of magic. I only use fountain pens.
The mechanism of a fountain pen is elegantly simple. The ink flows from the reservoir through the section into the feed down to the tip of the nib all because of the wonder of surface tension. The fountain pen is the body that brings life to ideas. Ink is the blood through which ideas flow.
Everything I write is first expressed on paper through one of my fountain pens. While I do have several modern pens to choose from, I particularly enjoy using vintage fountain pens. Most of them are fifty to sixty years old. It’s like writing with a piece of history, a connection to the past. Who knows what was written before my time? Who knows what will be written with my pens after my time on this planet is finished? Fountain pens are meant to be cherish and used decade after decade. They’re heirlooms.
I plan to keep using my fountain pens. I have books and books of written material. These, too, are heirlooms. Unlike computers with their virtual documents and electronic impulses, my books of writing are tangible. They exist in the real world. They can be opened and read by my grandchildren and great grandchildren. Just like my vintage pens, the writing I leave is a glimpse into history.
Writing is special. It’s a gift and a joy. I realize this is a self-indulgent rant, but I needed to let that out.