I love pens, particularly fountain pens, especially vintage ones. My collection is largish, but not like some people’s. Modern fountain pens seem just be made for making money, but every now and again a new pen hits the market that is worth considering. For me, I often turn to the Japanese companies of Namiki, Pilot, Sailor, and so on. I love the beauty of lacquer or abalone, the hand-ground gold nibs, but they cost so much! When the Vanishing Point came out, I liked it immediately, but it was too large to be comfortable. And then I came across the Decimo, a slimmer version of the VP, and bought one. In lavender or purple, whatever you want to call it, with a broad nib.
I’ve had the pen for one day. I’ve used it a lot! I have used it to copy quotes from my current read – Wuthering Heights – to doodle with, to practice cursive. My checkbook has new entries in it, with a fountain pen. Next week’s check-paid bills will be with a fountain pen. Click! Write. Click! Nib contained.
The physical act of writing is my form of meditation these days. I write on paper with a pen. I consider a word, then write. Yes, I do have Scrivener, I have a Chrome book, and I have scrumptious paper that lets a nib glide across its surface. I practice my roundhand, my Spencerian, my Palmer cursive. Ascenders and descenders are considered for slope, looping, length.
Ink is also important. I have bottles; some vintage, some just more than a few years old. Colors range from trusty black to iron gall for dip pens to ones with exotic names like Poussiere de Lune. New inks and extra converters are arriving on Monday. More paper, too. I can practice my penmanship and write a story or two. Maybe I’ll write a friend a letter and seal it with wax, or write secret love letters to my husband and hide them, so he can find them years hence to open when I am gone. Pen and ink dreams in a mechanized world.