Carolyn J. Rose: Years ago, when I was in high school, my grandmother gave me a fountain pen for my birthday. It was dark blue, as fat as a cigar, and fit my fingers perfectly. I wrote reams of journal pages with that pen, pouring out my teenage angst, making thick strokes and thin, creating letters that slanted right or left or stood at attention, letters that flowed into each other or claimed their own spaces.I loved that pen. I replaced the nib twice. When I lost it at college, I searched and sulked for days. I’ve never had another like it, never again fell as hard for a writing implement or loved one so deeply.
Yes, I’ve had fountain pens since then, but none had the same feel. They were too skinny, too top-heavy, too prone to clog up or leave blotches on the page. I tried to like them, tried to make myself care. I bought them ink in bright and exotic colors, I carried them along to work and on vacations. But the thrill just wasn’t there. After failing to replicate my first love with a slim blue one—a gift from my husband that I’m sure he paid too much for—I abandoned my quest and went for variety over fidelity, experimentation over commitment.
For a time, I flirted with ballpoint stick pens, the ones that have an eraser on top and at first glance look like pencils. Then I went for pens with caps. I liked the feel of that bit of extra weight on the top. But too soon I was seduced by felt-tips in a host of colors and then lured by fat and rubbery pens with points that clicked in and out. Lately, pencils have caught my eye—number two yellow ones with sharp points.
Granted, I spend most of my time tapping my fingers on a keyboard instead of wrapping them around a pen or pencil, but when I’m plotting or making notes for revision, I work with a yellow pad and a writing implement.
Writing with a pencil lets me erase as I reconsider. Using every other line, gives me space to insert other additional ideas. Beyond that, there’s the feel of a page crisscrossed with pencil marks, and the rumpling riffle pages make when I turn them. I think I’m as infatuated with that sound and feel as I once was with my fat fountain pen.
But I still long to caress its sleek sides, to polish its nib, to revel in its strong strokes.
If it comes back, I promise I’ll never ask where it’s been or with whom.
If you’ve ever had a romance with a writing implement, leave a comment and tell me about it. Just remember, this blog is rated PG, no kinky stuff, please.
