There is something very freeing, for me, about writing with a fountain pen and blue ink. 

For those of you who used to follow me on my old blog....you might remember the couple of years in between library gigs when I worked at a lovely and fancy stationery store, mainly in the writing instruments section. I’d written with fountain pens before, but became seriously hooked, to the point where writing with anything else is unenjoyable. Especially when it comes to journal or diary writing. Every few years, I feel like it’s reasonable, as a writer, to splurge on a writing instrument. I use it every day. It’s what I do. Enough justification. 

I ordered the Pilot Vanishing Point in white with a stub nib from that mecca of pens, Goulet Pens. I’m very partial to a stub nib, the slight italic of it just speaks to me. (If you’re reading in the newsletter, click to view in the browser to see my new beauty). 

I’m a firm believer that writers should be able to write wherever and on whatever available surface, with the crumbiest scratchiest pencil, if need be. If you want to write, you will write. But if you can write with a lovely pen on decent paper with a sweet colour of ink, why not? Some mornings I have nothing to say at all, but I begin anyway, because of the pleasure of writing with a fountain pen. And then, I’m often surprised by what outs. 

One begins with writing the meaningless, and things transpire. Words of love, for example. 

A line by Clarice Lispector, to end:

“From now on I’m going to write in this diary, on days when there’s nothing else to do, phrases almost on the edge of meaninglessness but that sound like words of love. Saying meaningless words is my great freedom. It matters little to me to be understood.”