We are happy to present a guest entry from a friend. Enjoy!
My love affair with the fountain pen began when, as an undergraduate student
in the English Department of a university in Ontario, I received a fountain
pen as a gift from a French exchange student whom I had been tutoring. The
pen was slim, “electroplated” in gold, and engraved with my initials in a
lovely cursive script. From the moment I drew that first word from the
delicate nib of the pen, I was completely besotted. I felt instantly
elegant, writerly, eloquent, as though I were creating the very words
themselves and not merely writing them out on paper. Since then I have
collected a number of fountain pens, some of which marked a special
anniversary or accomplishment, others of which I acquired “just because.” I
treasure them all.
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regular pen. When I write with a fountain pen, I am keenly attuned to the
way in which the ascender of a letter such as d or k can take on a more
fluid aspect with even the slightest adjustment to the angle of the nib or
the weight of the stroke. Little flourishes seem to manifest of their own
accord, as though the ink itself were engaged in a delightful dance with the
paper. My writing becomes not just a practical means of communication, but
a higher expression of my soul’s voice.
The interplay of fountain pen, ink and paper can be magical, particularly
when the paper is crafted for such a purpose. A fine, smooth French paper
will allow the ink to sit on its surface, like ribbons of liquid silk, proud
and true. A rough-surfaced, handmade paper will absorb the ink, and allow
it to bleed out slightly beyond the original borders of each letter, as
though they simply could not be contained. Experimentation with fine or
medium nibs, different types and colours of ink, and a myriad of paper
finishes means that no two of my handwritten letters ever quite look alike.
Sometimes speed and immediacy are not the most desirable elements of a
written communication. There is really nothing of me in an email or text
message I might send. But I am truly (madly?) deeply embedded in the
letters and words that span line after line of my handwritten prose. Some
days it is tidy, symmetrical(-ish), and straightforward; other days it is
demanding, unruly, a little wild. Always it is my Self, expressed.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
– Walt Whitman