Every now again I do some proper writing.
No, not finding better ways to express myself than I usually do on this blog, but actually using a pen and paper. If it’s ‘meaningful’ then I’ll use a particular pen. Meaningful in the sense that there’s emotional weight to what I’m writing. Perhaps because of the message, perhaps because I feel fondly about the recipient – usually both.
The pen is a Parker fountain pen. It’s very nice without being especially expensive and was a gift from my Dad on my eighteenth birthday. Way back in 1993 I wrote (properly wrote) a lot more letters! I’m still using the same, admittedly large, bottle of Quink to fill a reservoir inside the pen (instead of cartridges), so actually I probably didn’t write as much as I like to think.
My handwriting is, really, pretty terrible. The ink is no longer the warm shade of blue I once recall it being. So, when I use the pen it’s largely a matter of ceremony. Although I draw real pleasure from the writing, I don’t think it translates into a boon for the dear reader!
The pen reminds me that the written word is precious, and it’s one of my favourite gifts.
Thanks, Dad – it’s a gift that keeps giving.
He, always, said I use too many commas.