I love pens.
Nope, no cheapy ball points or throw aways for me. Even as minimalist, having more than one beautiful pen makes my heart sing.
I have a silver fountain pen with a beautiful green plume bought at a silent auction with benefit going to development work in third world countries, a set of hand-made wooden calligraphy pens found at the artisinal summer marché in Argelès, and two special felt tips, one green, one pink, soothing colors.
Despite all this my handwriting is less than wonderful and much of what I write is on a keyboard BUT there is something about holding a lovely pen that makes even addressing an envelope or jotting down a grocery list a sensual experience.
I always write my thank you notes or sympathy messages with one of the special pens depending on who or what or why. Using the pen is more personal than an email or Facebook message or even a typed letter.
When Rick and I were married almost a year ago, Corsier, the commune where we exchanged vows, gave us the pen we used to sign the register. It is pictured above, a Caran d'arche, for me the Ferrari of pens. Holding it, inking out letters, writing flash fiction with a friend is different from any other pen I have ever used. The weight is special and the tip allows my letters to have a better form.
Then it ran out of ink and I couldn't get it to write. I took it to a specialty store where they explained I had put the new cartridge in wrong. Oooops.
They also told me that ink can dry in almost invisible flakes. The remedy is to soak it over night in water and a cap full of vinegar.
So, the pen is sitting in its bath on top of the piano waiting for the next important missive that it will be called on to write...
Tomorrow maybe it will produce a haiku or a flash fiction piece...