Anyone else remember the feeling of holding a fountain pen between your fingers? I still have clear memories of the moment I put away my coloured pencils (I was a Steiner child) in exchange for my first fountain pen, the jagged lines of my (then) messy hand turned smooth by the even flow of blue ink. Over the years I have forged a close partnership with each pen I have owned, the most recent my superb rotring. The ink flow is particularly lovely and has adapted perfectly to how I angle the nib on the paper. You may remember that my rotring pen has already been featured on this blog and is affectionately known as my leaky pen. This is because, in a fit of successive logic, whenever I use it my fingers end up looking like this.
I hope I’m not the only one who finds some small amount of creative pride in the remnant black stains left at the end of a satisfying hour’s worth of writing, so the unsightly leaking has always seemed endearing. It’s true that recently glistening bulbs of ink have been flying with erratic frequency from the nib to land on such separate and inconvenient surfaces as the chair, carpet, clothes, face etc. when my aim has been solely the paper but today we hit a new low. Parked peacefully in my bag overnight, cap on, quiet as you please, nothing suggested I might wake up to find this.
Whereupon it was hastily removed and relocated to the nearest non-porous surface where it now lies in disgrace until I decide whether to a) forgive it and continue our relationship on shakier grounds or b) buy a new one. Any ideas?
Perhaps I should simply revert to a biro which could bypass this sort of accident altogether but I love the singular nature of fountain pens despite the added risk……..living life on the edge.