What I mean by a good pen in simple. A solid writing instrument with some decent heft. A piece of equipment that is the product of what must have been a convergence of engineering and artistry. Some call it precise beauty. Still others, myself included, just call it damn fine craftsmanship.
For me I wandered into this world of fine writing utensils by accident. In my sophomore year of high school, on what I remember to a dreary late fall day, I trudged into study hall, as I had on everyday before it, and many more after. The room was a massive hall on the second floor of my community’s nineteenth century edifice to learning.
The building was positively ancient even before I came on the scene. Each step across the floor of the hall caused the heavily lacquered prehistoric boards to creak loudly. It made sneaking out incredibly difficult, though not entirely impossible especially when the monitor for the period was the most easily distracted home town historian and future mayor. That however is a story for another time.
The hall could easily accommodate more than one hundred students. It usually did at any given time. The rules for the period were simple. The time was to be spent quietly. Silence was preferred, but quiet conversations about assignments were acceptable. It was supposed to be a time to catch up on classwork, assignments, and such.
I would like to say that I spent my study hall time each day in active pursuit of my education. That however would be a bold faced pinocchio-esque falsehood. More often than not I read cheap pulp fiction, or wrote my version of the same. On this particular day, though I was engaged as per usual. I am not sure what I was writing that day, but I was fully engrossed in it. And then at some point I dropped my worn down nub of a pencil on the floor.
I bent over to pick it up, and then I saw it. And by it I mean not my pencil. Rather, I mean an impossibly thin small jet black with gold trim pen. I could tell instantly it was not typical or average. I had never seen anything like it before. Were I a man given to hyperbole I would embellish here. I would say something like the clouds parted and I could hear the angelic host singing. Thankfully however, I am not one given to such flights of fancy.
I picked it up and examined it. It was unique and off at the same time. I had never seen anything of its like. It was whisper thin while having a solid construction and a heft that was distinct. The heft seemed impossible for its size and breadth.
It is fair to say that I loved it from the start. When I tested it, it was the sort of device that seemed to be imbued with a passion to perform the function for which it had been forged. It seemed to be eager to be used. Each letter scribed with it seemed to come with a passionate cry to do more. It flowed with a gliding smoothness I had no experience with. In short order it became my default writing instrument. And though I only had it for a scant three weeks until it was reunited with its owner, a passion for a good pen was ignited in me.
Going back to the bic or the simple number two after the reunion seemed like being crushed. To go from such a wondrous and smooth flowing instrument to the rough barely functional tool was like a daily kick to the groin. I missed it immediately. Every single time I had to write something the missing it was like being denied the touch of a lover. So much so that I looked into the world from which the instrument had come from.
I found one word dominated this world; expense. Any tool from it had a hefty price tag. Considerably more than a bag of bics or number twos. Universally from Cross to Pentel to Waterman and beyond they were all good and being good came at a price. A price that a sophomore in high school rarely comprehends other than to say, there’s no way I can afford that.
It is fair to say that I became obsessed with this world. An obsession my parents at birthdays and christmas indulged. I was the recipient of more than one writing set from Cross and refills besides. I was even allowed to try out a fountain pen and a calligraphy set. I definitely had a passion for it all. My left hand writing style made the fountain pen and calligraphy efforts a functional impossibility. I did however enjoy it immensely.
To this day, I prefer to write with tool from this world. I have an affinity for instruments from it. I prefer them to all else when my budget can absorb the splurge. The special feeling never wore off for me. The uniqueness for this oddity never wore out.
As I said at the outset there are factors working against this world. The general pen industry in the last thirty years has gotten remarkably better. The lousy excuse for a pen has largely disappeared from the market. It has been replaced by a competent tool that works much better. There has been an explosion in a new segment for mid-tier pens. This segment is not as expensive as Cross, Waterman, and Pentel, but function close to their world. Not quite there, but close. And lastly, the digital revolution is cutting down on the need to actually write anything down.
I fear my daughters won’t find this world by the time they reach the age I did. I fear that the hours of curiosity and wonder I had enjoying a good pen won’t be theirs. I fear that they won’t experience, because they won’t have to. And that to me seems like a loss for them.