Peter Strempel, 26 December 2023
My desk has on it the ubiquitous receptacles for pens and pencils. Ballpoints, gel pens, and actual pencils. The kind you reach for when you want to make an urgent note, or render a quick sketch. More than a few, in case of individual failure.
None of these, however, are ever used for longer prose ventures.
For that I reach into my middle desk drawer where my real pens lie. Flat. In a neat row. My fountain pens. About eight or nine. Not all that I have. Just the ones in my current rotation—alternating between them, one per day. Filled in blue or black ink. And one filled with red ink for corrections or important entries in my journal. Twice that number in a big tin box in a chest of drawers, along with a mess of presentation boxes they came in.
I am sometimes asked: ‘Why do you need so many? Surely one or maybe even two fountain pens will do.’ Well, yes. If you think of fountain pens like a hammer or a bread knife, of which only one ever seem necessary. But I think of them quite differently. I think of them as æsthetic choices, each possessed of individual character, and representing a unique relationship to me.
I come to know their characteristics by using them. Often. It is by a combination of ‘our’ experiences together in what I write about, and how, that I come to develop relationships, too, with each pen. If that sounds arch, consider what musicians say about particular instruments. About a particular violin or guitar, for instance.
It is not like the relationship with a living being, like a person or animal, but more about understanding the strengths and weaknesses of each pen. To not force on them what they can do only badly, but to enjoy to the fullest what they do well. And perhaps to push these into new areas previously untried or unimagined.
Over time that relationship extends into entire periods of my life; one or more pens may come to represent an entire postgraduate degree, or a months-long writing project.
This might make perfect sense to other pen afficionados, but maybe not to people who never made the connection between ideas and the pleasure of writing about them by hand. And it rests on my particular past.
***
For me, it started at school. The Rudolf Steiner school in München’s Schwabing. The holistic pedagogy there attempted to integrate æsthetic appreciation into all lesson plans. Wax crayon drawings accompanied translations from English and French texts. And handwriting itself was taught as an artistic technique, like playing the flute, or using a hand chisel in woodwork.
For the handwriting lessons, we had A4 exercise books where all the lines were subdivided into pale pink, yellow and blue zones, for ascenders, body, and descenders of letters respectively. Writing was to be done by ink pen. I had some beautiful Pelikan and Geha cartridge pens (much cheaper than today’s prices).
But, of course, I rebelled. Being told ‘you must do it only one way’ is still a sure method for getting me to find and use several alternative ways of doing things. Back in those days that meant deliberately setting about training myself to change the letter forms we were taught as exemplary cursive, and, of course, using ballpoint and felt tip pens instead of fountain pens.
Later on, in my English schools, rules weren’t quite so strict about the type of pen to use, but my handwriting had become, by then, a largely illegible scribble, and this was taken for a problem with my literacy itself. An insult I couldn’t let stand. So, in my mid to late teens I rediscovered fountain pens and compromised on letter forms to permit others the ability to decipher my scrawl. At that time, I added Platinum and Parker fountain pens to my small collection.
I had the initial instructions to fall back on, about ink pen cursive, and my own experiences to modify the Rudolf Steiner model. These still underpin my handwriting today.
***
By the time of my first undergraduate year, I took notes with pencil or felt tip, but drafted most of my essays in fountain pen before turning to my portable typewriter for the final version. That habit carried over into my longer journalism pieces after graduation (a career long since abandoned).
In my postgraduate degrees, I drew some snickers from the well-equipped laptop and tablet crowd for using an old fashioned fountain pen to take lecture notes … on paper. And I still drafted my essays with fountain pens. Moving to a word processor only when I was clear about what I wanted to say, and with what diction.
It isn’t just that writing with a good fountain pen is an æsthetic pleasure in itself–from holding a well-designed pen, to feeling a good inkflow, and seeing intention become letters and words on paper–it’s that handwriting creates a deeper level of thought than typing does, about choice of words and the meaning created or rejected by those.
(See, for example, ‘Handwriting vs typing: is the pen still mightier than the keyboard?’, ‘New study suggests handwriting engages the brain more than typing’, and ‘Ditch the digital notes: Handwriting is way better for memorization and speed’.)
Since the rise of word processors, handwritten drafts for any purpose more clearly show up flaws in diction, grammar, and gaps between intentions and the actual meaning being conveyed—perhaps the biggest shortcoming in contemporary communication I see on a daily basis is a gap between intention and execution. Writers clearly intend one thing, but end up saying something else by being careless with their word choices, punctuation, and grammar.
That’s even before we get to notion of audience, tone, and atmosphere. There is no formula I’m aware of that helps here. Only decades of reading and writing create intuitive guidance. And, in my case, there’s nothing quite like matching the right pen, with the right nib, to the right mood.
Twenty years ago, I broke my right wrist. Made real mess of it. Excellent surgical and therapeutic techniques ensured I regained quite a bit of flexibility, but it would never be the same again. However, I find that the small, subtle movements associated with guiding a fountain pen are great exercise to prevent the wrist from succumbing to arthritis and immobility.
I write every day, even when not being paid to do so. Keeping a journal is an invaluable professional tool for self-critique and improvement. Also a great tool for considering ideas, by taking them apart and putting them back together again. It is an invaluable method of formalizing critical thinking altogether. Whether the topic is what went wrong with a dinner recipe, or how Heidegger’s notion of truth as disclosure applies to legal processes.
None of this would work well if I thought of handwriting as a chore, or a painful duty. It is a pleasure. And some part of what makes it a pleasure is doing it with fountain pens that are pleasing to use in themselves. Enough of them to ensure I can always find one to match my moods and intentions.