All of my life, I have had an obsession with fountain tip pens. I love the texture, the ink stain on my finger, the way ink looks. I love ink bottles and the swirl of ink inside.
Of course, I was instructed to hate fountain tips. They are too expensive, too messy, impractical, and stupid - according the nasty voices in my childhood. (You can pick one - mother, oldest sister, father, or whoever.)
I still love them. I just love them in secret.
I found some disposable fountain tips a couple years ago and used them until the ink ran out. I bought more disposable fountain tip pens and used those too. I told myself that I used them because they were fun colors.
But really, I love the ink stain on my finger... the ink in the bottle... the way the ink sits on the paper then drifts in...
Christmas Eve, D. dragged me out into the cold and snow. Bouncing around our snow filled ice ridden town, we pulled up to the art store. As I am artistically challenged, I assumed we were getting supplies for some of his artistic endeavors. I sighed.
With a little pushing and jostling, he prodded me over to the fountain tip pen section. He handed me $300 and told me to pick out a pen.
"Oh," I said. I?m blushing. "I can just get the disposable ones. They are over here."
Now, D. is 6'2" and weighs more than I do. I am no small person (5'10", life time weightlifter). He blocked the way to the disposable pens then blocked the way out the door.
I stood in front of a laughing sales woman stammering....
Then I saw it glittering blue in the case.
I started to sweat. The sale woman laughed and opened the case. The pen vibrated in my hand. She dipped it in ink (they are not stored with ink) and I literally felt electric vibration run down my hand when I wrote.
I am speechless.
"I guess the wand chooses the wizard," D. says to the sales woman. She laughs.
And now it's mine and it's beautiful.
I read somewhere that every Englishperson has at least one fountain tip pen.