Writing Evolution

I like gel pens and fountain pens. That’s it.

Wait.

Lets back this up.

I started on crayons. I think we all did.

I graduated to pencil at some point, I don’t really remember when. Then after some time, I was granted access to a pen. Not a good pen I’m sure, just a pen. A ball point pen.

Maybe a Bic?

It’s likely something the modern version of that little boy shivers at.

I don’t like ball point pens.

I use ball points and pencils for years.

How many?

I don’t remember. I’ve been drawn to the office supply aisles in my local stores any time I ventured near for as long as I remember.

Office supply. How formal can you get? I guess it’s better than “school supply” seeing how I’m not in school any more. I was back then I suppose.

Those office supplies transformed in time. Pencils, ball points, now we have gel pens.

I found the Pilot G2. I am delighted.

At some point I find a Parker Vector hanging in the aisle at Meijer. I think Meijer is a Michigan thing, or at least a midwest thing. Insert your favorite local everything store. That’s where I found my catalyst.

Not now, but later. It will explode later.

I spent years with gel pens. There’s nothing wrong with that, I love gel pens to this day. My pen drawer has many Pilot G2, Uni-Ball Signo 207, and Pilot Juice. I recommend those pens all the time, practically beg people to use them.

I graduate from gel to fountain over time. That Vector, it comes back. It sat in waiting, patient and quiet.

I find the Parker Vector in a box. I also find a package of cartridges. I put them together and find bliss.

I spend 8 years enamored by the fountain pen, shunning all others. The fountain pen is pure, the fountain pen is classic, the fountain pen is right.

Eventually an old friend creeps back into the frame.

He’s made of wood and graphite. He doesn’t replace the fountain pen, instead he brings his own nostalgia. He’s not the same, he’s delightfully different.

There’s the sound against paper that delights me. It’s a scritching sound. That’s the best I can do to describe it. Then there’s the smell of cedar, the remnants after a sharpening.

I dive in, head first. Like I did with fountain pens at one point. My collection swells, just as the fountain pens have. Vintage, modern, rare. I must have them all.

My collection evolves. I own more pencils, more pens, more inks than I can use in a lifetime. Maybe that’s not true, depending how wordy I can be. Maybe I can use my collection before I die but at the rate I’m acquiring, it’s not likely. Every week a new writing product arrives.

I’m obsessed by this hobby. I’m scared of my spending.

I have piles of paper, piles of pencils, piles of pens. Piles of piles and piles for miles. It’s not enough. I want to own them all, to feel them all, to try them all. Each drag of graphite across each kind of paper followed by each nib filled with each ink. Everything needs to be mine, everything needs my touch.

I’m a maniac, driven by paper lust. I must consume that which I have not tried. I must have what’s new and what’s old and everything in between. Bring me your half sharpened pencils, your best and worst ink, your smoothest or scratchiest nib, I must try them now.

This is my evolution of writing. This is my descent into madness.