Writing in a cafe
(Image by John Althouse Cohen)

I covet the things in the photo: the coffee, the notebook, the cafe table on the Parisian pavement. Ah, the things I could write there…

I’m sure this Monblanc would write just as well if its nib wasn’t so prettily decorated. And yet… there’s nothing like a bit of extra prettiness.

Monblanc 146 nib
(Image by penmanila)


(Image by flikr)

I feel for the author of this picture. If you had this many colour pens, wouldn’t you feel a compulsive need to write something - anything! - with them?

Also: black paper. How cool is that?

Fine stationery and gold-tipped Monblancs are all very well, but sometimes, a dose of simple cuteness works just as well to satisfy a notepad craving:

Elefant-themed notepad and pen
(Image by glindsay65)


(Image by RedblueNY)

Not sure what attracts me so much about these pens: maybe it’s that they’re slim, or that they’re colourful, or the sparkles. But they look very pleasant to write with.

I find it much easier to write with thin pens than thick ones, despite ergonomics apparently demanding the opposite. Maybe it’s that I have small hands, or maybe it’s the feeling of power I feel over a tiny pen: will I snap it? or allow it to live and write another day?

Colourful rows of pens in rows in a shop
(Image by steakpinball)

This photo symbolises for me the impossibility of choice.

No single one of these bright, beautiful pens would be as good on its own as they are when they’re all lined up together. I wouldn’t exactly say ‘no’ to owning one if I were offered it, but I wouldn’t feel the need to choose.

Sometimes inaccessible beauty of a shop display is more pleasing than being able to own and to use. And that’s OK, too.

Monblanc pen glints invitingly
(Image by bizmac)

I don’t own a Montblanc fountain pen, but oh how I covet it.

Not for the golden nib, not for the prestige of owning one. But for the pleasure of holding an object so beautiful and inviting.

I dare anyone to look at this photo and not desire a Monblanc pen of their own.

Windows Vista pen
(image by iogi)

I’m not posting this picture because it’s particularly great (although it’s nice enough), and certainly not because I’m suddenly overtaken with fondness towards Windows Vista merchandise. (In fact, when my laptop died in the summer, I transitioned to using a Mac, just so that I didn’t have to use Vista; that’s by the by though.)

However, I have a confession to make: I have an uncommon, unseemly fondness towards free pens.

Even if it’s kinda mediocre in use, even if it bears the name of a product I’d never use (like, cough, Vista) - hey, if it’s free, I’ll have it. And use it, often in preference to my other, nicer pens.

My friend reckons that it’s because deep down I don’t think that whatever I’m writing is worthy, and I’m loathe to use nice stationery on it. Maybe so, or maybe I’m just greedy.

Anyway, the picture up there is a symbol of my weakness.

A letter to Maryann: quirky dip pen and ink

(Image by feverblue)

Apart from being beautifully shot, this picture thrills me with its promise. I want to be Maryann who gets the letter, but I also want to write the letter, to be the one who loops the ink onto the page.

Also, mark the pen: it seems to be one of that breed that’s stunning to look at, but probably not very comfortable to grip. Do I want one anyway? You bet!


(Image by Digital Paradox)

When I was little - and already addicted to writing equipment - I dreamed of trying out a quill pen. Living in a big city, the only birds I saw up close were food, or maybe pigeons - but my mother was fond of peacock feathers.

I stole one of those off the wall where it was mounted, and tried dipping it in watercolours (the nearest thing I had to ink). You can imagine how well that went down. The tip never did get clean again.

I remembered this incident when, browsing around on an unrelated search, I found that there are plenty instructions available if you fancied making your own quill pen.

Here’s how you do it, then.

1. Unless you’ve got geese wandering around, you’ll be needing some quill feathers. You can buy those in hobby shops, and they’re pretty cheap. Ducks or geese are best.

2. Get your pen knife. You can strip the plume completely or keep some of it, whichever you prefer. The plume may get in the way of your writing, but it’s pretty, so you may want to sacrifice your comfort a bit. In any event, strip enough of the tip that you have a comfortable grip, and scrape away the scales near the tip.

3. Some sources recommend soaking the quill in cold water beforehand, or dipping it into boiling water to soften it like your fingernails before a manicure. Others advise that you temper it in hot sand to make it more brittle, and clean out the inside of the quill with a piece of wire. Try out all these methods if you like, but I’m quite lazy, so I’ll go on straight to cutting the nib.

4. To make a nib, first slice the tip of the quill at about a 45 degree angle. Shape the remaining tip into a sharp point; after this - and that’s counter-intuitive, but recommended in several places - chop the very tip off to make it slightly blunter. Mind your fingers though.

5. To finish off, working from the inside, cut a groove in the nib to help the ink flow.

6. You are done. You may now dress up in your Rennaissance Faire garb and write long, beautiful letters to no one in particular.

This pair of videos demonstrates in helpful detail everything you may not have figured out from the description above:



Quill-making and calligraphy resources used in preparation of this article:

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