I remember the year I learned to write cursive. It was in the second half of third grade. We were living in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio.
A number of exciting things happened that school year (1955-1956): Mama had given birth to her sixth, and last, child in September; we three older kids received our first bicycles that year for Christmas; in spring I had my first schoolgirl crush on a damned good-looking boy with blond hair and deep blue eyes (yes, I remember him very well…except I’ve forgotten his name…shoot!); and I received my first fountain pen, a gift from my teacher for having the best penmanship (of the girls) at the end of the year.
Thus began my love affair with fine writing instruments. It would be a couple more years before I was introduced to high quality stationery, but by the time I was 14 years old, I was besotted with pen and ink. Given the opportunity, I did my homework with pen and ink. I wrote long flowery letters to my aunts in blue ink on delicate sheets of vellum. Sometimes, I just played with loading and unloading the ink into the barrel.
When I had my first after school job, I bought bottles of ink in a rainbow of colors. How well I recall oxblood, scarlet and vermilion reds; navy, turquoise, cobalt and teal blues; sepia and walnut browns, India black, golden yellow, deep orange, emerald and acid greens. Violet, blue-violet, mauve, and that color that makes me think of pokeberry juice. Cerise. Yes, cerise.
My handwriting improved when I learned to do calligraphy, although it gets sloppy and uneven if I write hurriedly. With improved penmanship came the desire to write love letters, although there was no one to whom I could write. I made up lovers, and practiced writing love letters to them. Somewhere along the way, I had read of lovers who had never met, who had fallen deeply in love on the basis of letters exchanged over the years, sometimes continents apart. I wanted such a relationship.
What pleases me most about using a fountain pen is the sound of the nib whispering along the paper, leaving a trail of nuance and meaning, context and sentiment in its wake. I like the idea of leaving my mark, a part of my heart and soul, in the wavering lines of angles and curves, dots and dashes, exclamations and halts. A hand-written note or letter carries with it the unique human touch, and to hold one in your hands is to touch, to hold, the hand of the one who wrote it.
I love the romance of writing with fountain pen and ink. It takes me back to a time before I was born, a time I learned about in movies and music of the era. Email is quicker and easier to type out, but my soul hungers for pen and ink – a fountain pen and a glass bottle full of fluid ink, the stuff of imagination, and longing.
A number of exciting things happened that school year (1955-1956): Mama had given birth to her sixth, and last, child in September; we three older kids received our first bicycles that year for Christmas; in spring I had my first schoolgirl crush on a damned good-looking boy with blond hair and deep blue eyes (yes, I remember him very well…except I’ve forgotten his name…shoot!); and I received my first fountain pen, a gift from my teacher for having the best penmanship (of the girls) at the end of the year.
Thus began my love affair with fine writing instruments. It would be a couple more years before I was introduced to high quality stationery, but by the time I was 14 years old, I was besotted with pen and ink. Given the opportunity, I did my homework with pen and ink. I wrote long flowery letters to my aunts in blue ink on delicate sheets of vellum. Sometimes, I just played with loading and unloading the ink into the barrel.
When I had my first after school job, I bought bottles of ink in a rainbow of colors. How well I recall oxblood, scarlet and vermilion reds; navy, turquoise, cobalt and teal blues; sepia and walnut browns, India black, golden yellow, deep orange, emerald and acid greens. Violet, blue-violet, mauve, and that color that makes me think of pokeberry juice. Cerise. Yes, cerise.
My handwriting improved when I learned to do calligraphy, although it gets sloppy and uneven if I write hurriedly. With improved penmanship came the desire to write love letters, although there was no one to whom I could write. I made up lovers, and practiced writing love letters to them. Somewhere along the way, I had read of lovers who had never met, who had fallen deeply in love on the basis of letters exchanged over the years, sometimes continents apart. I wanted such a relationship.
What pleases me most about using a fountain pen is the sound of the nib whispering along the paper, leaving a trail of nuance and meaning, context and sentiment in its wake. I like the idea of leaving my mark, a part of my heart and soul, in the wavering lines of angles and curves, dots and dashes, exclamations and halts. A hand-written note or letter carries with it the unique human touch, and to hold one in your hands is to touch, to hold, the hand of the one who wrote it.
I love the romance of writing with fountain pen and ink. It takes me back to a time before I was born, a time I learned about in movies and music of the era. Email is quicker and easier to type out, but my soul hungers for pen and ink – a fountain pen and a glass bottle full of fluid ink, the stuff of imagination, and longing.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore
31 comments:
Lovely post. I never had the pleasure of a fine writing instrument. And all the men I wrote letters to claimed to have never written a letter and so were "unable" to write back. Now one of those discarded men, reads my blog "religiously" or so he says. I did receive lovely emails from him over the years since I left him, but it's not the same. Once when I sent him a painful an passionate letter trying to explain the pain our relationship was causing me, despite the fact that we were living together, his only comment on the letter was to say, "nice penmanship." He had nothing to say about the content and the compliment seemed so odd and disconnected it was the moment I realized we no longer had anything to say to one another.
That is a beautiful pen.
My penmanship has never been great, but I love calligraphy. You make me want to find a good pen with ink, some nice paper, get a book. It is an utterly sensual way to write.
Utah, friend:
Now is a good time to buy yourself a nice pen, a bottle of ink in you favorite color, a box of luxe paper, and write letters - and poems! - to your heart's content.
Doodling is great fun with a fountain pen, too.
:)
Zhoen:
Isn't that a beautiful nib? A couple of years ago, I gave a friend who was celebrating her 50th birthday a moderately priced Mont Blanc...loved the workmanship of the nib and bought another one for my collection.
One of the nicest pens I have, in terms of the line it produces and the ease of writing, is a 60-year old bladder pen that my late FIL had given to his wife on one of their anniversaries. It has a fine point, makes a feminine line of letters on paper.
I hope you will take up calligraphy again. I agree heartily that fountain pen with ink is the most sensual way to write.
:)
Lovely post.
Granddaughter, who is seven, is learning how to do cursive writing. She is surprisingly neat and seems to enjoy the flow of the word as she releases it onto paper.
There will always be a place for it too.
A simple statement like 'I love you' when typed could be from anyone; and it would look the same but for different fonts etc.
But to write it. Each one is unique and has a little of the writer within; so much more intimate. You know that the writer's fingers have been within touching distance of it.
I once wrote a short story highlighting that. Must revisit it.
Thankyou.
John/AWB:
It is I who thank you, for your lovely response.
When you find your short story, I would enjoy reading it, if you care to share it.
Your granddaughter is learning cursive before I did. In the first half of that school year, we practiced writing the alphabet, then our names, then we moved on to short essays (very short - perhaps five or six sentences, as I recall.) A rite of passage, of sorts.
:)
So is it true that fountain pens with a gold nib take "the set" of their owner's hand, and no one else can write with them?
With keyboarding, most of our cursive skills have gone in the bucket. Too bad--I still recall the elegant script of some teachers.
Thanks for stopping by ER--that was old RolyTheDog's last day out in the hills, as fate would have it.
ER:
There may be something to that, about the nib taking on the slant of the writer's hand. A couple of my fountain pens that I bought used took awhile before the followed the paper the way my brand new ones did.
I hope Roly enjoyed her time in the stream.
:)
This is by way of catching up on things I should have said to earlier posts:
Employment. Carried away by my arty considerations I neglected the larger part of what you had written about the insidious and corrosive aspects of job uncertainty. I'm familiar with this because journalism is euphemistically known as a volatile occupation and the axe fell on me three or four times during 44 years. Things sound much tougher for you, however, and I deeply sympathise. I was moved by your references to others who, you believe, are suffering more than you are. This does you credit but I recommend you put these feelings to one side for the moment. We are each endowed with just so much emotional and nervous energy and in your case it needs to be focused on what matters - keeping you and your family housed and fed. You're entitled to be quite selfish about this, damn selfish, in fact. Such an attitude may conflict with your Quakerism but from the little I know about Quakers it is a belief that recognises humans as humans and not as faith-driven automata. Having said that I am merely someone on the sidelines, unable to help directly. But I needed to say something.
Emoticons. You mention these in a comment two or three posts back. I fear I am totally ignorant about what they communicate. I was aware they existed but I never learnt the code, fearing that if I ever used one I would turn a parenthesis wrong way round, causing a mega-insult. Prose is hard enough.
Calligraphy. I admire it but am denied its pleasures. At school I was beaten regularly for bad handwriting more or less up to the point where I departed formal education. The pain of being beaten terrified me but this fear was never converted into better penmanship. Once I had become a tea-boy on the local newspaper, learning to type was vital. The only thing I used pens and pencils for thereafter was to do shorthand. On occasions when I have had to write what qualified as a personal letter I have usually devoted the first sentence to explaining why the typewriting me (or word processing me) is better value than the handwriting me. I was compelled to write my last bit of verse with a pen on the train; I had great difficulty getting it to "speak" to me as I read it back. Another problem: fountain pens used to backfire on me. I think that's enough whingeing about that.
The idea of writing to a non-existent lover deserves a John Updike short story although he, alas, is no longer around to write it.
The photo is a great exercise in depth-of-field. Driven as usual by an over-developed sense of curiosity, I find myself wondering whether the single visible word ("left") has gnomic significance. Gnomic isn't right, by the way; I just wanted to use it.
BB, my dear -
About employment - Fortunately, my current part-time position is in no danger of disappearing. Not yet, at least. I like this job (office manager for local historical society), and want to keep it. I am updating my resume, however, with the idea that I must be prepared to give it up in favor of one full-time position, if necessary. We will be fine, no matter what. I wrote that post in a moment of anxiety fueled by little sleep and childhood fears rearing their ugly little faces. I deeply appreciate your empathy and desire to offer support. Thank you.
Emoticons are pretty much a mystery to me, as well. I use the colon, semi-colon, the parentheses and the capital D for eyes, winking eye, smile or downturned mouth, and the D to show laughter, respectively. Other than that, I have no clue, either.
I am appalled to read that you were beaten for your less than 'perfect' penmanship! What draconian school did you attend? The Spencerian method we were taught was meant to be a guide. I remember my teacher telling us that each of us would write differently from the others, and that was okay. It showed our individuality. How terrible for you!
I hope you will write at least one letter by hand to each of those you love. When my mother died, all she left behind (poor darling), in material goods, were a couple of pieces of low-value jewelry and the letters she had written to us over the years in her hand...and the purple ink she preferred. Guess what we children treasure. To this day, when I hold one of her letters in my hand, I can hear her voice as I read what she wrote, I can touch her hands again. She is physical to me again for the moments I read her script. It doesn't matter what you write (your feelings are best, but a shopping list might work as well), only that your hand made the marks upon the page.
A good fountain pen won't drip or spit on you, by the way...mine haven't yet, anyway.
I might not do as well as Updike ("might not"?!) but I'll have a go at composing a short piece about writing to imaginary lover(s). I'll let you know when it is finished.
Gnomic...hmmmmm. I hadn't looked that deeply into the image when I found it on Google. When I looked at it this morning after reading your comment, I noticed the word 'weeds' under the 'left'. Also noticed the nib was pointing to my left. Cryptic, mysterious, yes. But I think he is writing about the state of his garden. I say 'he' because of the masculine form of the handwriting.
As always, dear BB, I am glad to hear from you. By the way, I like the new masthead for your blog, but am puzzled by the subtitle. You surely do not see yourself as a bore, do you?
:) (the smile referred to earlier)
I love fountain pens too, but being left handed, they are a curse of smudginess to me.
And blue ink. I MUST have blue inked pens.
Perhaps cursive may return with the help of technology.
I sometimes use an electronic notepad that has a writing facility. Word recognition is sometimes a bit hit and miss but that will improve and then we may go back to long hah; the elctronic version.
When I've finished my novel, Martha, I will go back and revisit my short stories and maybe post one or two on my blog.
Neal Stephenson lost half a novel (the Diamond Age) to a computer glitch and turned to writing the next ones on paper. Considering 'The Baroque Cycle' is nearly 3k pages long, that's an admirable amount of longhand. Dickens did them all that way.
Long before blogging entered my life the only writing experience I had was writing letters.. nearly 40 years worth of weekly ones to my mother for a start. I guess that's where my ability to write both truth and fiction began. For years I used only fountain pens and my favorite ink was peacock blue.
This is a wonderful essay about writing as a leisurely and thoughtful enterprise.
Maria:
Peacock! That was the name I was trying to remember when I wrote turquoise in the essay. They say the first thing to go as we age is the mind...can't remember was they said is the second thing.
:)
John: I look forward to reading what you've written.
What irony if we end up returning to long hand in the electronic age!
:)
Susan:
Back before I learned to type, I saw reproduction of a page from one of Hemingway's stories, handwritten. What encouraged me, as an aspiring writer, was all the cross-outs, misspellings and other mistakes he had made as he was creating his story. Naively, I thought if Hemingway could become a writer, having made all those mistakes, there was hope for me.
And I just realized that I answered Maria's comment with my remembrance of peacock blue ink, when it was you who had written about it!
See, my mind has already left the building! I apologize to you both for mixing up your reponses.
:[
That is so cool. I've lately started paying attention to what I'm writing with and drawing with (or doodling with is more accurate). I love the way you've written here about the mechanics of writing. Not the words, but the writing. Lovely.
such a lovely pen to go with your thoughtful post....I agree with you, there is something so special about a wonderful pen, the nib, the ink~my favorite is sepia on natural paper...so lovely...I'm glad I came by to read your beautiful writing, you jogged my memories of penmanship when I was in school...a long time ago...
blessings...
so nostalgic and beautiful... reminding me of my love affair with my first pen when i was a kid... i wrote lots of homework with it but surely no love letters!
:)
but all you said about the movement on paper... that sound... all were the things i loved about it...
why don't you start writing letters on paper again? i did it this year after so many years of not sending letters on paper and by snail mail... to someone in another continent who i have not seen in person... she's a gem...
it feels so good... to write...
I never had the ink well bottles in school, but I remember the ink wells at the desks. We had cartridge pens. The ink was in a cartridge and you loaded them into the barrel. It acted like a fountain pen and was the newest fangled in the late 50's and 60's. I was in 2nd grade in 1956.
My penmanship is horrible, but I write letters still. I write to an older woman down in North Augusta, GA She is 93 and loves to receive a letter. When I write to her, I go real slow and deliberate so it looks neat. She is a retired school teacher. I also write to a very good friend in California. Sure, I can call him, and I do, but sometimes, you just have to sit down and write a letter.
I love to get letters and post cards, and I can't stand e-mail "pass alongs" with nothing written by the person who sent it to me.
Plenty of stuff to think about if you take the time. I like to remember the cars I've driven. Nice stuff here at The Crow.
What a fabulous post! I find I have so many memories and impressions on this, of Osmiroid pens with italic nibs, turquoise ink, envying my friends' writing, of spending all my Christmas money on bottles of coloured indian ink when I was about 14, and some of them I still have, though they are full of sediment and shellac flakes, of my first Rotring,and how I never wrote an essay or exam with anything else for the next seven years, of how I am convinced even the most ordinary ballpoint, if it is accustomed to another's hand, causes me to write a little like they do when I pick it up...
I sometimes think about getting a good fountain pen and beautifully coloured ink, but fear I wouldn't look after it well enough, or that it would inhibit me too much. I like a nice gel pen or fineliner though. I think many people are enjoying such things still.
I love your story of making up lovers to write to!
Lisa:
Handwriting can become very Zen-moment-ish, where I get lost in the motion and sounds of the process. Very soothing sometimes.
:)
Linda:
Thank you for visiting.
Yes, I like that nib, too. A work of art in itself, isn't it?
:)
HB:
So glad to see you again. I've been negligent of my blogger neighbors, but was glad to see you didn't leave, as I thought you were going to do.
Looking forward to visiting you again.
:)
Spadoman:
"...sometimes, you just have to sit down and write a letter."
Absolutely! I have boxes of the letters and cards I've received over the years. They help my memories come to the forefront and are a joy to re-read.
I'm happy you visited; hope to see you again.
:)
Lucy:
How wonderful to see you here again. I am delighted that we seem to have had similar youthful love of inks and pens. I bought an Osmiroid set when I took calligraphy lessons; it's in my art supplies waiting for me to take it up again.
I'm enjoying visiting your blogs about your recent vacation in France, Lucy. Your prose is as beautiful as your photographs. Both make me feel as though I had been along with you and Tom and Molly. (Wish I had.)
:)
Probably not nice, but I had to chuckle at Barrett's comment about "calligraphobia." My wife was smacked sharply by a nun on the back of the hand with a steel-edged rule while learning to write a capital "D"--and to this day she PRINTS every one!
ER:
How fortunate I was to have a teacher who was flexible enough to allow for individual differences. Until I learned calligraphy, though, my handwriting rose at the end, like the incline of a hill.
At least Mrs. ER still writes, bless her heart!
:)
Oh I remember my fountain pen days too! When I was 15, somebody introduced me to it. I didn't go into calligrapgy but I love the ink effect on my roundish handwriting..they look stylish! I was in a boarding school then; and the only one using fountain pen..most students thought I'm a rich girl because even those days, they were much more expensive than ballpens. I couldn't remember when I stopped using it..maybe when I went to university..but one thing i love is the nib and the smell of the ink. My friends thought the ink is a bit messy..(I was a bit messy too whenever I dealt with ink) but it was so special. Thanks for reminding me of those days!
Hliza:
I had forgotten about the smell of ink. That was part of its charm, too, except for India ink. Didn't care much for the odor of that one.
:)
what a gorgeous image...haptic and evocative...
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