I have a small fountain pen collection. I work very hard to make sure that it just stays that small. As with all obsessions, I just don’t want to get too far under with it.
I use them mostly for my journals. I’ve been journaling since I learned my abc’s. Of course most of those journals have been burned or otherwise destroyed. When I was young, my step-parent would read them, and of course I’d get beatings for what I wrote. I learned to hide journal work in other work, and to write in code. However, the urge to write has always been there.
Then came the urge to write. Yesterday I talked about how digging into other worlds saved me as a child. Now, writing short stories, I can delve into other worlds. I can make them as big or as small as I need to do so. The words I use have evolved, and how I speak has evolved as well. Before I started this latest version, I didn’t use the words, “I shall”. It just wasn’t in my vocabulary.
Now, it’s take over.
Back to the fountain pens. I use noodlers ink. I have a gorgeous purple and a lovely green as well as a few others. The pens themselves range from antiques to modern pens I bought online. Today’s pen is a twistable with a deep velvety black ink. My hands are stained funny colors, and I just don’t care.
In my journal, I can get the pain of the day out. I can get the poison of my soul out before it festers and hurts others. I can get the judgemental old crone sated before she hurts somebody.
I like being me on paper. My husband occasionally will read my writing. I’m sure of it. I don’t care. It’s not a secret. If he must read through my brain dump, he is more than welcome. Just wish he would stay out of my camping gear.
Have a lovely day, take care. -L