Today I got a letter from Janet Fitch. Yes, that Janet Fitch. It wasn't addressed specifically to me -- it came as part of my ongoing subscription to Letters in the Mail, from The Rumpus -- but still, it was lovely to think that at some point in the not-so-distant past, Janet Fitch had plopped down in front of her computer and written a letter that eventually found its way to my mailbox.
It was a lovely letter. I was particularly tickled by this discovery: Janet Fitch (Janet Fitch!) writes in big black unlined artists' sketchbooks, just like me. Like me, she has a need to sprawl herself out on the page in order to get the words down.
However, unlike me, Janet writes with a series of ritzy black fountain pens. Never a blue pen, she wrote. Never that.
And suddenly I found myself thinking: why not, Janet? What you have against beautiful, darling blue ink?
A few years ago, when I was living in Edinburgh and had started my little pen-pal/email exchange with The Motorcycle Blonde, I discovered that she didn't like blue ink either. It just seems so un-writerly, she said. Nothing says writer like black ink on a white page.
I'm biased here. I admit it. I have eight beautiful, big artist's sketchbooks filled with page after page of blue scrawl. I've been using blue ink since I started keeping these notebooks -- we're going on twelve years now, the unlined artist's sketchbook and I, and every day of that time has been glorious. Almost every single one of those pages has felt the tip of a blue Papermate pen. And that's it. No fancy fountain pens, no expensive BIC concoctions. I have sometimes, on occasion, used (and quite enjoyed) a Gelcap. But these pens have always been random -- I've picked them up from the office, or somewhere else unknown. (Like many people the world over, I have a habit of attracting stray pens. I also suffer from a complete inability to use any kind of pen that doesn't have a cap. I cannot write with a naked pen, folks. It just makes me so anxious.)
But all that aside, even the random pens that I've used have been blue. I'm not quite sure why. Is it because black ink on a white page feels too final? Is it because it feels "writerly" to me too, only in an overly self-conscious kind of way? I'm not sure. Call me crazy, but somehow blue ink flows easier onto that page. And there's something so wonderful about my loyal Papermate pens. They always feel the same. They rarely ever smudge. (I suffer the leftie's eternal torment of smudged pages and ink smears on the hand. I even had a teacher in elementary school who made me rewrite all the notes in my binder because of the smudging. "It's the type of pen you use," she said. "If they're smudged, rewrite them.")
More importantly: I can buy these pens in boxes of twelve without letting go of half my paycheque. Is that a flimsy excuse? Should I be suffering for my art in all ways possible, including in the wallet? What matter money when one has a Moleskine and a Visconti? What words of note could one possibly hope for when writing with one simple, cheap, humble Papermate pen?
But let's face it: it's a DOLLAR AND FORTY-NINE CENTS FOR TWELVE PENS, people. I like that kind of math. Also, I'll admit that my mother used Papermate pens almost exclusively while I was growing up. And my aunt, who is also a novelist, pretty much had a Papermate permanently attached to her hand. So maybe there's something deeply nostalgic and comforting about those little Papermate soldiers, as well.
Virginia Woolf, in case anyone was wondering, used a certain type of purple ink exclusively for her notebooks and to autograph her work. What say you to that, oh defenders of the stalwart black pen? Granted, she was probably shoving that ink into the English version of a Visconti, or some other lovely type of fountain pen, but there. Purple. Virginia Woolf, most lovely lady of letters, gave her heart to the purple. I see no reason, therefore, why I can't give my heart to the blue. Besides: who the heck cares what you write with, so long as the words matter in the end?
I'll admit that when it comes time to sign that spleet-new novel, I might have a change of heart. Blue ink looks very well in my sketchbook, but there's something very dashing about a black scrawl on the front page of that book. We'll see. I'll have to think about it. I will also, most likely, have a few nights of guilt over it too. I can hear the Papermates now. Don't you love us anymore? Haven't we done all you asked of us and more?
They needn't worry, though. Blue Papermate pens and I -- we go way back, and we'll be going way forward too. So long as there are Papermates, you can bet I'll be writing with them. Sometimes there's nothing like a plucky little pen to get the job done.
It was a lovely letter. I was particularly tickled by this discovery: Janet Fitch (Janet Fitch!) writes in big black unlined artists' sketchbooks, just like me. Like me, she has a need to sprawl herself out on the page in order to get the words down.
However, unlike me, Janet writes with a series of ritzy black fountain pens. Never a blue pen, she wrote. Never that.
And suddenly I found myself thinking: why not, Janet? What you have against beautiful, darling blue ink?
A few years ago, when I was living in Edinburgh and had started my little pen-pal/email exchange with The Motorcycle Blonde, I discovered that she didn't like blue ink either. It just seems so un-writerly, she said. Nothing says writer like black ink on a white page.
I'm biased here. I admit it. I have eight beautiful, big artist's sketchbooks filled with page after page of blue scrawl. I've been using blue ink since I started keeping these notebooks -- we're going on twelve years now, the unlined artist's sketchbook and I, and every day of that time has been glorious. Almost every single one of those pages has felt the tip of a blue Papermate pen. And that's it. No fancy fountain pens, no expensive BIC concoctions. I have sometimes, on occasion, used (and quite enjoyed) a Gelcap. But these pens have always been random -- I've picked them up from the office, or somewhere else unknown. (Like many people the world over, I have a habit of attracting stray pens. I also suffer from a complete inability to use any kind of pen that doesn't have a cap. I cannot write with a naked pen, folks. It just makes me so anxious.)
But all that aside, even the random pens that I've used have been blue. I'm not quite sure why. Is it because black ink on a white page feels too final? Is it because it feels "writerly" to me too, only in an overly self-conscious kind of way? I'm not sure. Call me crazy, but somehow blue ink flows easier onto that page. And there's something so wonderful about my loyal Papermate pens. They always feel the same. They rarely ever smudge. (I suffer the leftie's eternal torment of smudged pages and ink smears on the hand. I even had a teacher in elementary school who made me rewrite all the notes in my binder because of the smudging. "It's the type of pen you use," she said. "If they're smudged, rewrite them.")
More importantly: I can buy these pens in boxes of twelve without letting go of half my paycheque. Is that a flimsy excuse? Should I be suffering for my art in all ways possible, including in the wallet? What matter money when one has a Moleskine and a Visconti? What words of note could one possibly hope for when writing with one simple, cheap, humble Papermate pen?
But let's face it: it's a DOLLAR AND FORTY-NINE CENTS FOR TWELVE PENS, people. I like that kind of math. Also, I'll admit that my mother used Papermate pens almost exclusively while I was growing up. And my aunt, who is also a novelist, pretty much had a Papermate permanently attached to her hand. So maybe there's something deeply nostalgic and comforting about those little Papermate soldiers, as well.
Virginia Woolf, in case anyone was wondering, used a certain type of purple ink exclusively for her notebooks and to autograph her work. What say you to that, oh defenders of the stalwart black pen? Granted, she was probably shoving that ink into the English version of a Visconti, or some other lovely type of fountain pen, but there. Purple. Virginia Woolf, most lovely lady of letters, gave her heart to the purple. I see no reason, therefore, why I can't give my heart to the blue. Besides: who the heck cares what you write with, so long as the words matter in the end?
I'll admit that when it comes time to sign that spleet-new novel, I might have a change of heart. Blue ink looks very well in my sketchbook, but there's something very dashing about a black scrawl on the front page of that book. We'll see. I'll have to think about it. I will also, most likely, have a few nights of guilt over it too. I can hear the Papermates now. Don't you love us anymore? Haven't we done all you asked of us and more?
They needn't worry, though. Blue Papermate pens and I -- we go way back, and we'll be going way forward too. So long as there are Papermates, you can bet I'll be writing with them. Sometimes there's nothing like a plucky little pen to get the job done.
I prefer blue, too! Love those Papermates. Medium point. For some reason black ink feels a bit lacking in character. Maybe it's too much like type, too formal. Not enough like it came straight from my hand, my heart.
ReplyDelete" ... like it came straight from my hand, my heart."
ReplyDeleteYes. That's it exactly. :)
Paper mate pens aren't that bad pens at all. they are really one of the simplest but good pens that I've seen. I love any color available but blue is my favorite.
ReplyDelete