Confessions of a Fountain Pen

I've wondered what my pens would say if they could speak, they produce so many words and hold many secrets. Listen, while my pen gently speaks...

I am a fountain pen. I’m made of black resin and 18 karat gold. There are many who think that I’m special because of my pedigree, (I was born a Mont Blanc 149 Diplomat), but my true value lies in the service that I provide for my owner.

Over the years I have had the pleasure of being used to write many words expressing the thoughts of my owner. I’ve penned letters congratulating nieces and nephews who graduated from college and prepared scripts for television. I've written checks for charitable donations as well as those that pay the mortgage. I’ve also been used to write letters of thanks for Christmas gifts, nights out dining and birthday presents. I’ve prepared corporate reports and taken notes in classes, conferences and workshops. Although I’m happy in my existence as a fountain pen, not all of my work is joyous.

The hardest jobs are those letters of condolence sent to friends who have lost a loved one. And I've been called upon more than once to write an obituary. During those assignments the ink that I hold is mixed with tears of sympathy. Alas, a bitter sweet task.

And yet, I’ve also had moments of great joy.

Perhaps my happiest work has been those letters of love and passion that I have been employed to write on fine stationary. Ah! What joy! What bliss! I can only imagine how a heart may swoon on reading the words that have been so tenderly written. Words meant to transcend time and space. I also love to travel, and I’ve seen much of the world. I’ve been used to pen notes from Italy, Spain, England and, my favorite, France. Here, closer to home, the breathtaking vistas of America's Southwest have always been inspirational.

I know, you’re asking yourself: How can a fountain pen be responsible for such words, such musings? You see, within my reservoir is an amorphous liquid that lacks shape or meaning. But when my owner takes me into his grip, I become an extension of his thoughts by way of his arm, wrist and hand. That shapeless liquid becomes words on a page that take form and becomes meaningful. And when I’m used to give definition to a thought, I become immortal; the heart and soul of a legacy.

In the coming years it may be that I will change hands. Perhaps one of my owner’s nieces or nephews may inherit me. Should that happen my only hope is that they will not abandoned me for a keyboard, cell phone or some other futuristic electronic device designed to communicate faster, but with no greater degree of substance. But until that time I remain happy in the employ of my owner. And when day is done and I’m put aside for the evening, I’m never alone for I rest among many friends: Stipula and Aurora from Italy, Acme and Monte Verde from America and, my good friend from Germany, Lamy. I’m always in good company as, I am the proud owner of a human spirit.

Have Pen, Will Write