It doesn’t matter which century we live in, or in which country. It doesn’t even matter that we write on our laptops and PDAs rather than on paper. Fountain pens are eternal; forever.
I needn’t mention that I love to write with my fountain pen. They are so elegant, regal almost. Writing something–anything, even a to-do list–with a fountain pen somehow makes me feel like a real writer. As if I’m leaving something valuable for posterity; even though I know said posterity will sooner throw away my scribbles than publish them, and even though paper and ink are destructible whereas electronic storage is almost immortal.
I go so far as to buy hand-made journals for the specific purpose of filling them up with my genius literary work (well, genius in my head), inked with a fountain pen of course. It’s a tale for another day that I haven’t yet written a word in any of the four such journals that I own. But although the journals are blank, and my blog posts are typed directly on my laptop, I do have this habit of writing down stuff with a fountain pen in my ordinary notebook at least once a week. Makes me feel important; as though somehow I’m fit to be within twenty feet of Edgar Allan Poe or Douglas Adams.