How a simple writing tool turned me into the kind of person who has opinions about ink.
That would be me
If you peeked into the room I charitably call my “office,” you’d see pens, pencils, gel pens, art pens, and enough writing implements to suggest I’m either creative or preparing for a worldwide stationery shortage. Until recently, though, you would not have seen fountain pens.
My new obsession began innocently, as most questionable obsessions do: with one small acquisition and the lie that it would be “just this once.” I did not expect to become someone who thinks about paper texture, ink flow, and whether a nib has “flex” or personality. Yet here we are.
The more time I spend with fountain pens, the more I understand why people get hooked. In a day filled with computer screens, messages, swiping left or right, and quick taps, writing with one feels deliberate. It also gives me the satisfaction of pausing before a sentence as if I am about to sign a peace treaty, when in reality I am writing a grocery list that says “coffee creamer.”
It Started as a Tool and Became a Personality Trait
I’ve been a computer person for decades, back to when people barely knew how to spell PC. In fact, they didn’t because computers were the size of a room. I could even program a VCR, which once counted as a marketable life skill. But after years of black-and-green and GUI screens, I started missing something slower, quieter, and less likely to require a password reset.
Then Zach gifted me a fountain pen, and apparently that was all it took.
The first thing I noticed was how different a fountain pen feels from a ballpoint. The nib glides, the ink settles into the page, and my handwriting changes depending on how quickly I move. It feels less mechanical and more alive, as if the pen is quietly judging my penmanship but trying very hard not to be self-righteous.
That small difference is what pulled me in. Suddenly I was noticing nib sizes, ink colors, paper texture and thickness, and how one pen could be buttery smooth while another had a little feedback. I started understanding the language of the hobby: converters, cartridges, shading, line variation. This is how it happens. One day you are a normal person. The next day you are saying, “I prefer a fine nib for everyday writing,” and everyone in the room is giving you the blank stare while slowly backing away.
The Internet Did Not Help, Obviously
Of course, once I became curious, the internet made the obsession worse. Videos of shimmering ink, close-up shots of nibs, journal pages, pen collections, and satisfying writing samples are everywhere once the algorithm realizes I am interested. I clicked one harmless video, and now my feed thinks I am preparing to open my own boutique stationery shop.
The danger is that the hobby is easy to enter and hard to leave. One inexpensive pen is enough to start. Then comes a second nib size, a bottle of ink, better notebook(s), maybe a pen case. Before long, I am thinking about a “daily writer” as if I’m a novelist with a cravat or lap throw instead of a person who mostly writes reminders to buy toothpaste.
The Novelist in Me
Oddly enough, I write better drafts away from the keyboard. Give me a recliner, a good notebook and paper, and a Pilot Metropolitan, and suddenly I’m less “person at a computer” and more “writer with focus and a beverage.” Tea, coffee, wine—it all feels more civilized than glaring at a blinking cursor. My characters come to life, and their existence makes sense under the flow of ink.
My Excuses Are Getting Better, Which Is Concerning
I can make practical arguments (excuses) for the obsession. Fountain pens can be comfortable because they do not require much pressure. Refillable pens create less waste than disposable ones. Different nibs can suit different handwriting styles. Bottled ink can last a long time. All of that is true, and I have repeated these points to myself with the calm confidence of someone absolutely trying to justify another purchase.
But the real reason is more emotional than practical. Filling a pen feels like a small ceremony. Choosing an ink color feels like choosing a mood, except the mood has names like “Midnight Blue” or “Ancient Copper,” or my personal favorite, “Writer’s Blood,” and somehow costs less than therapy. Writing a note feels more intentional. Even mistakes seem less annoying because they belong to the page in a real, visible way, which is a poetic way of saying I cannot erase them.
Unfortunately for My Budget, I Think This Obsession Will Stick
I think fountain pens appeal to me because they resist the speed of everything else. They are not trying to be frictionless. They ask me to refill them, clean them, choose paper for them, and pay attention while I write. They are basically little divas, and I respect that. Instead of making writing disappear into another screen, they make it visible again.
I’ve even acquired a couple of vintage pens. They are older than some software companies and still work beautifully, which is more than I can say for several printers (looking at you, Epson!) I’ve owned. But that’s another rant for another day.
That’s why my obsession with fountain pens feels less like a random phase – and lord knows I’ve had a bunch of those – and more like a quiet correction with ink. I still type constantly. I still live on monitors. But when I pick up a fountain pen, I get a slower kind of pleasure: ink moving across paper, one line at a time, reminding me that writing can be more than communication. It can be a way of paying attention, procrastinating attractively, and convincing myself that one more pen would probably complete the collection. Even if I know that “complete” is a concept, not a fact. My “Vanishing Point” knockoff should be here any day now…