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There’s something deeply satisfying about writing with a pencil. The gentle scratch against paper, the distinctive smell of the graphite, and the ability to erase and refine thoughts, make pencils an indispensable tool in my writing.
When I write, I alternate between two loves: the soft scratch of pencils and the expressive flow of my fountain pens. Each brings a unique satisfaction. Having previously explored my passion for fountain pens in my blog post, “Fountain Pens: Writing Magic,” I would like to share why pencils hold an equally special place in my work.
The crown jewel of my wooden pencil collection is undoubtedly the Blackwing Pencil. The pencils come in a variety of colors and density of leads. The longer eraser, held in place by that gleaming brass clasp can be extended as it wears down or be repositioned to the desired angle and length. I maintain a variety of these pencils with differing lead densities, from soft to hard, each serving its own purpose. I like to write with extremely sharp pencils, so I find myself frequently sharpening my wooden pencils. Sometimes, I enjoy the break. It gives me time to stop and think for a moment about what I am writing. Other times, however, the need to sharpen my pencil is an unwanted interruption. When I stop to sharpen the pencil, I might irrevocably lose my chain of thought.
While I like wooden pencils, the newest Japanese mechanical pencils have introduced some groundbreaking innovations:
The Orenz Nero mechanical pencil feeds lead automatically. You don’t have to manually click the pencil, unlike so many other mechanical pencils. This engineering marvel ensures consistent lead length without adjustment, perfect for uninterrupted writing sessions.
The Uni Kurutoga Advance, by contrast, offers a self-rotating lead mechanism that automatically rotates the lead while writing, ensuring even wear and consistently sharp lines. These clever devices maintain a sharp point without me having to think about sharpening the pencil often as I write, as I would with a wooden pencil.
As someone who often works in rare book rooms and archives, pencils aren’t just a preference—they are a necessity. Many institutions ban pens to protect their invaluable collections from permanent marking. Copying material from the books is tedious. So, my choice of pencil varies based on the task. When I find that I am erasing often, I switch to my Blackwing wooden pencils. When I find that I am spending too much time sharpening them, I turn to my Kurutoga Advance mechanical pencil. For completely uninterrupted work, I rely on my Orenz Nero pencil with self-advancing lead.
Both fountain pens and pencils offer distinct forms of creative freedom. My fountain pens are perfect for capturing rapid-fire thoughts and brainstorming.
My premium pencils offer a different kind of freedom. Their smooth graphite provides its own form of flow. It offers the liberty to erase and adjust my ideas as I write. This makes them perfect for evolving ideas—whether sketching concepts or refining drafted thoughts.
In this age of keyboards and touchscreens, I find deep satisfaction in choosing analog writing tools. Each stroke requires intention, and the maintenance rituals—from filling a pen to sharpening a pencil—have become cherished moments. These pauses serve as valuable punctuation marks in my thinking process.
The analog tools of pencils and fountain pens connect me to the physical act of writing. Whether using my Blackwing with its smooth graphite gliding along the paper, or watching my fountain pen dance across the page, each represents a valuable approach to capturing and developing ideas. Mechanical pencils bridge these worlds, offering convenience without sacrificing tactile pleasure. It Is wonderful to embrace the unique character of each writing tool, allowing me to appreciate their distinct qualities and the maintenance demands they require, thereby enhancing the creative process.
From the moment I first picked up a fountain pen in elementary school back in the early 1960s, I knew I had found something special. There was a magic in the way the ink flowed from the nib. My journey began with a cheap Schaeffer plastic pen with an ink-filled plastic cartridge. As a kid, I spent most of the time I had one in my hand unscrewing the barrel and looking at the cartridge and then twisting it back on. I did this endlessly. And yes, I frequently got ink all over my fingers. Little did I know that tinkering with a fountain pen would blossom into a lifelong passion, leading me to amass a collection of over one hundred fountain pens and embark on a journey through the world of inks.
While my collection has grown over the decades, I have always been drawn to the practical rather than the purely luxurious. Most of my pens are on the more affordable end of the spectrum – workhorses that I can use daily without fear of losing them. I can count on all my fingers the favorite pens of mine that I have lost while carrying and using them. Some were my favorite pens at the time and their loss still stings. That is not to say I do not appreciate the finer things. I do own a handful of luxury pens, each one a small treasure. But for me, the true luxury lies in the act of writing itself, not necessarily in the price tag of the pen. Some of my most cherished pens are those I inherited from my grandparents. While my parents had no interest in fountain pens, my grandparents used them daily. These pens, passed down to me, carry not just ink but family history, adding a personal dimension to my collection that goes beyond mere functionality or aesthetics.
My fountain pens have been more than just a hobby – they have been the backbone of my writing life, reliable companions that have seen me through countless rough drafts, papers, sermons, and publications. In the 1970s, when personal computers were still the stuff of science fiction, I relied on a few trusty fountain pens to write the drafts of most of my research papers in college and my first postgraduate program. Even as technology advanced, I found myself returning to the familiar comfort of my fountain pens. I wrote most of my doctoral dissertation drafts with them, feeling the ideas flow from my mind, through the pen, and onto the paper. This tradition continued as I embarked on my academic career, with many of my published papers starting their life as fountain pen scrawls.
There’s something about the physical act of writing with a fountain pen that seems to unlock creativity and clarity of thought. Perhaps it is the tactile connection between hand and paper, or maybe it is the way the ink flows on the paper as I try to write fast enough (and illegibly enough!) to keep up with my thoughts. There’s a smoothness, a consistency that other types of pens simply can’t match. Each fountain pen has its own character, its own way of laying down ink on the page. Each day, I look through my pens to decide what pens I will carry with me that day. It is always different as my choices depend on how I feel and what I want to pen to do.
Recently, I have also found myself drawn into the world of ink collecting. While there’s a rainbow of colors available, I find myself gravitating towards the blues. From purple blue to deep navy to bright cerulean, each shade offers its own mood and personality. I now have around ten different jars of ink in various shades of blue. There is something endlessly fascinating about the subtle variations between different blue inks. Over the past few months, I have begun experimenting with orange, olive, red, and several other interesting shades.
You might wonder why anyone should care about one person’s obsession with fountain pens. In our digital age, isn’t handwriting becoming obsolete?
I would argue that it is precisely because of our increasingly digital lives that fountain pens and handwriting hold such appeal. In a world of email, instant messages, and content written on a computer, there’s something profoundly human about putting pen to paper. It is a tactile, personal experience that connects us to centuries of written tradition. In our digital age the fountain pen stands as a bridge between past and present. It is not just a writing instrument, but a testament to craftsmanship, a celebration of individuality, and a rebellion against the ephemeral nature of digital text. Each stroke of a fountain pen is a small act of creation, leaving a tangible mark on the world that pixels can never quite replicate.
So, whether you’re a fellow enthusiast, a curious newcomer, or someone who’s never given fountain pens a second thought, I invite you to consider the humble fountain pen not just as a writing tool, but as a more tactile, and more personal way of expressing yourself. You might just find, as I did all those years ago, that there is magic flowing from that nib.
IN THESE TIMES 