Writing Tools: Picky, Picky, Picky!

     When I was a pianist, I, like every other serious pianist, was extremely sensitive to whatever instrument I was obliged to play. Aside from the piano he may have at home, a pianist is pretty much at the mercy of the piano at hand, whether at his place of work or at the place of a performance. He doesn't always have the luxury of choosing a piano for a recital and having it delivered for the event; he often has to use the piano that's there. Hopefully, it's a fine instrument that has been freshly tuned, voiced, and balanced, but sometimes it's better suited for firewood.

     As a diarist and poet, I'm every bit as sensitive about the tools I use, and from what I've heard and read, every other writer feels the same. When I first began keeping a journal in the eighth grade my tools were rudimentary, to say the least: loose pages in a ring binder and whatever pen or pencil was at hand. Then I found a large blank book my architect brother, who was then still in college, had left at home one summer, and I confiscated it for my journal. In later years, my preference was wire-bound notebooks—not spiral, but the kind with double wire rings down the length of the book (whatever those things are called, I don't know). Traditional spirals tend to bend, unravel, or otherwise get all misshapen and cockeyed. Also, the back had to be thick and sturdy enough to set on the knee, if a table or other suitable writing surface weren't available.

     For years, I avoided using the now ubiquitous hardbound blank book, simply because the cover couldn't be folded back so that the book fit better atop a crowded restaurant table (I love writing when dining out alone). If the book was smaller to begin with, it usually didn't lie flat when open, and its pages were too small to accommodate more than a few sentences.

     Then I discovered Moleskine hardcover notebooks with lined pages. They're ideal for journaling: just the right size for restaurant tables; the pages are sewn in signatures, not glued, so the books lie flat; the paper is nib-friendly (smooth, that is, so nibs don't get hung up) and takes high quality fountain pen ink well.

     Which brings us to pens. I won't even discuss pencils; they are useless to any serious diarist. Permanent ink is a must. My instrument of choice used to be the Uniball Vision micro point. It served me very well until I became enamored of the nib. I'd watch period films and wonder how those vintage dip pens felt to write with, and how on earth they held enough ink so the writer wouldn't have to dip every few words, as one had to do with feather quills. I bought my first dip pen in an antique store, bought a bottle of ink, and fell in love. This was not a calligraphy pen, mind you, this was a regular writing pen that was used in the late 1800's, before the fountain pen was invented. It was fitted with a good, sturdy nib that was flexible and held a good amount of ink with a single dip. The secret, of course, is capillary action and the curve of the nib's underside.

 

 

 

     The downside to using dip pens for journaling is that you can't carry an inkwell around wherever you go—well, I suppose you can, but it's inconvenient to say the least. There are such things as antique travel inkwells, but they can be costly. So for a while, I limited my writing to my time at home. Then I started giving a lot of thought to fountain pens. It happened that at that particular time, I was approaching my tenth anniversary working at the Houston Grand Opera. It is the company's tradition to give the employee a gift to mark the occasion, and they asked me if there was anything in particular I would like. So I asked for—you guessed it—a fountain pen. Luckily there was on our staff a person who knew a great deal about pens and even wrote for Pen World magazine. She personally chose my gift: a Sheaffer White Dot, a simple black beauty that I use to this day.

     As for drafting poetry, I'm much less particular about my tools. A rigid-backed wire-bound notebook and a good ballpoint with really intense ink does me just fine. My drafts aren't as crucial as my journal entries, though I do keep them for my records. I used to draft poems and journal in the same book, but no longer. Now I prefer to keep the two separate.

     Well, there you have it. Maybe someday I'll pontificate on the many virtues of manual typewriters. But you've probably already surmised that I love typewriters, haven't you?