In the age of reading on a Kindle and spelling out your life in 140 characters, I still love pen and paper.

Watching black ink seep into the grooves of a fresh clean page is pure art. 

I even like the term long-hand. A term meaning that every word is written full-out. It implies that what you’re reading took  time to write and will in turn take time to read.  

Which is fine by me.

I romanticize writing; imagine a golden nib dipped delicately into blue-black ink then swirled beautifully along golden parchment. This is the image I call up when I find myself thumbing through pieces of poems or old journals and a line has caught my attention, drawn me in. Demanded to be revived.

In no time I am surrounded by a pile of  journals, a collection of worn composition notebooks and yellowing sheets of poetry  — excited by old tales that inspire new insight.

Perusing these pages is like bumping into my old self and I find myself seated at my kitchen island, or desk or sprawled on the livingroom floor with pen in hand and inspiration my guide.

This is the inkwell I dip into to make art. 

I tap my calligrapher’s nib on the edge to release the excess and take my time to say something powerful.

One thought on “Inkwell

  1. I love your photo and words about writing with ink and pen. I am a writer and I, too, lovve pens and ink and yellow pads and erasers, and paper clips and all the lovely tools of
    our lovely trade. Thanks for this lovely little essay — it’s very inspiring!

    Write on!

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