Reading this essay produced feelings of nostalgia for my childhood and the time when I came into my first pen. It was two-toned bottle-green and black, had a nice weight and a smooth nib. I remember feeling edgy in my choice of ink-color deciding that I was a blue-black kind of person not blue or black.
Putting pen to paper for the first time was a transforming experience. This was a the rite of passage that signaled the end of childhood and the beginning of adolescence. What I wrote had greater staying power and could not be erased away. I had achieved a certain parity with adults and could be more visible.
The maturity of my penmanship improved over the years and with it somehow my ability to use words. It is as if the tools of writing had not changed, this maturation would have never occurred. I have never restored any pens but can totally understand the author's perspective
I found the pen restorations relaxing. I often stared at screens, tapping and clicking on cold interfaces. I was writing but where? My words pixelated on cold, electric blankness. They appeared to me like silent ghosts yet born into the world. Restoring vintage pens offered respite from that abstraction, with the reward of a writing instrument I’d be able to use. I could cheaply buy pens neglected in someone’s drawer for decades and give them new life.
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