I posted about not accepting my grandfather's Sheaffer fountain pens (being a wrongheaded barbarian).
So my first fountain pen was a gift from a favorite lit prof who told me I might have a future as a writer: a black Osmiroid that was inhabited by a demon.
It had a medium italic nib that was catchy—months before I could write a page without several nasty blots. It was also subject to clogs and fouling (perhaps I used India ink at first). But, in any event, I used it to write letters, keep journals, and draft the poems that became my first book.
Later, when I sent off the manuscript of my first nonfiction book to a NYC publisher, I decided to buy a fountain pen to celebrate and commemorate the event. Since water— rain, snow, lakes, streams— was central to the book, I decided on a blue pen, but had no idea— living in a remote cabin in Wyoming— where to find one. A girlfriend handed me a Levenger catalogue and I fell in love: a luminous blue Sheaffer Connaisseur.
Since then, I celebrate significant publications with a pen that recalls the event. For instance, when a couple poems appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, I bought vintage Sheaffer jade pens to restore, followed by matching pencils.
Are there untold stories behind your collection of pens?
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