behold:
Storytellers have always sought beauty. To uncover it, to mould it, to wield it.
And that is because beauty — that of a story, and even of its creation — lends itself to the worth of an aesthetic object.
For writers, creative beauty can be found in the craftsmanship and quality of the tools we use to bring our thoughts to life.
One such tool was the classic typewriter, adored for its simplicity and accessibility. Now, it sits in print museums and collectors’ cupboards as a memory of beauty past.
The fountain pen is another such tool — but one that has aged into timelessness. While there is a certain instant-soup charm to the ballpoint, using a fountain pen insists on recognising the beauty in writing. There’s a degree of care in its use and an elegance to its presence while you think out loud in ink. Today, fountain pens are held by long-time enthusiasts and an entirely new generation of digital-first storytellers who yearn to escape a chronically electronic paperscape.
My millennial education started me out with the humble HB pencil and foolscap. And, as a 20-something student, I held fast to my old ways and wrote everything by hand. My setup today is fully digital: apps preserve my old family recipes, balance my books, hold my thoughts, and direct my days. But logging data in scattered apps can’t do for me what the simple act of writing does.
How we eat affects our bodies. It makes sense that how we write influences what we think. Writing with pen and paper engages our brains cognitively and physically, forms and deepens neural pathways, and enhances learning. Writing is a mindful process; and yet, the pen — like the typewriter — is all too often shelved for shinier, newer toys.
But I think of my handwriting like my voice: no one else has one like mine. I owe it the respect of using it.
I still keep a daily journal that, even on my most frantic days, tethers my thoughts to a real place — one that is completely offline and completely mine. I also keep a fountain pen or two inked up and ready to go for those moments of inspired journaling in the middle of the day.
As a not-yet-30 professional, though, I don’t get the time to write as often as I used to; I have to find excuses to do it.
This is one reason for which I’ve found myself desperately grateful for blogging — and, particularly, for Bear. Visual overwhelm seems to have become the norm across the platforms that host the internet’s writersphere. Before I have room to write, I need to pick out five different fonts and eight different visuals and another million widgets. And by the time I finally get to the writing part, I’m exhausted.
I’ve had on-and-off relationships with other blogging platforms for over a decade, but I’ve written more on Bear in the last month than I have on the others in years. The room it provides to me is sacred, because finally — finally — I have space for beauty. To find it, to shape it, to hold it.
Bear is becoming to me for blogging what the fountain pen is to me for paper: a simple tool of beauty with which I can tether my thoughts to a real place. One where my voice remains my own.
I’d like to end off with a hope — a wish, of sorts — for you, reader:
Whatever you write about, and however you write, I hope you find the beauty you seek.