Want pen!

Today, I decided I wanted a proper pen. A proper fountain pen. The likes of which I used to have, but don't now. Oh, I have calligraphy fountain pens, although I'm more likely to use the dip ones. But I wanted a standard point. Hobby Lobby had the lovely ink in my favorite color, and calligraphy fountain pens. So I have the INK. Local office stores no longer carry fountain pens. Agh.

Y'know, there was a brief time, around when I was finishing college, that they were IN. I used to even be able to buy this really good disposable fountain pen, in cool colors, pretty good. But now they're all gone. Weep.

patgund, who is an utter dear and is high on my list of lifeboat people (for his medical skills, too) was willing to be called and to look up stationary stores for me in Fort Worth. I called. Two numbers disconnected, one no answer.

Fegh. Was in happy glowy mood before looking for pen. Will now give up on pen and go back to happy glowy mood.

It's just that, like Anne of Green Gables, there are certain things that just REQUIRE just the right kind of pen.

random babbling about writing

Warning, I am in a very rambly mood. Which is generally good, it's mostly when I'm feeling cheerful about life that I ramble the most. At the moment I'm thinking over the subject of fountain pens, and the joy of writing with same. I didn't find anywhere to get a pen, but was looking at ordering online.

And now I'm wondering if perhaps I shouldn't bother. I was talking to someone and mentioned writing a letter to someone else, who had never responded. So of course I followed the usual social rule, that if someone you've written to doesn't write back or otherwise indicate that they want you to keep writing, stop. And I'm realizing it's been a long, long time since I've had anybody I could write to. I used to keep up regular mail correspondences. And that was the greatest fun of having the good pen and such. (I look back at letters from a very young age, before my pen snobbery came up, and ow.)

Eventually there was enough volume that I learned to type. And then eventually we came to the internet, and now it's all email. But something went missing with that.

An actual on paper letter is a precious thing to me, whether it be typed or handwritten. Deep in boxes, in the study perhaps or out in the garage, I still keep letters from an old relationship from many years ago. Heck, I even have, in two different cases, letters that I wrote to another person, that came back to me somehow, that I cherish anyway. I'm no longer in touch with these people, the memories are a mess, but I keep the letters anyway. Actually, three people; when my grandmother died and I helped go through her house, I kept the letters I'd sent her.

I suspect in my desire to write letters to others I am being like the man that Miles describes in the beginning of Lois Bujold's book Memory [1], who gave everyone else fruitcakes for Winterfair because he loved them so much, and was so disappointed that nobody else would ever give them to him.

My relatives don't seem interested in writing with me. My parents and I, of course, correspond by email these days, plus I'll pick up the phone and call them often. (Part of the guilt-free joy of unlimited long distance!) My more distant relatives don't seem interested, I'll send them letters and such, but in general they do not respond. I used to keep a correspondence going with G-Aunt Nancy, but she's no longer up to it, eye trouble I believe. If I wrote to her, someone would read it to her, and she'd probably enjoy that. I could at least write to her about the babies. Perhaps I will do that.

But I shall have to give up wanting to have the fruitcake. selenite might be willing to write to me, but it's silly to expect him to, when he's living here, and when he's at work he can easily email or IM me.

Oh well. I suspect it comes from reading too many historical books.

[1]Memory, the one book I apparently just need to memorize - because it's not available in ebook form, so I can't just pull it up and copy and paste!

EDIT: I have been corrected. selenite came back downstairs and read this. He is much farther along in the task of memorizing Memory, and told me that the Barrayaran in the story kept giving everyone liver pates, because he loved them so. Not fruitcakes. Ugh, liver, no wonder.