Writing Implements: Reviews for the Resistance
Bic Round Stic (M, ball point, $5.99/pack of 60)
These are the pens I find everywhere, in junk drawers and the sad back of the office supplies closet, their caps chewed or missing, their ink invariably dry. They are reliably unreliable: present but ineffective. This one is convinced to write only after a series of fruitless scribbled circles. Its ink is a tired, streaky grey. After a sentence or two my hand begins to cramp.
But there’s also a sort of asceticism at play here, and a masochistic relish to the discomfort of the process. I press down hard, focusing on each rounded letter, scoring each word deep into the paper. My diffuse and helpless rage begins to solidify, be pared down into words. Dear Mr. Capuano, I begin. I write to thank you for the actions you have already taken in protest of Steve Bannon’s appointment to the principal’s committee of the NSC, and to urge you to do whatever you can to keep politics out of our national security decisions.
I continue to write, but that sharp ascetic prickle begins to slide into a lazy, bitter martyrdom. I find myself calling Bannon a hate-mongering horror show, which accurately represents my viewpoint but isn’t exactly the tone I’m striving for. The pen has left red valleys in my thumb and middle finger where I’ve been gripping it. I know that if I respond to hate with hatred I will be lost. Hatred too is cheap, and pervasive, and only wears me out.
Grade: C-
LePen (Marvy Uchida, around $2 each or $18 for a pack of 10)
I usually use these colorful drawing pens for sketching layout ideas and doodling during meetings. The design is sleekly minimalist and the plastic tip creates a consistent line. The archival ink will ensure that my letter will stay fresh and unfaded long after this horror show has stumbled to its end.
I find that my grip is initially too hard, my stroke too firm. The tip scrapes unpleasantly across the stationary. When I lighten my touch, it smoothes out. The ink flow is moderately juicy while remaining pleasingly precise.
Dear Vice-President Pence, I begin. Please don’t defund Planned Parenthood.
The color, a rich maroon, reminds me inevitably of menstrual blood. It reminds me of the confusion and dark fear that my body has inspired in men — some of whom I know, some of whom I don’t, but whose decisions affect me. It reminds me of the shame and dread I felt about my body as a young teenager, learning to manage my sexual health on my own and in secrecy. It reminds me of the anxious relief I felt at every period a year or two later, when I was dating someone and relying on condoms and luck (Dear past self: for God’s sake, get an IUD. Also, dump that guy).
I’m not ashamed, or afraid, of my body any more. “Out of the ash,” writes Plath in “Lady Lazarus,” “I rise with my red hair, / And I eat men like air.” Maybe it’s time for other people to be afraid.
But the LePen, like white male egos, requires a light touch. I keep my letter civil and to the point, hoping that whoever might read it feels the smolder under the quick-drying ink.
Grade: B+
Palomino Blackwing 344
Palomino Blackwing 530
Palomino Blackwing Pearl ($22.95/dozen)
It’s astonishing what a difference the paper makes when writing in pencil. On a cotton-based stationary sheet with a hearty tooth, all three pencils are splintery, difficult to erase, irregular in stroke width, and require constant sharpening to keep any sort of precision. The 344 leaves a hefty smudge across the page; the 530 is harder, less inclined to shower me with graphite dust but also scratchier-feeling, the strokes a lighter grey. The Pearl shows the best performance in this venue, its graphite slightly softer and more accommodating.
In the end I only scrape out two letters in pencil — one to Governor Baker urging him to protect immigrants’ rights, one to President Trump urging him to step down, because why not just say what I actually want. Then I turn to write my review, beginning with the 344. I’m using a notebook from Muji with buttery-soft, closely-lined pages, and the shift in tenor is abrupt and remarkable. The graphite begins to behave itself. There’s less sharpening, less frustration; I notice the fragrance of cedar for the first time.
The 530 is just the same, its scratchiness abruptly yielding to softness now that it’s found the right partner. I lean close to the page as I write; my fingers remember that hexagonal grip from school, and I find my focus unconsciously sharpening. The crisp, precise lead of the 530 reminds me of math class, of being able to trust my reasoning process, of knowing that the answer I came to would make sense if I just paid enough attention to all the steps.
Finally, as I turn to the Blackwing Pearl, I realize what I’ve been doing wrong. Pencils, I know now, are not for writing letters of brittle, outraged protest. Pencils are sensuous and they reek of memory. The Pearl is an instrument for scribbling love letters, for drowning in the sensuality of the written word. It’s meant for softer things: notes to tuck in children’s pockets, delirious journal entries after exquisite first dates, terrible love poems that demand to be written nevertheless.
I miss that world, suddenly. It’s easy to forget that it, too, is real.
Grade: The haze of associations cannot be reduced to a letter. I note with regret that the erasers on the Blackwings are not very effective.
Pilot Metropolitan Collection Fountain Pen, Fine Nib ($18.75 list price, around $14 on Amazon)
I’m writing this review on a bus traveling between New York and Boston. The bumps in the pavement make writing a shaky and irregular process, but the ink stays smooth as I stop and start, without any of the splotches I expect. I’m listening to Glenn Gould play Bach’s Goldberg Variations on my phone. The album was recorded before I was born, but the pianist’s joy feels crafted for just this sunny day.
A friend of mine recommended this pen as “something that is lovely and brings a small amount of joy into your life.” How could I resist? With a classic cigar shape, smooth matte body and pleasing heft, the Pilot MR is unobtrusively elegant. Beyond that, it’s the best fountain pen for the price point that I’ve yet encountered. The inkflow stays fresh and immediate, even after days of neglect. The pen can stand being toted around in a pocket without leaking. The fine point lacks a bit of the panache and dazzle of a larger nib. On the other hand, it writes with equal ease on fine or heavy paper, envelope backs or postcards. It’s good sometimes for things to be easy.
Glenn Gould hums along with the piano sometimes as he plays. It’s completely charming. I start a letter, swear as the first sentence is drowned by a pothole, pull out a new sheet and start again. This time I don’t make it past the salutation before a swerve of the bus sends a long streak down the paper. I give up on writing a letter right now and turn back to my notebook. Gould and Bach are deep in conversation across time, a lively exchange in a bright language I almost understand.
I don’t know who will read my letters, or these scraps of thoughts about them. What I hope is that the life of the senses, pencil shaving and glistening ink and smooth white paper, might open me to things more true and more permanent than this garbage nightmare of power and posturing and fear. On some level I imagine that reading my words, real ink on a real page, might convince someone in this administration that the people I’m writing about — my friends, my family, and all the other vulnerable people I don’t know — are also real. The suffering Trump’s administration is causing them is real. It has a life outside a news story, and it will not dissipate silently. It will echo. It will etch time like a Bach aria, like a pen digging into paper. It will leave scars.
I write lightly, and it brings me a small amount of joy.
Grade: A
