|Fountain pen with dried ink, painted in Artrage.|
I wrote this for the "From the Editor" column in the second issue of The Leaky Pen:
It makes me careful while holding the pen. Because some of it isn't dry.
I was standing at the counter at the bank when it first leaked. I always carry my pen in my shirt pocket and miraculously it didn't leak while in my pocket. Only when I took it out and uncapped it to endorse the check. Then I saw my fingers were stained.
It was surprising—after 12 years of using a fountain pen, this was a first. I felt betrayed. I've always felt or thought of my pen as a friend. Of course that sane part in my mind knows it's only a tool to make marks on paper, but the playful side, the muse-tickled corner remembers the sudden unexpected sentences that touched the emotions in just the right way.
Perhaps it was because I hadn't written for awhile and all that ink was just bursting to get out—with or without my help.
Now I'm afraid to trust it. I keep it in my backpack (which I always keep with me, but it's not the same).
It's a friend that done me wrong, but my best friend nonetheless.
The Leaky Pen, Vol.1 Issue 2, September 1998