I own a beautiful fountain pen. It’s a Mont Blanc Meisterstuck and Mont Blanc describe it as a Writing Instrument. Whilst I would probably, eventually, have got around to buying myself a gorgeous writing instrument one day, this was a special romantic gift to me from a man with blue eyes.
It was presented in a chic London restaurant. I briefly looked away from the table, fussing with my coat or bag or something, and when I looked back a beautifully wrapped gift box had magically appeared on my place setting. The shape of the box immediately revealed that this wasn’t the gift I might have been hoping for at that stage of our relationship, his and mine, me and the man with the blue eyes.
But I did long for a beautiful fountain pen, as he knew, and I was both surprised at the timing of the gift and delighted to receive it and especially with the words on the gift tag which I treasured. The presentation box was black and gold and inside the writing instrument sat, all sleek and confident.
I took my beautiful new pen home with me and I was overly respectful of it for a good long while. I put it on the shelf and took it down to use for special occasions and then I would put it back into its box, nestled into the white satin interior. I was proud to own it but I almost never used it. I was saving it for best. I kept the gift tag in the same box and would read the words over to myself reading between the lines and, when in doubt, making up what I wanted to see there.
Today the gift box is gone, falling to the inevitable clutter clearout. The sentimental gift tag went the same way, following my blue-eyed boy.
I use the pen all the time. I use it for journaling and note-taking and writing my shopping lists. I enjoy its luxury in my hand every day as I write, luxury which was generously given and gratefully received and is now put to daily use as intended and all the better for it. Beautiful things improve with age, something Ol’ Blue Eyes may repent at leisure.
But even as my gorgeous fountain pen glides inkily across the thick cream page bringing me inordinate writing pleasure in the moment, I know it’s not my writing instrument.
I am my writing instrument.