PENS AND THE PAST
Me holding a wooden fountain pen in a case with foam green fabric inside.
Something I’ve struggled with pretty much my whole life is being present.
If there was a degree in fearing the future, I’d have several. If there was a world record for most time spent getting lost in the past, I’d win that too.
This ties into my writing. Regardless of genre, my characters or speakers struggle with using the past and future as tools to create their most fulfilling present.
That’s what fuels my current poetry collection (unnammed so far) and my YA contemporary fiction novel Strangers. This discontent also sparked the idea for my nonfiction narrative “In the Know,” Harpur Palate‘s Creative Nonfiction Award winning piece.
Besides the constant what-ifs surrounding my grandmother, her life with my grandfather, and the life I could be living now if I’d known either of them, places and items of the past often catch my attention.
In my cramped little apartment, I have some carnival glass cups and glass inkwells on display. And at my writing desk, I have a few antique fountain pens.
Gold fountain pen nib on a book page. From Pixabay.
Before these pens, I had bought a new fountain pen from Staples. It felt like the most “I’m a real writer” thing I could buy, so I did. I was interested to see if a poem or short story would feel different in my notebook, if my connection to those ideas would be stronger or more exciting, or if I’d just get pissed at the pen in general.
In the end, I liked using the fountain pen just fine, but it didn’t feel as exciting to write with as I’d hoped. And for a while, I stopped using it altogether.
Then, a few months before I went to San Juan, Puerto Rico, I walked into my first antique store. It was my local antique store. One story, but it took up a whole street corner. It was jam-packed from floor to ceiling, but organized and clean. I ran my fingers over book spines from the 19th century. Sniffed the old leather and paper smells. Gawked over a gorgeous Remington typewriter. Backed away from some creepy porcelain dolls.
I spent probably two hours in there, and as I walked toward the register with a cute copper bracelet, I thought I was done. Then, as I set the bracelet on the counter, something in the glass case nearby caught my eye: a treasure trove of vintage fountain pens.
Some were plastic, red or navy, business-like with brass details. A couple of metal pens had swirling designs that reminded me of the rings inside of trees. And one looked like a neon orange bullet.
Antique fountain pens lined up. Red, orange, green, and brown.
When I held each one, I felt a story form. These images ran up my arms and into my brain: a war-time wife writing a letter to her husband overseas, an emerging poet writing at his desk alone in his dorm room, a politician writing a bill or proposal for something they believed would better their world. Writing wasn’t convenient for them, but they did it anyway. And our world is better off because of it.
As I added those fountain pens to my purchase, I thought about the large impact a little pen can make depending on who chooses to use it. Thought about all the impacts this handful of pens created for the world as a whole.
Sure, these stories I attach to these pens probably didn’t happen. Maybe these were all pens used to create grocery lists or grade spelling tests or write checks. Or maybe they did happen like the images in my imagination, but on a smaller scale. Either way, knowing these pens and their stories exist fills me with gratitude. People sacrificed so much time and energy and resources to do what they did. Things that we do so easily. Things that we do without thinking sometimes. As anxious as my thoughts get, I think it’s good to think, to slow down and feel thankful instead of constantly act on autopilot.
Even with all the what-ifs in our lives, there are so many more thank-yous to share. And that’s one of the reasons my protagonist, Ramona, is so determined to honor her ancestors by bringing them into the light. That’s why my poetry collection will serve as a museum for my ancestors, and as a voice for those who struggle connecting with theirs. Yes, these projects started in the past, but they don’t live there. They grow from there.
So now, what started as a little collection in my apartment has blossomed into a little museum for antique writing tools. As a reminder to be thankful. To be intentional. To never stop creating.
Black wooden fountain pen with gold accents. Pen that inspired “In the Know.” Spider plant leaves.
Some of the fountain pens I bought didn’t work even after a good cleaning, so I still enjoy using a newer one every once in a while. But even the new pens need something special to keep me writing with them. And that’s where my story “In the Know” comes in.
I don’t know everything about my family and how to honor them. And I never will. But I got to walk the same streets as mi abuela, and I bought a fountain pen from the island she grew up on. And with that pen, I imagine everything there ever was and ever will be because of her life.
So with my stories and poems, I uncap my fountain pen and transform each new piece into a letter of gratitude for life and for the stories that make it worth living.
If you haven’t read my story “In the Know,” in Harpur Palate, you can read it here: https://harpurpalate.binghamton.edu/s-salazar-in-the-know/
OR, you can support their awesome journal and buy the issue here: https://manager.submittable.com/opportunities/discover/185724
Be sure to follow my blog to keep up with my writing journey. And follow me @writessalazar on Instagram and Twitter.
