It is ironic that for one who loves ink so well that I should do the vast majority of my writing on a digital screen with virtual ink. Virtual ink does not have a distinct odor, does not smear or run, does not drip or splatter–it is, in fact, not really ink at all, virtual or otherwise. I keep bottles of ink around–on my desk, near the computer, in the bathroom. You never know when a creative moment might hit you, and you want to be prepared for anything. The worse thing that can happen to the occasional writer is to find themselves with an empty pen, either actually or metaphorically. To avoid scraping a dry fountain pen across the blank surface of a blank leaf of paper, I always err on the side of caution and have several ink wells at my beck and call. Real ink, the kind that gets on your fingers and makes a mess, is so different than the modern inks of ball point pens or the ink gels common in faux-disposable writing utensils from big box retailers that sell in packs of ten. No writing instrument worth its salt is sold in packs of ten. Real writing instruments grow on duck’s wings or have highly polished and systematically designed nibs which help guide the flow of ink on the paper. If you have a good nib and fluid ink, you barely need touch the paper to coax the ink to do its job, create a new piece of art. I admire calligraphers because they immerse themselves in the process, but they are artists with an artists point of view whereas I am a blue-collar writer with an imperfect hand. If I were a medieval copyist in a cold, dark monastery scriptorium, I’m sure I would assigned the more menial tasks such as the abbey’s shopping and to-do lists. No one would have ever entrusted me with creating new hymn books or a new book of hours. I love ink, but my letters are often inconsistent, run into one another like drunk patrons at a soccer game, sail wildly above and below the lines as if it were a gusty day, impersonate one another in confusing and troubling ways. I recognize my handiwork, but readers might have questions. My handwriting is only for me. Yet the ink beckons like an unpredictable desire, yearning to dry into new and unpredictable patterns, dividing the light from the dark, forming new loops, circles, curves as dots drop in over the errant “i’s” and the “t’s” can only hope for their cross which will distinguish them from the lurking, if upright, “l’s.” My use of ink so erratic that what I call handwriting either really neither cursive nor printing, but a hybrid wondering between the two, instead. Some letters stand alone like solitary night watchmen waiting in the dark to be relieved while other letters run together in some unhealthy and incestuous ways. Real ink, spilled and splattered ink gives one the liberty and freedom to express oneself, to let the passion flow, the anger rage. Ink is changing the plain white sheet of paper into a whirl of new spaces which are blocked off into lines and rows and, guiding the eye into some sort of disciplined order of reading, releasing its information or perhaps causing some genuine confusion–either way, I’ll be satisfied. Modern writing instruments–the computer, ball point pens and the related ilk of the sort, lead us away from our souls and stifle our creativity, limiting what we think we can do, killing our rhetoric, stifling our fire, stamping out our art. Ink, spilled, splattered, controlled, sets us free in a world only too willing to control us, repress us, oppress us. I am gently reminded of the fire in real ink when I glance at a copy, a facsimile of The Declaration of Independence and I am reminded that it was hand-written with a real quill, real fire, real ink.