The PEN Ten with Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor

The PEN Ten is PEN America's weekly interview series. Over the next few weeks, we'll be speaking to participants of the PEN World Voices Festival of International Literature, which runs May 4–10 in New York City.

This week, we talk with Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor, winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's and other publications, and she has been a TEDx Nairobi speaker and a Lannan Foundation resident. Born in Kenya, she now lives in Brisbane, Australia.

Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor will be participating in two events at the PEN World Voices Festival: Ninety Minutes, Three Minds and In and Out of Africa.

When did being a writer begin to inform your sense of identity?

When I was seven years old and Mrs Saunders pinned my poetic offerings on the class wall with five gold stars. She also called my mother in to ask her if I had plagiarized the work. It was the first time I had heard that word—plagiarized. Being extremely shy, and inclined to seeking invisibility, the fact that my words could cause me to be seen mattered, it really mattered to a little girl.

Whose work would you like to steal without attribution or consequences?

J.R.R. Tolkien of course—what a panoptic vision, what a way of seeing and connecting and world-making. I'd also like to steal the phrase: "In the beginning was the Word." Gorgeous.

When, if ever, is censorship acceptable?

When George W. Bush and his merry gang construct, publish, and broadcast a fiction about weapons of mass destruction, and with that fateful story, push the red start button for the abysmal Armageddonian bedlam that has emerged as our world today. The world's censorship committees should have had the courage to howl no!

Have you ever been arrested? Care to discuss?

Yes, for a traffic violation. One Friday afternoon I rode into a web of rapacious police creatures looking to make up their weekend bonus. I was not wearing a seat belt in a matatu (a public transport vehicle used in Kenya).

Obsessions are influences—what are yours?

Are they influences? My obsessions are numerous and varied and therefore lead me to my greatest obsession: to be still, to know silence within, to be so still that in the words of that poet—I forget his or her name—shy creatures will come close to me in order to see their faces.

What’s the most daring thing you’ve ever put into words?

I have not put it into words yet.

What is the responsibility of the writer?

To the story, to the urge, the feeling that has emerged in the writer and expects to meet the world.

While the notion of the public intellectual has fallen out of fashion, do you believe writers have a collective purpose?

I didn’t know the public intellectual had fallen out of fashion. Or maybe they are disguised. But they roam among us. Writers' Collective Purpose: No.

What book would you send to the leader of a government that imprisons writers?

Ars Moriendi's The Art of Dying. I would also have the conveyor of that text intone to its receiver: “Memento Mori.”

Where is the line between observation and surveillance?

Does it not lurk in those crooked interstices between motive and intent? Does it perhaps not also gleam in the eye of the beholder and his or her attitude to the object of his or her gaze?

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Pen Review: Scriptorium Custom Cigar Pen

 

• Material: Mineral Sea Lava Explosion Alumilite
• Nib: M Steel
• Appointments: Silver
• Filling System: Standard International Cartridge/Converter
• Length (Capped): 147mm
• Length (Uncapped): 129.4mm
• Length (Posted): 178mm
• Section Diameter: 12.5mm
• Barrel Max Diameter: 17.1mm
• Cap Max Diameter: 17.1mm
• Weight, Capped (with ink and/or converter): 30g
• Weight, Uncapped (with ink and/or converter): 20g

Okay, let’s get this out of the way right up front. HOLY. COW. THIS. MATERIAL. JUST. SLAYS. ME.

Now, on to the review.

One of my online pen friends, Rob, is regularly kind enough to have new pen purchases sent directly to me first so I can review them, then ship them off to him. This, of course, displays a level of patience that I’m not entirely sure I could ever achieve myself. I’m extremely grateful for Rob’s willingness to delay his own gratification on my (and your) behalf. Recently, Rob sent me an email asking me if I’d be interested in reviewing a custom pen that he had had ordered from Scriptorium Pens. I am aware that there are a few bespoke pen makers out there, but I had never investigated them too thoroughly. Frankly, after my less-than-stellar experience with my first few handmade wood pens from the Market Penmaker in Pike Place Market, I had a rather negative association with “artisanal” pens. Most custom pen makers, I thought, used horrible quality pen kits with crappy nibs, cheap and uncomfortable sections, and ugly hardware.

There are, however, a group of master craftspeople out there who make amazing pens, use good nibs, design their own hardware, and even make their own sections. Renée Meeks, the artisan behind Scriptorium Pens, is one of this group. When Rob sent me information on his soon-to-be-delivered pen, I spent hours and hours on the Scriptorium website, browsing models, materials, and options. Even before I had received Rob’s custom-ordered pen, I had placed an order for a custom pen of my own.

One of the neat things about custom-made pens is that you can often get access to materials you don’t see on standard, production-line pens. Such is the case with this custom cigar-shaped pen from Scriptorium. The pen is made from a material called Alumilite, which is a two-part liquid casting resin. (You can see examples of all kinds of pen blanks made from Alumilite here and here.) The material Rob chose for his custom pen is called Lava Explosion #3 (also known as Mineral Sea Lava Explosion.) The material, besides being absolutely stunning, with incredible depth and chatoyance, holds a beautiful polish, and has a warm feel in the hand–somewhere in between resin and ebonite. It is quite spectacular.

Rob’s order included some special instructions: He wanted the pen to be about 145mm in length, he wanted it slightly wider than normal, he ordered two caps–one with a clip and one without, and a pen rest made of the same material. The also requested the standard Jowo steel nib unit that comes with Renee’s pens by default in a medium. This is another one of the benefits of having a custom pen made: you can get exactly what you want!  As you can see from the pictures below, Renee really delivered!

The quality of construction on the pen is pretty spectacular. It is nicely shaped and beautifully polished. The threads are smooth and tight. The seam between the finial and the rest of the cap is perfectly flush. Even the transition between the cap and the barrel is smooth and level. It is an exceptionally well-made pen.

The pen is very comfortable to hold. The section has a nice contour, albeit one just a bit wide for my personal preferences. Overall, though, the increased width of the pen is more of a positive than a negative. The extra material gives the pen just a touch of heft that helps to balance it out a bit. I like lightweight pens, but sometimes pens are so light they almost “skitter” across the page when writing. The extra bulk of this particular design helps to keep the nib a bit more “grounded.”

The design of the pen doesn’t really allow for posting, which is fine. The lip of the cap on this particular pen design is fairly thin, and there is no cap band. I would be afraid that posting the pen might result in cracks in the lip of the cap over time.

As mentioned above, the pen comes with a fairly standard #6 steel Jowo nib unit, custom engraved with the Scriptorium Pens logo. This is the same kind of nib that you would get from Franklin-Christoph, TWSBI, Edison, or the Goulet Pen Company. It is my understanding that Renée tunes each of these nibs before sending them out (which would make sense.)  I have to say that this is perhaps one of the best-tuned steel Jowo nibs I’ve ever used. It’s not the wettest nib, but in my usage it had 100% consistent ink flow, and was quite smooth. It made for a very enjoyable writing experience.

In the end, getting Rob’s pen in my hand only heightened my excitement for receiving my own custom pen.  (I think mine is due to get started sometime in the coming week!) I ordered a different model of pen (the Chronicler), but ordered it from the same material. I am also having Renée build the pen to use an Pelikan M800 nib that I had lying around, so I get the joys of a nice 18k Pelikan nib in my custom pen.

I really enjoyed my time with Rob’s pen. It was a wonderful writer, made out of one of the most gorgeous resins I’ve ever seen. I could really get used to this whole custom pen thing. It is an insane amount of fun to pour over materials and models, determine the customizations, and wait on tenterhooks to see your pen blanks show up in the @scriptorium_pens Instagram feed. (Seriously. Go follow her. It’s good times to watch these pens being made.)

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Petty Blood Sport

This week in the Guernica/PEN Flash Series, we feature a piece by Efemia Chela. Subscribe to the series and get new flash delivered to your inbox twice a month—no spam or news, just stories.

He injured me is how we met. He kicked me in the shin in the line for free wine.

My little world {Is this oaked?

                                               iPhone,

                                                            glass,

                                                           cigarette.

                                                           There are so many people here} jolted.

Suddenly my hands were empty and everything was cracked. Though it wasn’t my fault, I said sorry. He was sorrier. My silk shirt was stained and blotchy and red like my cheeks when he bought me another glass.

“It’s a thing. I’m sorry. It wasn’t deliberate. I can’t help it. It’s a—”

We murmured late into the spring night about what made us both wrong. There was a lot. I write too many lists. I can only cry out of one eye. The left one is too sentimental and the right one too cold. We both understood trouble and what it was like to have half of you propelling forward and the other half yanking you meanly back. A constant gripping of the back of your neck. Or even worse, the imagining. The anticipation of it. The fear-in-waiting.

He kicked me again while we were goodbye-ing.

“I can’t help it. Fuck. Shit. Cunt. Fuck. Sorry.”

“Neither can I,” I said, leaning in for a kiss, using his ear as a handle.

He said it was to be goodbye. I didn’t know what that meant. For our petty blood sport to be over. No more bruises to pepper my pallid body. And no kisses to soothe them after. No one to tell me to quit smoking these joyless fags. Or to quash them when I fall asleep. I woke up one day and his side of the bed had burned. The sheets and pillow and most of the mattress. All from a lazy hand and a stealthily glowing butt. Fire had eaten it away. A friend of mine told me it was a sign to move on. Lucky I wasn’t fucking dead, is what she said.

But I don’t choose to keep Sam burning on. I love him like a reflex. Another in my list of bad habits. The only animate one. So animate people thought he was beating me, when he wasn’t. I reach for him in my mind when I’m alone. In the gaps between things, meetings, and people, he waits. Beckoning, then dissipating. Leaving me full yet wretchedly empty. My memory is full but I am empty.

Filled with the scent of wild sage.

Wild sage crisping up is what Botswana felt like. When we drove through it, all dust and acacias and a heavy dry heat sifting into your throat filling you up until you thought you'd combust. We were road-tripping along and he wondered what smelled of sausage and mash? This black Englishman who should have known his colonies better. The sage surprised him. We stopped to pull up a bush. It wasn’t too committed to its home. It shook loose easily. A stride or two and a few clods of dirt and we put it on the back seat.

“Should we water it before we go onto the pan?” I asked. Parked at the edge of a cracked mirror, the dried-up salt pans, I felt like we were on the final frontier. Together in the same space. Sam was so dark it was always a surprise to see his palms or soles. A flash of white lightning. As shocking as this other world. Coruscating, blinding, and alien. We walked along it. Too dazzled to take photos. Just looking. Seeing. Absorbing. And letting our retinas be seared with the memory of salt.

When we got home we spent a lot of time at train stations. He saw me off to work. I hated sitting in traffic, and he could barely commit to the same vehicle for the whole holiday, let alone settle on a car to buy. The train was always too late or too early, like all the big events in life. Never on time and never fully wanted. It just zoomed up upon you. Too loud to ignore. It creaked like an old man during the rains. Then hordes of people bustled on and off. Frowning and sighing while being swallowed by this city beast. Whooshing through its entrails then being spat up somewhere else. It was a busy summer, wet and sunny. Humid, the days groped and fondled. They left their sweaty handshake on you.

Essentially, expensively, he couldn’t sit still. Or work. He was the bull. The world an exclusive china shop. It was a condition. There were medications I would remind him to take. There were appointments he would choose to forget. It was worse when he was stressed, then he would buck and quake for minutes at a time. My graceful lover gone. His arms and legs the devil’s playthings.

By autumn we were just alone together. There was never a right time to talk. He just sat, collar ripped and dangling, around his collarbone. He waited for the next forced puppet show and sat by all the things he’d accidentally punctured or broken, vibrating from the recent violence. I hesitated to clean them up. Not knowing when to move in. We were out of tape again. I felt like we were always running out of tape. And out of breath. I had to stop smoking so much.

We were waiting on the platform. My left eye (disobedient thing) cried as he broke up with me. I tapped my feet and wiped roughly at it to try and get it to stop. The left shoulder of my jacket was beginning to get moist. I hated the smell of wet felt. Time was frozen. It bit at my nose. I watched him lean into death. His last movement, one he meant.

He said it was to be goodbye.

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Giveaway: Kaweco Skyline Sport & Kaweco Ink

Thanks to the good folks at Kaweco, I will be giving away this lovely Kaweco Skyline Sport in grey along with 25 Kaweco Ink Cartridges:

• 3 – Kaweco Caramel Brown
• 3 – Kaweco Midnight Blue
• 3 – Kaweco Palm Green
• 3 – Kaweco Paradise Blue (Turquoise)
• 3 – Kaweco Pearl Black
• 4 – Kaweco Royal Blue
• 3 – Kaweco Ruby Red
• 3 – Kaweco Summer Purple

Good luck, and stay tuned for another giveaway soon!

Terms and Conditions: Giveaway ends on April 12, 2015 at 11:59PM PDT. No purchase necessary. Contest is open to all countries. Winner will be responsible for paying any applicable customes dues or taxes on winnings. Winner will be chosen at random via the Rafflecopter’s built-in random number generator. Winning entries which require following, subscribing, or commenting will be verified prior to announcing the winner, and those entries which do not meet the requirements of entry will be disqualified at my sole discretion. Prizes from included in this giveaway do not indicate sponsorship for me or PenHabit.com, nor do they indicate endorsement or sponsorship for the manufacturer. Winners will have 7 days to respond to email notifying them of a win, and with the selection of the retailer from which they want to receive a gift certificate. Failure to respond within that time will result in forfeiture of the prize, and another winner will be chosen. I will not sell, distribute, or utilize any data gathered from this contest for any purpose other than selecting and notifying the winner.
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from Baddawi

Today we launch The Illustrated PEN, a weekly online series that aspires to be at the intersection of literature, journalism, and visual storytelling, where images and words come together in an ever-emerging and essential creative form. We’ll feature fiction and nonfiction graphic narratives, comics journalism and illustrated reportage, stories of social justice and personal stories that can’t be told through words alone. 

We kick off the series with a selection of stories from the graphic novel Baddawi, by Chicago-based Palestinian artist and organizer Leila Abdelrazaq. In this visually arresting debut, Abdelrazaq beautifully captures the everyday life stories of Ahmad, a young boy raised in Baddawi refugee camp in northern Lebanon. Ahmad is one of the many thousands of refugee children born to Palestinians who fled their homeland after the war of 1948.

 

Baddawi will be published by Just World Books on April 7, 2015, and can be purchased from the publisher here.

These excerpts are serialized here by permission, and this material may not be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

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English

This week in the PEN Poetry Series, PEN America features a poem by Emily Hunt, whose first book of poems, Dark Green, is now available from The Song Cave. 

English
 

A row of trees.
A crackhead asleep at the library.
Air conditioning.
The ill.
An equilateral triangle.
A woman barking.
A poster, a painting, liquid, bread.
A hand through a wall.
Another parabola.
Rain.
Regard all that occurs as
a few shallow stairs.
A horse lying in a forest.
A dark tale of the Western frontier.
A teenager in Ohio.
An unbelievable amount of bats, in streams of hundreds.
A second, secret vocation.
An arrow, surprising anyone.
A weapon / sleep
“what are we going to do with the rest of our lives”
“what is left of us”
A performing leopard
Curls of bark
The lamps
A famous man, a singer you feel for
A wet computer in a bag of rice
A candle a flame a face on a banner
A parking garage, a heavy round tree
The feathers on the breasts of certain parrots are strictly yellow
In ravens, only the exposed portion exhibits iridescence
A plastic bottle
A perfect piece of toast, he died
The cat returning through a hole in the bedroom screen, he did die
Groceries, dark metals and wine, he died collecting gold
The written world without an eye to move it, he’s dead and such
A toaster sound / the phone his face is gone
He bought it with the cash he made raking leaves and filling black bags
Settled into an endless lush slope of ivy overlooking a parking lot, he’s just dead
A black plastic suit, a coin in the dirt
You were in this town in the rain, but he’s dead it’s a city
What you said made me picture the earth, dying
A circle of women shifted to let in two men, one was dead I think
A room of velvet that collapses when you find it, there’s a dead person in it
I went into the dark square and turned on the light
HD he’s dead
New York he’s crossing the water
He’s carrying me
A train in the rain on the plain and all that scenery
Brain of the morning say you’re frightened, not afraid
Nature, he crosses you, he’s through

Thrill of the plain
deer and their mother

walking on a mirror
in the meadow unavoidable
showing against many hours
he had been more
it was like Lucy, John
a form on the wall
I can’t imagine, Irene said
and she wasn’t him

he died at me, unclassically

;

painted body inches over a blossoming elm

sewagey puddle

mosquito on bus cloth

ticket in the pocket

Civic, Galant, Hyundai, Accord

;

it was kind of one way for a while
for a long time it had been like that

;

no one could stop him
none of us
The thought of him occurs
it's a liberty
a slap in the face
A mark to the senses
Unsymmetrical, death verges on life
it's a liberty
it's passionate until it is silent
that's when it stops, enticingly
death throws itself at anything, in all of the words
he wasn't alive
A little glow worm, a little kid
Zazie in the metro, zombie on the light rail
walking along I pull a tree from the earth
no one sees me
(It's a feeling, like death)
Now it's lying in front of me
and the yellow lines of the crosswalk are lying under it
and the heavens are below
the twilight zone and all that
and all those people crossing made it fast to keep going
so I'm with them shopping
I turn my head underground and sense and see the concrete go by
there are holes in it where the air sits and then drifts, tinyish
It's like sand like that
But cold
they don't feel it, I feel death
motioning at my kidself
I visited Ocean Beach
There were kids his age looking at the Sea

;

not that
beauty a black stripe
long hair, come back, not even that
but now I had
a key in hand
sunny day, purple highway
both are true, believing in the end
he is waters, snow, went to hell came back blank
saw the fire, saw the ash
let it down, fell out
for the soil
weeds the world of pines
pines in their place /  places
blue flags in the shrubbery, like blue flags in the woods
a wet computer in a bag of rice, and the dead one came through the door

;

the video was
an almost lifeless seed
and then bulbs, roots, shoots,
what tends to be shut out
from the top half of the world

;

man with zinc on his mask shape
sitting on a white Rambler in the new world
baby foot against my thigh on the J
White glasses in winter
White shades in winter, warm December
Black pieces with white / black shades underground
Lifted blue
Blue shirts on the lap
Folding smalls with words on them, folding large ones, turning the sleeves back

;

hands grimed in customer cash

the sky floats
like air conditioning
the dead live

the dead breathe
the sun sets

the filth I had traversed
the dirt the clan weighed down
with thought, which stuck

delivered

trampled

sank along

blank curtain to the floor, sand at the neck, he was a thing so long ago was more than that he slept, far apart
stairs carved out of dirt
camera obscura, the waves so cloudy
a pewter plate, coated with a layer of asphalt, it was something I read
middle of the country, my ghost cloud around
buoy hanging in the bathroom, he’s in the flower,
there is no substitute

The areas of the asphalt exposed to light hardened.
The unexposed parts were washed out with lavender oil and turpentine.

Many knights have left their lives here, I shall soon have made an end of you too,

Many knights have left their lives here, I shall soon have made an end of you too,

my ghost cloud around
dances by the train
my death game

I waver
and fade
if you close

The door
The night could last forever
Leave the sun

Shine out
and drink a toast
To never

;

Fortune

;

fortunate

;

I took a walk with the palm trees
As the daylight fell

Ta a a a allk in to myself

Ohhhhhhhhh.

death runs clear
like blood like of that ghost
who lives
it’s not an error

a dangerous fourth page
a bright slope of yellow
over a good face

a dancer dragging
a partner flat
her sweat is real
across it slowly but she won’t get through
the people’s furniture

;

my ghost cloud around
the union office downtown
brown hair black leather chair rose in a cup ice breakers gum rainbows on the shirts pinned to the wall, a tack at
      the neck, tacks at each corner and shoulder
D
E
Fishermen sorting skeletal crabs, they’re alive, no haunted eyes
They have no soul his death is spreading the photo
Mexico, Namibia, a molded carcass of a ship named Eduard, wrecked at Conception Bay in 1907, it’s moving
      along
An isolated rural community, it’s alive
An ox carved out of soft wood, it’s so beautiful it only looks like an animal
A chest of drawers, there is life-alivliving
A chest with legs and flowers, a dark green chest
Sand in a bedroom,
Double doors, a table and its matching bench
Mud / snow in them, blood
A relief with lions and pomegranates, a dark natural finish
Three women looking down, heavy gathered cloths hanging behind them like animals

FASCINATE YOUR EMOTIONS!

it says in the same language
where my brother is dead
and my sister is walking
over a row of strange all-color rings in New York

Once a week, the PEN Poetry Series publishes work by emerging and established writers from coast to coast. Subscribe to the PEN Poetry Series mailing list and have poems delivered to your e-mail as soon as they are published (no spam, no news, just poems). 

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Pen Review: Kaweco Skyline Sport

The pen for this review was provided by Kaweco, and will be part of a Giveaway after the publication of the review. No additional compensation was provided. All opinions expressed are solely those of the reviewer.

• Material: Plastic
• Nib: EF Steel
• Appointments: N/A
• Filling System: Standard International Short Cartridge/Converter
• Length (Capped): 105.5mm
• Length (Uncapped): 100.4mm
• Length (Posted): 131.8mm
• Section Diameter: 9.5mm
• Barrel Max Diameter: 11mm
• Cap Max Diameter: 13.4mm
• Weight, Capped (with ink and/or converter): 10g
• Weight, Uncapped (with ink and/or converter): 6g

When it comes to iconic pens, the size and shape of the Kaweco Sport series is unmistakable. It is the design most people think of when they think of pocket pens. It’s a very popular pen, and usually well-respected in the community. And thanks to the kind folks at Kaweco, I had an opportunity to take a look at the Skyline model of the Sport series.

The Skyline Sport is, for all intents and purposes, identical to the CLASSIC Sport and the ICE Sport, save for the materials from which it is made. Where the CLASSIC Sport has a variety of colors and uses gold-colored trim, and the ICE Sport features clear plastic with silver-colored trim, the Skyline Sport sticks with a muted palette of plastics (black, grey, and mint), and featuring “silver” steel nibs.

The Skyline Sport comes in the standard gold-colored “Altoid tin”  style case, wrapped in a grey, patterned cardboard sleeve. The version of the pen I received came with two Kaweco Royal Blue cartridges, one of which I used for the review of the pen. I received the grey version of the pen, which is the version I probably would have chosen had I purchased the pen myself.

Like all pens in the Sport series, the octagonal cap sits on the barrel deeply, making the pen a very short 105mm in length when capped. Removing the cap will result in a very short little pen which, unless you have small hands, would be uncomfortable to use unposted. Fortunately, due the to length of the cap, posting the pen leaves it at a very reasonable 132mm.

In my review of the Kaweco AL Sport, I was suitably impressed by the feel of the pen’s aluminum body. It gave the pen a very solid feel, and a heftiness that helped offset its small size. While the grip was a touch smaller than I generally prefer, I found writing with the pen to be quite comfortable.

The Skyline Sport, by comparison, doesn’t feel quite as robust. It’s very light, even for a plastic pen. The plastic of the pen is still solid, but I miss the heft of the aluminum version. Despite that, the pen (when posted) is still quite comfortable in the hand. It is also clearly well-manufactured, with tight tolerances, and with a polished fit and finish. It doesn’t feel quite as special as, say, a turned acrylic pen, but it is very nicely made nonetheless.

The Skyline Sport, like the rest of Kaweco’s pocket pens, will accept standard international short cartridges. I understand that Kaweco makes converters for their pocket pens in both a squeeze/bulb format and a twist converter. The pen will not work with the standard international long cartridges or standard K5-style converters. The Skyline Sport, unlike the AL Sport, can also be used as an eyedropper, although it may require the application of a healthy layer of silicone grease on the threads, or even a rubber o-ring.

Also common to the Sport line of pens, the Skyline Sport does not come with a clip by default. If you want a clip, it is considered an add-on accessory.

In my experience with Kaweco pens this season, I continue to be impressed by the Bock nibs that Kaweco uses in its pens. This Skyline Sport came with an extra-fine steel nib–a nib that I would never purchase myself–I don’t care for very fine nibs. However, I was very pleasantly surprised by this extra-fine. It is, perhaps, equivalent to a Japanese fine nib, but very smooth for such a fine tip. The smoothness of the nib, despite the lesser ink flow resulting from such a fine point, is a real testament to the quality control that went into these nibs. This is an extra-fine nib I could actually get behind using, were I unfortunate enough to have to use poor quality paper on a day-to-day basis.

The Kaweco Skyline sport is not the flashiest or highest-end pen. It’s not made of amazing material or with any particularly special characteristics. It’s not even the most exciting of colors. What it is, however, is a convenient, efficient, workhouse of a pen that can take a bit of a beating, and writes like a champ. It’s a pen I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend to someone new to fountain pens. And at $25, it’s a very reasonably priced pen that will just work.

The Pen Habit will be giving away the pen used in this review, as well as a set of three ink cartridges in every color ink that Kaweco manufactures. Make sure to follow us on Social Media (Facebook, Twitter, Google+) or check back here often for the announcement of the giveaway!

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