I had started a new job, one that required me to sign my name hundreds, sometimes even thousands, of times a day. I also would have to handwrite notes by score.

She thought having a better pen would make the labor more pleasant. She was right about that.

During my newspaper days, I’d always used whatever pens the supply cabinet contained. They were sturdy, inexpensive instruments, designed to take a beating and yet not break anyone’s heart if they were lost or broken.

They served their purpose. Lord knows how many facts and quotes I scratched into what seemed an endless series of reporter’s notebooks over the years.

But they didn’t make writing fun.

The pen my wife gave me did. It was a Parker Sonnet, a rollerball. She’d even had my name engraved on the cap.

When I first picked it up, I realized what it meant to have a writing instrument that balanced in my hand. When I wrote with it, the pen seemed to skim over the paper, the ink flowing like a quiet stream.

That did it.

I was hooked.

I started subscribing to pen magazines. Catalogs for pens and nice stationery came to clog our mailbox and litter the coffee tables and nightstands in our house.

Worse, when we traveled, if I spotted a store selling fine writing instruments or quality paper goods, my wife came to realize that we were in for a prolonged detour. I’d begin by walking around, looking at all the pens, notes, and inks.

If a knowledgeable salesperson were nearby, I’d engage him in a prolonged conversation, talking with him about the balance and flow of each particular pen with the same sort of fervor car buffs summon when they talk about how fast vehicles accelerate or how well they corner.

It was in such a store that I graduated from rollerballs to fountain pens. The salesman let me try a nice fountain pen. I felt the comforting heft of the pen in my hand and the smooth glide of the nib across the page.

From that moment, I was a goner.

Some of the appeal was the craftmanship involved. Any instrument made with precision and immense skill can be a thing of beauty. A well-made pen can be almost a piece of art.

But my fascination with pens goes beyond mere aesthetics. Having a nice pen to use with reminded me of the pure pleasure—the sheer satisfaction—of writing.

I have been spent most of my life and all my career trying to coax words into dancing upon the page. When it works, when the words catch the rhythm and sentences shimmy and shake as they should, it’s magic.

Often, though, the words can’t find the beat. The prose just lies there like a lump of melted lead.

That can be maddening.

At such times, I’ve found that going back to basics can be rejuvenating, even liberating. I will pick up a pen and begin to scrawl some lines on the paper.

Sometimes, the words won’t even be mine. I’ll draft in my own hand a passage from another writer I particularly admire and feel something shift inside me.

The flow of the ink somehow loosens the flow of language. The words begin to tap their toes and swing their hips. Before long, the writing begins to hum, then sing.

Since my wife bought me my first nice pen, I’ve assembled a small collection of well-crafted writing instruments. They sit upon my desks at home and at the office, always within easy reach when I sit down to write.

My wife knows what comfort and pleasure these pens bring me.

When she was away on a recent trip, she found a pen shop I’d never visited. She picked up a gorgeous leather case that will hold several pens and allow me to carry them easily with me wherever I go.

My wife is far, far kinder to me than I deserve.