The Quintessential Quill

The Quintessential Quill

I was walking down a back street in the city when I saw the old shop. I’d been trying to find an old friend, who, I was told, lived in this area. The street was narrow and overhung with balconies, making it a little gloomy, even on this bright sunny day. I’d been hesitant about entering, but the street name was close enough to what my informant had told me to warrant investigation.

As soon as I entered the street I knew this wasn’t where Steve would ever live. However I carried on, intrigued by an area that seemed so much out of character with the high-class residential district I’d expected to find. The buildings were old, dark and a little seedy, all of two storeys, and constructed of stone and wood. Trading establishments took up the lower floor, with residences above. The street was paved with stones, which formed a somewhat irregular and uneven surface.

“These are cobblestones!”

I wondered what cobblestones were doing in a modern city street. What was this whole street doing here for that matter? I looked about more closely, identifying some of the shops by their rather grimy window displays. Here was a dressmaker, there a baker. Across the street an old-fashioned grocery shop. Next to it a boot-maker.

All of the shops were closed - not surprising I suppose, as it was a Sunday. Next door to the boot-maker was a narrow shop with all sorts of unusual items crammed into its window. Going to have a closer look, I discovered, to my surprise, that the shop was actually open. The place didn’t look as if it did much trade, or even like it had anything of value. However, I am a bit of a collector of old trinkets, so I decided to go in and have a look. Perhaps I’d find something of interest for a small price.

A bell tinkled at the door as I pushed it open. How quaint! The shop was narrow, but contained quite an assortment of odd and interesting objects, tossed higgledy-piggledy onto narrow benches along both walls. I could see no one, so I wandered down one side and up the other, trying to sort out what was actually there. A bride’s veil half obscured a silver-backed hairbrush. Several old books were stacked next to what looked like an Egyptian urn. A cheap glass globe, that ‘snowed’ when shaken, rested beside a worn leather doctor’s bag.

A cameo brooch, a locket and a charm bracelet lay among a tangled heap of chains. I picked up the locket and opened it. Inside was a faded miniature portrait of a beautiful young woman. As I couldn’t untangle it from the other chains, I set it down again. I opened the lid of a music box and, as a dancer slowly revolved, a vaguely familiar tune tinkled from the box. The tune was old, probably one I remembered from my grandfather’s sing-a-longs.

I moved along the shelves: a ragged doll, a dusty dream-catcher, several not-so-old comic books, a telescope. Nothing I wanted. Then I spied a goose feather jutting out from beneath an old kaleidoscope. I carefully pulled it out. It was large, grey and bedraggled. What was it doing there? As I looked at it more closely, I saw that the hard pointed end was cut to resemble the nibs I’d used to write with when I was a child, before the age of biros. Our nibs were metal and fitted into a wooden holder. We dipped the nib into ink from a bottle, then had to take care not to splash it on our page, or we’d be in trouble with the teacher. We used blotting paper to soak up any excess ink. This feather’s tip displayed similar technology to those old nibs, but the materials used to make it were much older.

“It’s a quill!” I blurted out. “Made from a goose feather. Just like they used to make them hundreds of years ago!”

“It certainly is”, responded a quiet voice from behind me. I jumped, startled. I’d thought I was still alone, and I spun around to see who had spoken. A giant of a man stood behind me. Much taller than I am, he took up most of the space between the benches on either side of the narrow shop. He looked as if he’d send everything flying if he so much as moved an eyebrow. But, as he reached for the quill, nothing moved from its place. His bearing was graceful, belying his size, and his touch gentle. He let the feather run between his large fingers, and I could see that it was something he cared for, perhaps even revered.

“It’s old, this one”, he said, his voice strangely soft and pleasing. “My great-grandfather used it when he was writing his stories.”

“You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in!”

Then I realised what the giant had said.

“Your great-grandfather used this quill for writing stories?”

I was amazed that a quill could last so long. I knew that they normally lasted for just a few pages - if you were lucky. The pressure placed on them when writing distorted the cut end and they would have to be re-shaped. After several trims, the quill would have to be discarded and a new one cut for use.

“You mean this was one of the quills he used, don’t you?”

“No”, replied the giant. “He told me when he was dying that he always used this one quill. He was quite a successful author, and he declared that this is what helped make his stories special and loved.”

“I can’t believe that. I’m sorry to disagree with you, but there’s no way he could have written even one book with this quill, let alone several!”

“Well, I was just a little lad, and that’s what he told me,” chuckled the giant. “You know how old folks will tell stories to children. I think he did well because he was a good author. The quill would have to be magic to do what he said, wouldn’t it?”

His eyes twinkled and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

I responded with one of my own.

“Well, it’s a good story to sell your wares with anyway. Maybe you’ve succeeded. How much do you want for this old quill?”

I didn’t believe the man’s story about his great-grandfather, but the quill certainly did look old. It would look great in my study, placed on a stand with an old ink-bottle. It would be the perfect symbol of my own profession - which just happened to be a writer.

The giant named a lower figure than I’d expected, and I willingly paid what he asked.

“Take care of that old quill”, said the giant as I prepared to leave. “You never know just what it might do for you if you treat it well”.

“Maybe it will help me become a famous author!” I laughed, as I opened the door and walked out of the shop.

I never did find Steve that day. After I left the strange street with the old-fashioned shops, I re-traced my steps to where I’d left my car, and drove back to my hotel. When the business with my agent was concluded, I drove home to my little cottage by the lake. I found an old pen holder and ink stand, onto which I put the quill, together with a bottle of ink. I set them on my writing desk, where typewriter stood, on which I wrote my letters and stories. They fitted well there.

Weeks passed. I was frustrated with the story I was trying to write. Nothing worked, my ideas had gone stale, and the story had ground to a standstill. This was a problem, as my publisher was waiting for the manuscript. My visit to the city had been to get Les to extend my deadline. It had been hard to convince him even then, and now it looked like I was going to miss the extended one as well. I was feeling tense and anxious; no way to be when trying to write children’s novels. I stood up and stretched. I would go for a walk along the lake shore and see if that cleared my head.

It didn’t. When I returned, I still couldn’t write, but I wanted to do something creative. My eye fell on the pen-holder on my writing desk. I picked up the quill and examined it.

I wondered if I could write with it. I knew I could still use a nib, because I had experimented with one a couple of years before. Now, I took out some scrap paper, pulled the stand towards me and opened the ink bottle. I fiddled with the quill until it felt comfortable between my fingers and thumb, then dipped it into the ink. I wrote a few letters and numbers on the paper. They didn’t look too bad. Dipping the quill into the ink again, I wrote my name, then my address. I felt comfortable with the old implement, and my handwriting seemed to be getting better. What could I write to practice some more?

I’ll write a letter. What shall I write? My hand hovered over the paper. Dear Quill. I looked with surprise at what I’d written. It wasn’t what I’d intended to write. Okay, I’m writing to the quill! Now what? I put the pen to the paper again and began to write.

I heard you’re good to write stories with. Can you help me? I’m having trouble with the plot of my story, and with the character Jamie. I just don’t know where to take him and how to make him fit properly with the others.

I smiled at what I’d written. I hadn’t meant to write anything like that, but I suppose my novel was the big thing in my mind at present. Funny though, in writing what I had, I realised I’d clarified what the problem with my story was. That was more than I’d been able to do before. I’d just been writing and re-writing, not knowing where I was going. That’s why I’d been getting nowhere. Now I realised that it WAS Jamie who was causing all the problems. Wow! Problem identified. Now, what to do about it?

Chuckling to myself, I wrote on the paper again, Thank you Quill. Now what shall I DO about Jamie?

As I sat there, Jamie began to parade before my mind’s eye. It was strange. It was as if I could actually see him; see what sort of person he was; where he fit into the story; how he related to the other characters. He was very real to me at that moment.

With my mind focused on Jamie, ideas crystallised on how to handle the story. I realised I had to scrap what I’d just spent two weeks working on and head in a completely different direction. That’s not a nice thing to have to do, but I could see that I’d been doing it all wrong. Now that I knew what to do, I was eager to start back at my typewriter.

I’d been absent-mindedly cleaning off the quill as the novel re-formed in my head. Now, I re-capped the ink bottle and replaced the quill in its stand. I looked at the quill and shook my head. Coincidence, of course. I sat at my typewriter and began to write.

Within a week the first draft of my novel was finished. I drove back to the city to give it to Les. He was pleased. This book was better than the first one I’d written. We both knew it. The story flowed more freely; the characters were more clearly defined and more real; the action was exciting and involving. I’d surprised myself at how well I’d done.

While in the city, I thought I’d have another go at finding my friend, Steve. I went exactly the same way as I had before, hoping I’d find the old curiosity shop again. That telescope had been on my mind, and I thought I might buy it. I found Steve all right this time, but I couldn’t find the street with the old shops. Maybe another time, I thought as I left the city. In my wallet I carried a cheque from Les, a substantial advance on my next novel.

Over the next thirty years, I became quite wealthy. My children’s books sold in the millions, and I branched out to write adult thrillers and mysteries. These also sold well. I was often asked to speak at writing conventions, and I’ve been overwhelmed with the number of letters I receive from young would-be authors who want to know the secret of my success.

I always write back and tell them it’s hard work that counts; that it’s a matter of getting everything into perspective, and having a real desire to write well. You need to have a good imagination, but also be able to work with whatever raw material the world around you provides. And you need to love what you are doing.

I don’t tell them that, every time I have a problem with a character, a setting or a plot, I sit down with my old quill, a bottle of ink and a sheet of paper. I don’t tell them that I ask the Quill what I need to do to bring it all together. I don’t even know if that’s what’s really doing it, but I have found that doing it seems to free up my creative processes. Whatever block I’ve been encountering is quickly cleared, and I can write productively again.

I sometimes wonder why it happens this way. I remember where I got the old quill, and the story told to me by the gentle giant, about his great-grandfather. I think about how the old writer had insisted it was the quill that made his stories special and loved. I can’t discount this claim. After all, look what’s happened to me. Maybe the giant was right, and there IS magic in the quill. Perhaps the Muse of Writing lives in that feathered instrument.

I intend to make sure the quill is well looked after for as long as it’s in my possession, but a couple of questions always lie in the back of my mind. What will happen to it when my time comes? To whom the quill will pass after me?


2,440 words

Originally written 29th January 2006
Edited 11th March 2007.