# Recall (Howell Creek radio address for May 27, 2013 -- ) I have a fountain pen, a cheap one, with a really frustrating problem. It has what's called a flex nib, which means the tip is really flexible, so you can apply pressure and the two tines of the nib will flex and spread apart, creating a thicker or thinner stroke. The problem is that the ink seems to flow everywhere but down the last millimeter of the nib and onto the flipping page. I press the pen onto the paper and I can see the ink flow down to the middle of the nib and just kind of hang out there. I press a little harder, and instead of flowing the rest of the way down onto the page, the ink accumulates and forms a swelling, useless droplet on top of the nib. If I'm feeling stubborn I might try coaxing the ink down the rest of the way with a napkin before finally taking the whole pen apart, cleaning, realigning and refilling it, whereafter it will work properly for a few minutes. Otherwise I just re-cap it and put it away. And the next time I go to use it, no matter what I did or didn't do before, there will be ink all everywhere inside the cap and all around the part of the pen where your fingers touch. Ink coating the pen, on my fingers, soaked into crumpled serviettes -- everywhere but in lines and letters on the page. As I've said before, I write with a pen in the first place in order to order my thoughts according to a particular rhythm -- that really works, there's no dispute about that. But no matter how I begin, so often the whole goal and point of writing quickly takes back seat to a clusterfuss with the tools and the method. What am I really trying to accomplish here? * * * When I entered basic training back in 2001, it came as kind of a shock to my system, the kind of shock that's so shocking you don't realize you've been shocked. We weren't allowed to speak, or wear a watch, and time was doled out to us in fifteen- or twenty-second increments to do things like make your bed and tie your boots. I actually didn't go to the bathroom at all in those first three days: I didn't have time, and I didn't feel the need, either. What I remember most, though, was what it was like when words came again: it was like a rebirth of sorts. We were on a hike and feeling miserable; basic training hikes are like forced trail-runs with heavy packs and opportunities for punishment; but on hikes we were allowed to shout to each other as long as the things we shouted were encouraging, and didn't contain any pop-culture references. It was hot and humid out, and there had just been a controlled burn in that part of the forest, so the ground was blackened, the air was smoky and ashen, and many of the logs we had to clamber over and around were still hot, or even on fire in places. It truly felt like a scorched-earth, battlefield scenario. And suddenly these words floated back into my mind and without thinking I began speaking them out loud: the "Once more unto the breach" speech from Henry V: > In peace there's nothing so becomes a man > As modest stillness and humility: > But when the blast of war blows in our ears, > Then imitate the action of the tiger; > Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, > Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; > Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; > Let pry through the portage of the head > Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it > As fearfully as doth a galled rock > O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, > Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. > Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, > Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit > To his full height. > [...] I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, > Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: > Follow your spirit, and upon this charge > Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' I don't really know how to describe the reaction of the other guys; the laughed, they yelled at me, the told me to keep going. I don't think they understood it clearly any more than I did when I first heard it, but poetry is just like music: you can get it even if you don't understand it, and these guys were getting it. But much more clear for me was my own reaction. On the most superficial level, it was entertaining: I felt as though I was watching the words replay before my own eyes, and I got a strange thrill from that, like when you hear a song you used to love but had completely forgotten about. And on a much deeper level, as I said, it felt like a rebirth: a recapitulation in miniature of the transition from a prisoner or drudge into a self-aware human being. I felt like I had been recalled to life...which, in any writing, is the true evidence of what we call "inspiration." * * * Thanks for listening to Howell Creek Radio, and for bearing with me during a time of transition and loathsome busyness. You can read transcripts and listen to or download all past and future episodes at . Follow the show on twitter or Facebook. I also blog at . Synopsis: ------------ Radio address for May 27, 2013. Getting ink everywhere but on the page, and coming back to life after being submerged in activity. As you may have guessed, things have been a bit nuts in my life lately. I'm trying to make some changes to reduce the work involved in production. If you're a regular listener, you'll probably notice what those changes and tradeoffs are over the coming weeks, but hopefully they won't degrade the experience in ways that matter to you. The goal of regular production in the middle of a heavy work schedule continues to dangle in front of me, just out of reach. The pen mentioned in this episode is a Noodler's Ahab flex nib. I have two of these cheap pens: one is dry as bone (no ink) and the other - this one - is constantly hemorrhaging ink all over the place. The reviews I read seemed positive, but I just have never had any luck with a fountain pen that cost less then $100. [![My bleeding foutain pen][bfp-img]][bfp] My bleeding fountain pen. [bfp-img]: http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8541/8857370612_88aaa43be6_b.jpg [bfp]: http://www.flickr.com/photos/otherjoel/8857370612/