My first book Halloween 78 was penciled into reality. Once finished I sheltered each page with a sheet of hairspray. I've never shared a positive relationship with ink pens. Without a doubt they'd explode. I think it's because my unborn history knew one day I'd dance only with a nib. In doing so I've never filled the bladder's of a writing instrument with ink. There's something completely musical about dipping the tip in a sip of the nearest color available only to write two maybe three sentences before returning. The bad news...ink stained fingers. The positive...through an entire 24 hour period the subconscious says to the soul, "I can see you wrote today. Thank you for not quitting." My new book Scrambled Eggs wasn't handwritten with a nib. The John Lennon from Mont Blanc is a rollerball and still had a way of staining the untouched edges of this vivid imagination. Pictured is the writing instrument I've dubbed No Name Wood Pen. Having no name means I don't have to live up to being anybody but me. You should see my personality change while using my Mont Blanc Agetha Christie. It was the only writing instrument used while signing my first book in stores across the Carolinas.
Agatha <3
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