I am bringing into being an invitation-only society for writers who faithfully keep this lost art alive, who fawn over fountain pens, dip pens, glass jars of ink, who sweat it over the aesthetics of each letter, the rhythm, the word that will be the one, and fret about the fragility of a line break. Who have found their souls lured into bookshops and their pennies all spent on elegant papers and inks. Who uphold handwritten correspondence, who beat out paragraphs on typewriters, and keep journals under their pillows. Who lust for calligraphy, and seek sublime penmanship, and perhaps, still grind ink sticks on stone, for its impeccable consistency. We don’t write for fortune or notoriety, rather, we write because the art is in us and we are an appendage in its body.

Thoughts?