I wrote this article with an 18th century quill. I recommend it.

I am a literal ink-stained wretch. My fingertips are darker than charcoal briquettes. And it’s not just my hands. Over the past few months, my desk has a growing collection of permanent black splotches. My favorite light blue sweater looks like it was attacked by Jackson Pollock. And in one particularly embarrassing episode, I left an ink stain on the carpet of a sitting United States senator. 

I was interviewing Senator Ron Wyden of Oregon for a book I was writing, sitting across from him on his couch in his Washington, D.C. office—and I was taking notes with my trusty goose quill. I dipped my quill in the inkwell, and, to my horror, a big drop of black liquid fell on the red carpet, forming a stain the size of a poker chip. I apologized. I began to sweat. I tried unsuccessfully to blot up the stain. The senator said, generously, “It’s not the worst thing to happen in Western Civilization.” Which is true. But it wasn’t great either. When I later told my wife, she said, ‘I wonder how much it will cost the government to clean it up. Which made me feel so guilty, I actually asked my accountant to add fifty dollars to my tax bill to pay for the rug cleaning in the U.S. Capitol. 

Why have I been leaving a trail of ink stains in my wake? Well, I’ve been writing with a quill for a year now, and despite its messiness, I love it. In fact, I’ve become a quill evangelist—and hope to convert you by the end of this article, which I wrote with a quill, of course.

I started writing with a quill pen as part of the research for my new book, “The Year of Living Constitutionally.” In the book, I try to understand the original meaning of the Constitution by adopting the mindset and habits of our Founders. And that meant using 1790s technology whenever possible. I carried a musket around the streets of my New York neighborhood (prompting quite a few raised eyebrows). I burned through dozens of beeswax candles. And I wrote with a goose quill, just as Ben Franklin and James Madison did. 

It was a noisy process. My wife hated the sqeauk-squeak-squeak of the nib as it made its way across the page. But I loved the sound. It was proof to my ears that I was getting words on the page, sort of like the clanking weights at the gym. 

In fact, I liked almost everything about the ritual. I savored the feeling of dipping my quill in the inkwell every few words. I loved the elegant loops and curls of the cursive. And perhaps most of all, I was grateful that writing with a quill put my mind into a state of flow. It helped me focus on my thoughts. It’s so peaceful. When typing on a computer, dings, chimes, and pop-ups constantly distract me. Writing with a quill lends itself to a slower, less impulsive, less angry style of writing. I can’t punch out some acronyms with my thumbs, press send, then immediately regret it. 

I brought my quill on the road. I signed restaurant checks with a quill (as my teenaged sons hid their faces in embarrassment). I expressed my First Amendment right to petition the government by writing one with a quill. (That’s why I met with Senator Wyden: to present him with a petition.) And I wrote much of the book with a quill. I believe it made my book more nuanced by slowing and moderating my thoughts. I often wondered if the world returned to quills, would we see a decline in trolls and rage-writing? Or what if the Founders had written the Constitution on a shared Google document? Would they ever have come to an agreement? I’ll have to think about that in a slow and considered way. 

So how does one procure a quill in the 21st century? Well, you can buy pre-sharpened quills for about twelve dollars over Ye Olde Internet. But I prefer to order the cheaper, unsharpened goose feathers. Once they arrive, I slice the tip into a sharp point with an X-Acto knife, and make a slit that holds the ink. I’m not a great quill carver, but the DIY aspect makes me feel even more connected to the act of writing. 

I opted for goose quills because that was the feather of choice for the Founding generation. It wasn’t the only option, though. Swan quills, which are thicker, came in handy when writing big, bold letters. The thinner crow feathers were good for scribbling tiny letters. But whatever bird they came from, the quills rarely looked like the ones you see in the movies. Our eminently practical forebears stripped off the feathers—which just got in the way—and left the quills naked. I prefer to leave the feathers intact for aesthetic reasons.

I tried to replicate 18th century handwriting. The Constitution is written in what is called Copperplate style, which is an ancestor to the cursive I learned in elementary school, but with more flourishes and curly-cues. But the look of the handwriting varied depending on whom was wielding the quill. Thomas Jefferson’s handwriting was florid and elegant. John Adams’ letters were more blocky and controlled. 

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Regardless of the style, I believe the very act of moving their hand across the page affected their thinking. There is some science to support this. As a 2024 Scientific American article puts it, there’s a “clear tie between this motor action being accomplished and the visual and conceptual recognition being created.” Meaning that when you write by hand, it ingrains the words more deeply in your memory. 

The evidence is mixed on whether longform writing actually improves the quality of our thoughts, but, at least, studies suggest people benefit from the fewer distractions that come with analog writing technology. And my personal experience is that it makes my writing more modulated.

Speaking of that: since I am arguing that writing with a quill makes me a more nuanced thinker, I should mention that quills have downsides—and not just the aforementioned stains. My thumb is cramping up as I finish this article, for one thing. There is no spellcheck, which explains why the Constitution is full of typos (or quillos, I suppose). The name of the state of Pennsylvania is spelled two different ways within the Constitution’s four pages (Pensylvania and Pennsylvania). 

Another practical limitation: many in the 21st century are outright confused by the quill. When I bought a musket, I tried to pay for it with a personal check signed by a quill. The musket dealer refused to accept it, saying his bank might refuse it. What’s more, word counts are hard—I can’t tell if I’ve gone over my allotted 1,200 words for this article (editor’s note: he has)—and cut and paste doesn’t exist unless you use scissors and glue. 

This is why I wrote the first draft of my book in quill, but ended up retyping the book into my laptop (also because my publisher refused to accept an off-line stack of yellow paper). I did the same with this article. 

I don’t expect that many readers will ditch their laptops and join the Quill Movement. But I do hope some will consider taking up pens and pencils more often. You won’t get that gratifying sound or the satisfaction of fashioning your own writing implement, but it’s still a step forward (by going backward). And if you can’t do that, maybe even just disconnect your laptop from the Internet for a few blissful minutes of concentrated, uninterrupted writing. 

But now I have to put his quill down, wash my hands, and set off for the post office, one of the Founders’ many gifts to America.