If you’ve wandered into a physical bookstore in recent years (which might be unlikely, given how common ebooks are and how handy Amazon is), you may have noticed one of those Seven Year Pens.
They come individually wrapped, a bit plump, and — for stationery nerds like me — an appealing way to fritter away a spare $10.
A ten-spot might appear steep for a single, oversized pen you absentmindedly grab from an impulse rack while waiting to pay.
That is, until you learn the hook: Each Seven Year Pen contains a “jumbo ink cartridge” in its roomy barrel, promising its owner seven full years’ worth of smooth, stylish, uninterrupted writing.
Made by a company called Seltzer Goods in what they call “the eco-friendly country of Switzerland,” every Seven Year Pen is pitched as an attempt to curb the tide of discarded writing tools — a mountain of tossed plastic pens which, per Seltzer’s estimate, amounts to 100 million a day. (Source: unclear.)
Apart from seeming obviously greener than devouring disposable Bics like candy, the Seven Year Pen is also billed as a money saver. It frees a note-taker from repeatedly buying cheap pens that run dry too soon, allegedly trimming your writing-supply spending over time. (…. wait — “Pens and notebooks” isn’t a category in your Mint dashboard?)
But a blanket claim that these pens last seven years is… optimistic, especially if you’re someone like me whose pen use could be described as “vigorous.” Although most of my professional output is digital, I still hand-write in my planner, journal and current book every single day.
So, with the skeptical curiosity and zeal you’d expect from a diligent lifestyle journalist, I bought one of these Seven Year Pens and used it exclusively, hoping to see how long it would actually endure.
You know. In the name of science.
“Seven Year Pen” Review: Does It Really Last That Long?
Short answer: No.
At least, not if you actually put it to use.
I bought mine during a weekend in Vancouver in May 2017. By late January 2018, it had already started to sputter.
That makes it more of a seven month pen than a Seven Year Pen, in my experience.
And as it happens, I’m not the first person to question this grand “seven year” assertion.
In fact, one writer — known only as theultimatepen — wrote an entire rundown of his (?) time with the product on a blog called Penthusiast, labeling the pen a “Seven Year Swindle.”
As theultimatepen wisely notes, Seltzer’s “seven year” claim, by its own description, allows for the use of 1.7 meters’ worth of ink daily — “which sounds like a lot… but in reality is about half a postcard’s worth of writing, or one-third of a standard sheet of paper.”
For extra perspective, the post supplies length approximations, in millimeters, for a number of everyday writing tasks, like signing your name (145 mm) or finishing a sudoku (1,387 mm).
If those measurements are right, 1.7 meters of ink gives you roughly 11 signatures a day, or about one and a quarter sudoku puzzles.
Those figures, by the way, were sourced from a University of Reading study on the life of various ballpoint pens, which — apparently — is a real topic of research.
Moreover, the 1.7-meter rationale is dubious at best, seeming to be borrowed from the pen maker’s original paperwork… which actually lists a different ink-life estimate. (Honestly, read that entry — this anonymous blogger did some serious digging.)
Either way, one conclusion looks clear: The Seven Year Pen isn’t truly a savvy investment, especially for heavy-handed writers most tempted by it. And even if its bold endurance claim were accurate, you can still misplace a $10 pen just as easily as a cheap one.
I will say, though, it was pleasant to have a single go-to pen for a spell instead of constantly cycling through many. It writes smoothly, the little clip is handy, and it feels comfortable in your hand.
These pens are aesthetically pleasing, too, coming in a variety of playful patterns and hues. Your not-quite-seven-year pen might feature cheerful pink elephants or a french fries motif or a bold feminist declaration.
I chose one decorated with the little dipper, hoping Polaris would steer my handwriting true. Sadly, I have a habit of chewing on my pen like an idiot, so the North Star is half-abraded on one side and completely worn away on the other.
Oh well. Some things just weren’t designed to endure.
