A pen is not disposable. Like a sword, it’s something to keep with you always. The more you understand its weight and heft, the better it will serve you. The more it will let you work.
That cheap ballpoint you’re writing with now? It is not a pen. It does not care about you. It will tire you out with the pressure needed to write even a single side of paper and it will die as soon as you think you understand it. The closer it is to death, the harder you will press and its narrowness will hurt. You’ll learn to hate writing.
The fountain pen will write for you easily. You can see mine above, fresh from battle: scarred round the edges, newly drawn ink drying on its nib. I own only one fountain pen, I need no other.
There are those who collect fountain pens. They collect them like butterflies are collected: taken out of the realm where they belong, they are locked up in pretty glass cases. An unused pen is a travesty. It serves no purpose, it is cruel.
Forget all those cheap, nasty writing implements: buy yourself a real pen. I own a Lamy 2000, but there are many choices out there from the Parker Vector to the Pelikan M600. Ignore those that exist to be status symbols: utility is the purpose of a fountain pen, not pretension.
Then—when you have your pen—you must write with it.