On the importance of handwriting

My third grade teacher once urged me to enter a national handwriting contest.

Mimicking the elementary school cursive alphabet template, I developed a handwriting of my own that was stylish yet pragmatic. Never did my cursive sport gaudy loops or hooks, or awkward, unsure angles that suggested I hadn’t mastered the art of penmanship. I would have sooner dropped dead than have anything other than a modest blackened circle hovering above my lowercase I. My capital D, bulging ever so slightly and seductively before twisting into a semi-circle of perfection, flowed effortlessly into an A, an N of symmetric precision, and another A.

Now that I am no longer 8, I am decidedly less anal about my handwriting, in the same way I was, at least. I am able to morph into different identities within myself, vicariously through my right hand. Sometimes I’ll loosely slant my writing to the right, in a sort of pseudo-cursive that reminds me of big sweaters and just-warm-enough cups of tea. Other times I’ll write in all caps, wide and exact, imagining I am a busy architect who is artsy yet scrupulous. Oh, and don’t sign a receipt around me. I participate in perfunctory autograph mimicry. I can forge a signature faster than you can say, “Hey, stop forging my signature.”

These days, I find myself scribbling for sport. In class, I opt to jot down notes with a delightfully inky pen although my MacBook Pro just begs for me to click-clack away. At home, I write reminders to myself, notes to friends, and impromptu journal entries on any blank canvas my itching hands can sequester. Handwriting is like bike riding. You’ll never forget how. But I’d rather not chance it.

A person’s handwriting says more about them than could any 12-point font, Times New Roman, 300- to 500-word personal statement. I don’t judge a book by its cover, but I’m dangerously close to admitting that I judge a person by their handwriting. I’m simply fascinating by how many ways a person can arrange their letters on paper. In fact, the pursuit of pen pals is something that consumed my young life. I’d handwrite letters and cards until my fragile fingers ached. And I’d always pay particular attention to the way I styled the words on the paper, each one more like a mini-masterpiece than a trivial element of a sentence. I knew that when my pen pal opened my letter, she would simply delight in the confident lines, calculated curves, and immaculate H’s in “Hi! How are you?” Or maybe, like most people I know, she wouldn’t notice.