December 16, 2002

Greetings from a man in cuneiform,

It's ironic that I should enjoy writing so much and yet I cannot write.  Before you rush to agree with me, let me explain that among my many handicaps is poor penmanship. 

Just two nights ago a clerk at a store laughed when she saw my signature on my credit card.  "No one will ever steal this card, they couldn't copy THAT." She snorted, in her superior minimum-wage manner.  My cheeks burned red with calligraphic shame.

Along with every child funneled through elementary school, I was taught handwriting.  We learned how to print correctly, practicing on lined tablets, squeezing our letters between the correct blue lines, giant pencils in our hands, tongues wedged firmly at the corner of our lips. When we had learned that sufficiently, or when the year ended so we could be sent elsewhere, we were taught cursive.  I am convinced it is called cursive because it makes you swear out loud.  This is how I got to know the administrative members of the faculty.

 

The truth is, my penmanship was so poor, even the letters I printed were hard to read.  By the time I started practicing cursive, my teacher was ready to suggest hieroglyphics as an alternative.  Or sign language.  Or semaphore.

I eventually learned well enough to be allowed out into society, and since then I have learned to scribble well enough to convince people I am writing them prescriptions for something.  Over time, my adult style of writing has evolved into something just this side of indecipherable.  If I were to write you a letter, you would think I'd sent you a Jackson Pollack painting.

I rarely write in longhand anymore, since people were always asking me questions like "Does this say 'existentialism' or 'flan'?"  Most of my written communiqués are printed in what I like to call 'kinderscript', which stopped being cute when I wrote with crayons.

I will say that I admire someone who has good handwriting.  I recognize it is an art form, a basic manner of communication elevated by creative flourish, which when done well is a pleasure for the reader. 

I don't know if it is lack of discipline, or if there is some genetic deficiency, but I will never have good handwriting.  If I ever lose the ability to type, I may have to turn to a life of crime. Writing ransom notes made up from cut up magazines will be the only way I'll be able to communicate. 

Hope this finds you with pen in hand,

David