There has been much lament that the art of letter-writing has died, which is not really true. We are probably writing more letters to one another now than ever before. Although they are brief, with much shorthand used, they are still–in a way, letters. But they are not handwritten. In the course of a year, I now receive only a half-dozen pieces of handwritten correspondence. (For those of you who no longer remember what handwritten means, it means written by a human, with a writing implement, in their own individual unique handwriting.) Look at your mail. You’ll see that hardly anyone physically writes anything anymore. Soon the pen aisle at Staples will contain only those with built-in USB drives. A few birthday cards, a holiday card, an invitation or two, but even those are usually done by robot to look like expensive calligraphy. Most package labels are printed on computers, as are address labels. Sorry, but Comic Sans is not handwriting.
I’ve noticed the same phenomenon at work – email is certainly the most prevalent form of interoffice correspondence. I found a whole dusty shelf of note pads cheerfully announcing their being From The Desk Of various senior staff members. They were cuddled up with some Pepto-Bismol pink ones with many check boxes, whose main purpose is to inform you of all the things you missed While You Were Out. With the advent of voicemail, texting and email, paper messages seem much less in favor. In some ways this is a good thing – they do often get lost, misplaced, buried under another pile on someone’s desk. The urgent message is not urgently received and its recipient hits the wall, which in turn is unpleasant for the poor message taker. Having been on both ends of that, I am okay with the improvements technology has given us. But what bothers me is that, for the most part, handwriting seems to be over.
While mucking the other day I had a wonderful visit with my beloved late grandpa, in the form of a two-line scribble I saved from just a few years before he died. I found an invitation written in the distinct hand of a very dear friend who is no longer particularly dear. A book inscription from my mother, whose unique combination of upper and lower case letters is most intriguing. (I never even attempted to write my own absent notes to the school office.) My son’s obvious struggles to write legibly as a lefty using right-handed notebooks. My dad’s always-slanting-to the-right, firm and strong. My future husband’s once-draftsman printing, antique as he now uses a mellow script. My own handwriting on years of cancelled checks, getting bigger and sloppier as I got busier and less self-conscious. But it is mine. It is only mine, and the people who know me and love me recognize it as mine.
There was once a time when a pen was a coveted and special gift. Why not sit down with a few different pens or pencils and find your hand again. Start small – maybe just your grocery list. It’s June, you can always work up to the Christmas cards. When you have got it back fully and confidently, write someone you love a letter. When they receive it, a connection will be made, either for the first time ever or for the first time in a while. It will say This is from me–Only I make these shapes this way–Only I slant at this very particular angle– Only I bear down with this particular intensity.