In Praise of Handwritten Notes

My penmanship grades were perpetually low, but my love for handwriting continues to soar

Recently, I visited a high school classroom to talk about my writing life. These sophomores asked about writer’s block (which Jerry Seinfeld says doesn’t exist, so I guess….it doesn’t?), how I figure out my endings, how my family feels about my writing, and how I decide how formal/casual to be in any given project. The class was a highlight of my week. Then, I got a very sweet thank you note, signed by everyone in the class:

Is there anything sweeter than a notecard filled with teenagers’ handwriting? It’s giving high school yearbook! I love the girls who draw little hearts above the i’s or add the flourish of flower or a smiley face at the end of their message.

I grew up with a mother whose handwriting impressed even the strictest of the nuns who taught me grammar school. When I’d bring in handwritten permission slips or a check for the book fair, they’d oooh and ahhh over her beautiful cursive. “Look at this beautiful script!” Each letter perfectly balanced, luscious but not juvenile, consistent but not mechanical. For years, I believed my handwriting would eventually morph into hers, but it never did. I got her brown eyes, extra-long second toe, and hatred of dental procedures, but I did not get her penmanship. It’s hers and hers alone.

After my parents’ Thanksgiving visit, I found a note she wrote my dad one morning when we let him sleep in:

See how beguiling! That post-it note remains on the bathroom mirror, where it will stay until it falls down, and then I will tuck it into my God-box full of keepsakes— mostly handwritten notes from people I love.

I insist that my kids write thank you notes, certainly because they reflect good manners and I want them to know how to express gratitude, but I also want to see their handwriting. It looks like my daughter may have inherited some of my mother’s gift for making the letters sparkle on the page. My son’s handwriting is more like mine, but he’s not losing sleep about it. They’re not graded on handwriting, and they’ll never learn cursive, so I’ll never know if they might add a curlicue to their capital “H” or make a little loop at the top of their lowercase “B” like my mom. There are a million more pressing matters facing all of us, but I’ll take a quick second to feel a pinch of sadness that there is so little handwriting around for me to admire, especially from my kids.

I’ve hand-written 3 pages per day for 4 years because Julia Cameron told me to. I love feeling of my hand move across the page; I especially enjoy the feeling of a page that has writing covering both sides. My handwriting changes significantly depending on what kind of pen I use. If it’s the ultra-fine Pilot G2, I will be at the height of my powers, crossing T’s and dotting I’s like a 19th century schoolmarm. If it’s some light-weight plastic, fat-tipped pen I accidentally swiped from a hotel, my handwriting slips to its second-grade level. Back then, Sister Annell saw fit to include a handwritten note on my otherwise stellar report card: “Christie’s penmanship needs improvement. Her S’s are illegible, and her C’s are too shallow, which upsets me, brings down the class average, and displeases the Christ child.” It’s really a testament to my human spirit that I could come back from that feedback more in love with handwriting than ever.

It’s intimate to know someone’s handwriting. In high school, I made fun of my best friend’s handwriting because I secretly loved how original it was, slanting to the right and squiggling on the page. I remember showing it to my mom, thinking she’d say mine was better, only to hear her say: “It’s easier to read than yours,” which, fair, is the point of writing. Looking back, maybe my mom didn’t realize that 16-year-old Christie was actually asking: Who is better, me or my best friend who is on the homecoming court, the honor roll, and the cheerleading squad?

My favorite part of Maggie Smith’s bestselling memoir, You Could Make This Place Beautiful, is that on the spine of the hardcover is the title in her handwriting. Of course, she has poet handwriting:

Look at that B! Those double G’s. Poets, they’re different than us, better.

I like to collect funky postcards from museums and gift shops to send to my friends. I also like to send them to reverends who preach mercy no matter who is in the audience: