My Handwriting

My handwriting is unruly and frantic.  It crowds itself as it rushes towards the end of the line.  The congestion tightens as it closes in on this precipice and the last words begin to slip over the edge like a herd of buffalo until they are magically transported suddenly to another line like Pac Man. 

When I take notes during meetings or class, it scampers after the speaker like a small dog.  It chases spastically and only catches up during lulls.  Inevitably, it falls behind and, like a child breaking into a sprint to reintegrate himself after straggling, moves into a bizarre shorthand and makes a break for it.

When I write in solitude, I sometimes take the time to try and “pretty-up” my writing.  I am deliberate and careful and then my writing starts to smooth and spread out.  The words have room to breathe and they take advantage of this rare opportunity to stretch, like a man on a transcontinental flight getting up to move around the cabin while he waits for his seatmate to return from the bathroom.  Most of the time, however, they will remain in cramped quarters, piling over each other.

About a year ago, I allowed myself a spree of indulgence.  I got one fountain pen and then another and another.  It was a sort of “if-you-build-it-they-will-come” moment.  In other words, I figured that I would grow into them.  The child who physical therapists had tried desperately to train to write properly with such novel devices as vibrating pens was ready to strut his stuff.  I loved the fancy nibs and beautiful colors.  Now I chose from colors that burst onto the page overripe, like piles of blueberries, bunches of grapes, or sprigs of eucalyptus.  Even the black inks had a special appeal.  They were a purer, deeper black─that Motherwell hue that just sucks you in. 

Oddly enough, my writing did improve.  I was more conscious of my hand’s movements and the pens were more finnicky; they required some babying.  You see, I liked the flex pens, the ones that create those fun swoops on the downstrokes.  If you press too hard though, they will “railroad,” the nib parts like the Red Sea, leaving an uncannily dry path between two streams of color, an unnatural cleft.  This added flexibility required new restraint, which came to me intuitively out of necessity.  Suddenly, my hand was moving like a dancer─lightly, softly...  And the pen moved like an ideal partner, always anticipating, responsive to the slightest suggestion.  Together, they slid and danced across the page like figure skaters, taking pride in their sweeping pirouettes, never missing a chance to celebrate their union.

The critic within me, however, looked down on this dance from above, peering like a disappointed parent at their prodigal child.  Now, I watched this extension of myself prancing across the page with great gusto but lacking the requisite adroitness to justify a stage presence.  Whipping its partner around like a mop, my hand spent itself overreaching; its movements lacked the economy of grace.  Well, I couldn’t blame the partner, a splendid tool with cat-like reflexes. 

How many hobbies had we been through, my hand and I?  How often had we arrived at them over-equipped and under-prepared?  But look at them dance, I thought; they are having such fun!  My prodigal child had lost his self-consciousness and had forgotten himself in those sweeping movements.  I descended from my critical perch to meet and congratulate them.  This young aspiring dancer was, after all, a part of me.