The Handwriting Blues

From the King of Cursive...

I received awards for penmanship in grammar school. The stern nuns that taught me found in my handwriting laudable traits, which, for small periods of time, outweighed my incompetence in other subjects and tasks (math was wicked sorcery and left handed scissors indescribably mean). For years I found joy in the act of putting a pen to paper. I drafted homemade greeting cards, wrote long stories on unlined sheets of paper and was all too happy to complete application forms. In the world of penmanship I progressed gracefully, possessive of my powers and confident in my cursive prose.

It was common for me to systematically attend each letter’s construction. I focused intently on the swish of an S and the blunt trauma of an upper case T. I wrote with a heavy hand, which meant the paper took a beating: Flip it over and my sentences felt like braille. Being left handed, I was often left with ink-stained smudges on my forearm. The sign of a hard day’s work.

High school was the beginning of the end. I was no longer afforded penmanship’s patient luxury. My studies grew intense and my classes moved quickly. I had to dash off notes, and struggled to finish exams. It was not unusual for me to stop writing mid-exam and violently shake my hand in the air, keeping the cramps at bay. Then I went to college and the bottom fell out. The pace of my studies reached a fever pitch and I roomed with a guy whose observations spelled my doom. In a decidedly liberal institution, my roommate was a member of the Young Republicans. He found fault in my societal views. He criticized my literary affairs. He distrusted lefties — both the physical and political versions.

One day he caught me in the act. I was hunched at my desk. He watched for a moment and then laughed uproariously.

“God damn,” he cried. “Your hand, it’s like writing with a claw!”

Never before had I noticed the awkward slant of my hand when holding a pen. Never before had I questioned my grace and ability. Never before had the Young Republican gotten under my skin. But this, this was a game changer. Suddenly, the simple, noble act of handwriting became traumatic. My powers diminished. I cursed my DNA. And I betrayed my craft. Soon, in an understandable fit of rebellion, my hand betrayed me.

I have been out of college for nearly five years and my penmanship has dissolved into an illegible albatross. Were it a person it might sound like a home-schooled hillbilly barking at the moon. I cringe when presented with papers to sign. My fiancee fills out credit applications, insurance forms. Her penmanship adorns every Christmas card, every birthday greeting, while my homely signature cowers in the corner like a humiliated child.

To the Pauper of Penmanship

But still I write. I am a copious note taker, the breadth of which competes for space on my desk. I go about my day with a pen in my pocket and paper in my bag. I jot down ideas, to-do lists, numbers. When it comes to writing, I am decidedly hands on. The problem is reading what I write — letters like broken shingles scattered on the ground. Sentences that meander across the line like an inebriated driver. Scratch outs, arrows pointing from one indecipherable thought to another, ink blots, mysterious boxes full of hectic babble — an enormous penmanship snarl filling my notebook.

Now I conduct “serious” writing on my computer. I strike each key with the same precision and force that once I reserved for penmanship. I am pleasantly accustomed to and fond of this writing method. It is faster and more efficient. It is conducive to thinking, providing my fingers with a wellspring of material. By focusing solely on what I am trying to say rather than considering the letter Z’s cursive shape, I have become a better writer.

But my penmanship problem persists. I am humbled by the loss of skill, concerned that I have surrendered the power to control my hand, baffled by what I write in my notebook. My mother for years was an inveterate sender of greeting cards. Every occasion, no matter how trivial, warranted her salutation. She had exquisite, feminine handwriting. It was her trademark. Now her handwriting is less assured, less florid. Concerning trembles, dips and bumps regularly appear. For a while I wondered if she and I shared some sort of genealogical trait wherein over time our handwriting deteriorated. Maybe I had inherited an aggressive case that struck early. Finally I asked her. She laughed. She said that’s the best news I’ve heard about my arthritis yet.

I decided to research my plight. It turns out that handwriting does deteriorate over time. But this is due to aging, the weakening of the hand’s joints and muscles — not something I should be dealing with yet. Then I came across handwriting analysis tests. I had heard and was intrigued by Graphology years before, when an expert on TV ascertained Jeffrey Dahmer’s propensity to kill simply by examining his handwriting. What, I wondered, would my chicken scratch say about me?

I gathered information from Web sites, most of which were busting at the seam with ads for pay at home businesses and quizzes to test my genius. The results of my handwriting analysis would be questionable, at best. But I was impatient. I wanted an answer quickly. I did not want to seek out a real graphologist, pay for an examination only to discover that I have a terrible trait destined to ruin my life. It was a halfhearted attempt, one that would prevent bad news from being taken too seriously and give implausible hope to the notion that someday I will become a billionaire.

Gauge Your Writing Personality. Or Don't

The analysis held little enlightenment in the way of my penmanship’s deterioration. It did, however, shed light on its characteristics. Rather than solving my problem, I delved into the fascinating world of pseudo-psychology. The Web site’s “expert” detected in my writing sample strong emotional intensity and individualism. The pressure with which I wrote my sentence, a wonderfully optimistic “These are the days of my life when I cherish the good and and fight against the bad” displayed, in his words,

“Heavy pressure and emotional intensity. Emotional energy is a combination of the physical and mental energy level. Writers with heavy pressure are usually highly successful. They have a lot of vitality and their emotional experiences last for a long time. Writers who write with average pressure are usually moderately successful and usually have enough energy to make it through the day. Those with light pressure try to avoid energy draining situations.”

Then came the second part of his analysis, about the slant of my penmanship.

“You have a vertical slant. The slant is the second indicator to look for. The slant indicates the writers emotional response to external forces. A right slant (////) signals one who responds strongly to emotional situations. They are caring, warm and outgoing– their heart rules their mind. A vertical slant (llll) writer tries to keep their emotions in check– mind rules their heart. A left slant writer (\\\\) will conceal their emotions and is observed as cold and indifferent. Your writing indicates that you are not easily influenced by outside forces.”

This got me thinking. Here I was questioning my genes and placing blame on an old college roommate. According to the analysis, I have a favorable disposition and am not prone to outside influences. If so, my handwriting blues must stem from someplace else. But where, and from what?

A combination of things, I’d wager. I have no scientific proof, but I must believe that I possess at least as much understanding of my person as a Web-based graphologist. When I was young, the act of writing was an art form. I took my time, studied and excelled. School presented an obstacle to my art. I needed to work faster, with less heed. I needed to acclimate to different environments. Top that off with an offhand joke from a Young Republican, combined with my own growing sense of college-age anxiety, and I had a recipe for handwriting regression.

Shortly after my roommate’s snakebite, and as my writing load increased, I bought a computer. It was a nice fit. I could write faster and better and did not have to worry about my left handed claw or snowballing scribble. It was a solution that worked. It continues to work. But, like any person with a handwriting phobia — a phobia I hereby term penlaxia — writing on a computer has not solved the problem. It avoids it.

Regardless, I am for the time content with my illegible state. Hey, I’m going to be a billionaire, right? Who cares if I can’t sign all the checks. I’ll just pay someone to do it for me. Now, if only I could read what those words in my notebook say. The ones with $$$$$$ all around them.

This is Kevin Murphy, Signing Off