You may already know, but there’s currently a debate raging about whether handwriting lessons should be taught to the children of today. It amazes me to think that the concept of penmanship might be lost on our future generations. As a result, the art of writing stories or poetry by hand may also be on the verge of extinction. On many levels, it makes sense. Writing and reading thrive in today’s digital age with the ease of reproducing and accessing content. Heck, I consider myself to be a relatively tech-savvy chick, and I find word processing to be convenient and fast. So why do I feel like something is wrong with this picture? It all seems logical, and yet why is it that when I get an idea for a story, I am more compelled to reach for my journal than to open my laptop?

What’s even more fascinating to me is that I’m not alone in this sentiment. There are hordes of writers who keep their notebooks so close that it’s practically another body appendage. I feel almost naked without mine within arm’s reach. Maybe this makes me old fashioned. And perhaps that’s true, but I also like to think I’m preserving the age-old tradition of writers throughout history. After all, it’s what connects me to Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Leo Tolstoy, and all of the other literary geniuses that produced some of the greatest timeless works still known today.

But there has to be more to it than that. I gave the matter some considerable thought as I scrawled the first draft of this article onto a page of my favorite suede-covered journal. There’s something visual, something tangible that appeals to me as I write in ink. Sure, the words are the same as they would be on a screen, but on paper, they’re in my own handwriting. As a person’s handwriting is as unique as a fingerprint, it dawned on me that I felt a sense of pride, of ownership that I wouldn’t have otherwise gotten from pressing buttons on a keyboard. And though my cursive isn’t always completely legible, it sometimes feels like I’m drawing. I enjoy the studio art aspect of it just as much as creating the words, and I admire those who can implement beautiful styles of calligraphy. In this way, writing becomes a compound art form, a bit like singing and dancing at the same time.

Your word processor wishes it was this cool.

I also noticed that when writing by hand, it forces me to think about each and every word as I take the time to form the curves of the letters. If I’m stuck and don’t know what to write, I like having the option to doodle instead of stare at a blinking cursor. If I find a mistake, I can make arrows or scribbles, which give the draft a more organic feel. I can write sideways or make notes in the corners. This is much easier to do on paper and gives me more control over my own thought process. Plus it’s way more fun. In fact, I often use unlined paper, which allows me complete freedom to be creative and express myself exactly as I want to in any given moment.

As an interesting parallel, my best friend, an amazing chef by day (musician by night) once engaged me in a discussion about cultures that eat entire meals by hand as opposed to using utensils. He said that biologically, using your hands to eat gives you a greater satisfaction with your meal, as it’s more interactive and less detached. Apparently, the brain registers the texture of the food as part of the entire eating process, in addition to taste, smell, and sight. I find this principle to be the same with my writing. I do feel a greater sense of completion and satisfaction when I write by hand, sensing the coolness of the paper under my wrist, the smoothness of the ink as it rolls out of the pen, the swerve of my hand as I shape each word. By comparison, my laptop, while I think it’s a fantastic invention, seems sterile. There’s no scent of paper or binding, and my brain, after typing so long no longer registers the texture of the keys. The font is not my own creation and sometimes seems foreign, disconnected.

Of course, writing by hand can only get you so far. At some point, you do need to type it up if you want to share it. But that may not be a bad thing. As Patrick Nathan discovered in his article on the beauty of using a typewriter, when you don’t use a word processor for your first draft, it forces you to do a revision when you finally do transfer your work to the computer. And hey, if your computer crashes later, you’ll always have a hard-copy first draft to refer back to. The important thing to remember is, there’s no right or wrong method or medium. Writing is hard work and a rewarding endeavor no matter which way you choose to do it.

Photos by bhav.bhav and L. Whittaker

Fifty-eight days. It really doesn’t seem like a lot of time. Because it isn’t. I’ve fallen back into a fairly steady pattern with Rebellious Bird. I read a chapter several times. I mark it all up. I go back and make those changes. I go on to the next chapter. There’s something about it that seems rather lackluster—the process, not the novel. My journal entries lately are full of fire and promise, a pledge on each page to ascend into that familiar state of fury. Yet when that time arrives I sigh at the work in front of me and make those changes so mechanically. Where’s the amateur novelist’s passion that I felt not long ago? What I’m feeling is almost akin to weariness. At once there’s a murmuring in my heart that tells me to push myself to the absolute limits and with it a dull indifference. This might be a new emotion in the spectrum of emotions I’ve felt since beginning this entire process in January. I write and the changes are made. There’s nothing truly joyous in it. Nothing ecstatic.

What we in the chemical industry call 'raw materials'

In truth that’s what’s missing from Rebellious Bird at this stage. Creativity has become distillation and analysis. It has become decision making. Calculations. I haven’t created a fresh, vibrant sentence in what feels like months. Instead I spend all my time reading and reviewing and refining. The only thing I really look forward to now is having a completed book. The process itself is rather tedious.

November and December. These will be the most difficult months of writing, especially with two major holidays looming at the end of each. Looming because they’re both making me anxious. Each will cause a rift in my process, so in reality that fifty-eight days is more like forty-five. And there’s so much work to be done. The goal I’ve set may seem arbitrary but in truth it’s very important to me. I want to know I can do this and more importantly I want to know that I’m capable of declaring it finished. Without a deadline I’ll write forever.

I’m taking Friday off from work. Friday is my day to be valorous and maybe a little mad. Even though I’ve lost the aforementioned passion that doesn’t mean it’s permanent. I know myself. I know that I’m capable of instilling within myself the same ardor and obsession that almost consumed me a month ago. All it takes is the right set of circumstances. A fresh start on a fresh day where writing is the only task laid out in front of me. I will forget about that other project. I will be up at dawn with a cup of coffee. At the end of the day one of us will be bruised and beaten and put back in his place and for the love of all that is written I hope it’s the novel.

Just one brief assignment for this demanding month, a mere essay, online and free to all:

“How to Build a Universe that Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later” by Philip K. Dick

As made famous in the film Waking Life‘s “Tango of Yes” scene, this essay regards the mystical claims made about Dick’s celebrated novel, Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said.

DISCUSSION JUMP STARTS:

1) Compare the events here with those in the Will Ferrell movie Stranger Than Fiction.

2) Does this essay bolster Rachel’s hypothesis that, yes, time is wrong?