Handwritten correspondence, letter for friends, loved ones, are…special. Special enough that I pen letters, several each week, with my own hand. Found in the loops and dips of my handwriting lies a very big part of me. As a craftsman crafts his wares, I craft my words, always conscious of the way the ink relates to the paper, to me, and to whomever I send my thoughts.
Writing for The New Yorker, Mark Oppenheimer explores, the lost virtue of cursive in an article of the same name.
“The sight of my father’s or mother’s script on a small white envelope was what I anticipated right until mail call, after lunch, and what kept me going for the long afternoon hours afterward. I liked letters on which their handwriting was rushed and slightly illegible, because if I had trouble deciphering the handwriting the letter lasted longer. When my grandmother wrote, I had difficulty deciphering her elegant, Palmer Method hand, but I enjoyed the antique nature of the challenge. It felt as if I were playing tennis with a wooden racquet.”
A handwritten letter transports both its author and its recipient to a time steeped in tradition, a yesteryear, and for me, a better time.
Who needs a pen pal?