Cursive Curse


Today I was speaking to someone about her son’s switching schools. She was explaining that she and her husband moved him from a public school to a private one. Apparently, the new school requires all of its students to write their classwork and homework in cursive. We discussed the necessity of learning cursive, or rather the significance of it.

As a person who loves writing, it’s difficult for me to admit that I really don’t see the significance in learning cursive. It’s a good skill to know, to be well-rounded and all. But is it really necessary to force students to use only cursive and to give them bad marks or refuse their work if they don’t? I had difficulty learning it, and frankly, my penmanship is deplorable (as illustrated in my last blog post ). Do you know anyone who writes in perfect cursive?

I do. This chick is a beast when it comes to cursive writing. She also happens to read this blog. I don’t think she’s human; she’s more like some otherworldly goddess of script. Her penmanship is so perfect, I’m pretty sure she went through some kind of writing boot camp. I can’t even describe it. Every letter is the same height and width. Each word isn’t just between the lines but actually on the line. It’s unreal. Maybe she’s a robot.

Barring this otherworldly goddess of script robot friend of mine, I haven’t known anyone whose cursive writing is even legible. Most people’s penmanship looks like a serial killer’s confession letter.


And then there’s typing. I don’t agree with relying on technology or machines without learning to be self-sufficient in certain areas. But since the advent of the typewriter, our need to learn perfect penmanship has become increasingly antiquated.

I love writing, and I can’t over-emphasize the importance of learning to write. However, in this writer’s humble opinion, learning to print efficiently would be much more effective. At least then we would all be able to actually read what others have written.


Blank Spaces

Whenever I see a blank page, I have a desire to fill it, to put something meaningful down. I must control myself when I’m in a store where journals, tablets, or just plain notebooks are available. I own too many half filled journals and notebooks. Despite a conscious effort to control my hoarding tendencies, I still give in.

I’m not really a hoarder. Quite the opposite actually. Except with books. I’ve so many that I haven’t read, much like the journals I’ve yet to fill. I will read them, just like I will fill the others. I want to.

When I was in highschool, I had a particular art teacher I adored, and one day she asked me what I would do when I’d read all the books in the world. My answer: write my own.


Something has been lost of the catharses of putting pen to paper. With technology, computers, smart phones, and electronic tablets hardly anyone bothers with the toil of writing manually, it seems. But we writers do; I do. There was a time when it was the only form of writing mankind had, putting quill to paper, reed to papyrus, chisel to tablet, primitive paint to cave walls.


I can type my words, dictate them onto recorder, or express them verbally to another, however none of those methods can take the place of channeling my ideas through the pen and onto a tangible surface. Most of my writing is done via keyboard, but still nothing-to me-compares with the pure act of writing, of using my magic wand, my hand wielding yet restraining its power.


Words on the page. Not the electronic landscape with which our eyes and minds have become familiar, but literal writing. Putting ideas on the page, there to fill the blank spaces.