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The Future of Physical Writing

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I know, It’s a dramatic image, isn’t it?

I’ve had my grandson since April, and I’ve taken charge of the homeschooling his district is doing through the COVID  closures. He is eight years old and in advanced programs for math and reading.

It breaks my heart to say this, but he hates writing.  He hates the physical act of holding a pencil and putting marks on the paper. He’s come close to hating composition, and that was entirely unacceptable in my house.

He’s composing on the computer, now, knowing he has to copy it all to paper when he’s done, and his attitude has improved slightly. He’s a bit too eager to write down my examples rather than use them to create his own prose.  We’re getting there, with his teacher’s support.

If you took literature in college, you might have had to learn to read Middle or Old English.  People do it because we wanted to read works in the original (or appease our professors). Five years ago, I had a conversation with my nephew, in which he informed me they were no longer being taught cursive writing. I asked him how he would read the constitution or the letters of historical figures if he couldn’t read cursive.  His response was to tell me if it wasn’t printed, he’d have to learn. He was eight then and could read cursive from both his grandmother and myself.  I had hope.

My grandson cannot.  In just five years, kids can no longer do that much. How long before cursive writing is something people consider must be translated?

Oh, they will be fine. I know this. the Digital Natives prefer to compose on keyboards. I do probably seventy-five percent of my composing on a keyboard these days when in flow. The kid will learn to do the same and he’ll be fine. It still makes me sad, though. The thought that he might not be able to read letters between his great-grandparents or any of the genealogy files makes me sad. That I have to print for him makes me sad and frustrated.

I can’t recall another moment in history that moved us away from writing by hand. The printing press merely prevented us having to copy ad nauseum. Steel nibs meant more geese got to keep their feathers. We still had to write…put pen to page.

Times change. We evolve. Those of us meant to write will still write, just without a pen or a pencil. As for those who want to read history in its original form, well, I guess there will be classes or segments of classes in the future to teach kids how to read cursive. After school programs, perhaps? Maybe, if we’re lucky, they’ll learn to read and write cursive, and it will not be lost to history.

Well, that’s the hope of this grandmother. Perhaps in my seventies, I’ll teach community classes on the subject, teaching this very thing. Then again, I’m still hoping I won’t have to.

Z – Zest

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Zest. Gusto. How rarely one hears these words used. How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating, by them. Yet if I were asked to name the most important items in a writer’s make-up, the things that shape his material and rush him along the road he wants to go, I would only warn him to look to his zest, see to his gusto.
Ray Bradbury

I was sure I’d lost my zest. I was pretty sure my gusto had flown the coop.

I tend to expect a lot of myself in terms of creative work. In the past I’ve enjoyed a high output of words and never thought that would change.

Until it did.

Last year, my body delivered its opinion of my expectations and how I handle stress by planting me in the hospital (10 days in March).  I’m still working on the necessary lifestyle adjustments it was clear I needed, including my attitudes toward my own production. Overachievers beware.

I came out of the hospital with two goals: make meaning and find middle ground. So I started a course to become a creativity coach and I got some accountability for my expectations. It’s a good thing I did because November brought the removal of my cancerous thyroid (great news) and the issues of adjusting the replacement hormone, which is a surprisingly long process. Fatigue on a whole new level, folks. If I had gone through that without someone reminding me it would be a good idea to “adjust your expectations, Robyn!” I’d have fallen into my old ways pretty fast.

Mind over matter and “just do it” have been a big part of my life until this past year. I’ve got a whole new level of compassion and empathy for people struggling to get their creative work done. I’ve got a whole new picture of what we do to ourselves with unrealistic expectations, both high and low. I’m navigating toward that middle ground.

So it seems the zest is still there. The gusto hasn’t flown away. I have good habits in place and a craving to put words on paper. Not long ago I complained to my coach about not getting thing done well enough or fast enough. She laughed and pointed to the task list I sent her, reminding me I was getting things done. And I do. I’ve had an enormously productive six months.

Just not the way I used to.

And I need to be okay with that.

Because I still have my zest.

How is your gusto? Do you feel that zest regularly?

X – Words as X-Rays

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Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly–they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

The right words reveal our bony parts. They dig in and expose new thoughts, revelations, feelings. The right words can comfort or challenge, affirm or deliver a swift kick. The right words can change us entirely as we sit with them.  The desire to write the right words is strong. How many of us miss the mark?

When I think of the works of Brene Brown, C.S. Lewis, Judith Glaser, or Margaret Atwood, I think of the subtle shift of my being because I read the right words at the right time.

How often have you read words that revealed your bony parts? Can you recall a book or piece of writing that pierced you? How long did those words stay with you?

S – Smooth Over the Sand

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“I was sand, I was snow—written on, rewritten, smoothed over.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

I love the metaphors in the above quote, in part because of the way they convey this idea of starting over: Change that can be implemented with the swipe of a hand. New chances.

As I presume is the case with many writers, my own writing life is closely linked to the other parts—the mundane, the repetitive, the adventurous, the change. Big changes have transpired for me in the last year, and I have felt in numerous ways like a blank sheet. Like sand or snow. Ready for new words. My personal and professional lives have made giant leaps and I am hoping to propel my writing life forward using the same momentum to work on my novel, which means I need to try to make something more solid of my words.

I frequently fail to write without rewriting (at least in draft one), a task that is, unfortunately for me, quite crucial to actually completing a novel. Hence why I spend more time these days thinking about writing instead of actually doing it.

But still, I suppose I am taking small steps into the sand, leaving a footprint here on this blog. One word at a time. Written on, rewritten.

Smoothed over.

Here to stay.

Anything you’re writing or rewriting you would care to share? How do you fight your inner-editor?

O – Writing is an Opportunity

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“How much I missed, simply because I was afraid of missing it.” 
― Paulo Coelho 

As the old cliché goes: life is full of opportunities. And the same is true of writing. I’ve been thinking about this lately, as I try to convince myself to sit down and work on my novel. Each time we go to draft or to journal or to create with words, we are granted an opportunity to delve into other worlds, to meet and think as different people, and to practice and refine a craft. The opportunity only grows from there when we try to get published or to find other outlets for our ideas.

I talk sometimes quite negatively about my writing life, but writing itself has opened doors for me in a lot of various ways. As a product manager, I was required to write product specs and to articulate ideas to different parties who didn’t all speak the same “language.” As an editor, I was made better by paying attention to how other people wrote. For my master’s I got to think more critically of the process we take to reach a final, meaningful piece. And, last but not least, writing has always been the means by which I make sense of a chaotic world and express myself.

It’s no secret that I have a dislike of writing bad words. I know this, and I know I need to write badly first before I can hope to write well. But my own perfectionism has been a driving force in the way I approach my own writing, and because of it, I sometimes wonder if I’ve missed out. If I were braver about submitting my work, would I be published more already? If I were less afraid to write poorly, would I already have finished my novel? Am I losing opportunities this way?

I try to remind myself that fear of failure is not an excuse to forego potential opportunities. Failing even to fail is a missed opportunity itself. And in writing I think it’s more important than ever to fail, and to fail well. Otherwise nothing changes.

So what do you think? Have you ever felt like you’ve missed an opportunity?