On Writing Letters

I wrote a letter today, with my favorite kind of pen (Papermate Flexgrip, medium point), on my favorite type of paper (dirty-looking, lined newsprint-ish) to a person who can only write letters in this way.  As I wrote, I thought about the many conversations I've had with writer-friends and other friends, during which we have lamented the dying art of the hand-written letter.  I started to wonder just when it was, the last time I'd written or received one such letter.  I can't remember, outside previously mentioned friend, when I have sent or received one. 

I know I am not the only person in the world who is horrified that in schools, children are now only being taught to print the alphabet.  Penmanship is rapidly becoming a thing of the past.  It occurred to me that as I wrote the letter, I was becoming familiar again with my own handwriting.  How interesting!  How sad.  Had I forgotten my own penmanship?  I think, no, I hadn't, but strangely, it was a surprise to me there on that naked page.  I've grown so used to just signing my name, on checks, bank deposits, the occasional greeting card.  My signature is as familiar to me as my hands; as familiar as the spot where my "writer's bump" used to be.  Today, I realized that knobby spot on my middle finger is gone.  There is a small, purist part of me which is horrified by this discovery.  There is a larger part of me, and a more rational one, who assures that in writing-by-keyboard, I haven't failed, but instead have succeeded in reaching out to more people than I could have, without. 

Every writer, whether wildly successful, aspiring, struggling, freelancing, or just dabbling remembers a few lines they've written as being particularly good.  Perhaps even fantastic. If there is a writer in you, or a writer in your life, there a few lines floating around, labeled with some level of greatness or excellence.  I have a few.  There are some I have used, and some which haven't yet found a place.  Today the letter I wrote was easy, on comfortable paper with my favorite pen.  The words came as they should; they were easy and familiar.  But one of my favorite writing lines ever went something like this:

"Oh, I know.  It is a surprise to me too, the scratch of my pen on this paper..."

That was a good writing day, and one of my favorites.  It was written by hand, the pen was scratchy and the paper less than comfortable. Today's letter-writing exercise was frustrating at times, because I cannot write as quickly as I can type.  I cannot type as quickly as I can think.  But I enjoyed the process of writing by hand, and there is a certain rhythm one can only find in hand writing.

Although I have lamented the loss of it, I haven't practiced the art of letter-writing much lately. It's something Ilove to do.  So I wonder, why don't I do more of it?