handwritten notes

“I’ll write to you. A super-long letter, like in an old-fashioned novel” ― Haruki Murakami.

Write, like in those old-fashioned novels. So that we disallow it to become obsolete. Not let it become an antiquity. Yet I also sense the irony as I type this on my laptop.

I don’t know how you feel about handwritten notes but for me, they provoke a sense of rhythm – like when I navigate a poem. Every letter scripts its own sound. Creating a string of words is like composing my very own symphony. It’s romantic to the point it makes me expressive. It’s therapeutic to the point of becoming meditative. It slows down my pace, allows me to pause for reflection.

I’m afraid to put down texting and typing because it’s equivalent to this digital age, but I would raise the bunting for handwriting.

It never feels like an obligation and makes my voice feel significant. Friends who live far appreciate it as much as I do. I am able to write with a little less haste than would be done through email. One day, I’ll write you a short note on recycled paper instead of posting an article. Make it a labour of love rather than a work of art (corny, yet necessary).

My one and only request for you is to write more handwritten letters and notes. To feel the need to go back to basics and catch up on mental clarity in the form of good old-age correspondence.

Who will you write a letter to? Get your pen and paper out, write down your feelings and send them out.

Here are my favourite 5 sayings on the beauty of handwriting to get you inspired:

Poets don’t draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently – Jean Cocteau

I always write my first draft in longhand, in lined notebooks. I move around the house, sitting where I like, and watch the words spool out in front of me, actually taking a lot of pleasure in the way they look in my strange handwriting on the page – Sue Miller

I don’t think I’ve ever seen your handwriting before. It’s an oddly personal thing, isn’t it? ― Ann Aguirre

The quill swirled and lunged over the page, in a slow but relentless three steps forward, two steps back sort of process and finally came to a full stop in a tiny pool of its own ink. Then, Louis Phelypeaux, First Compte de Pontchartrain, raised the nib, let it hover for an instant, as if gathering his forces, and hurled it backwards along the sentence, tiptoeing over “i’s” and slashing through “t’s” and “x’s” nearly tripping over an umlaut, building speed and confidence while veering through a slalom course of acute and grave accents, pirouetting through cedillas and carving vicious snap-turns through circumflexes. It was like watching the world’s greatest fencing master dispatch twenty opponents with a single continuous series of manoeuvres. ― Neal Stephenson

Vintage fountain pens have provenance that makes a traditionalist go weak at the knuckles. ― Fennel Hudson

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