I read an article this week about the death of cursive in our culture. It made me very sad to know that children aren’t being taught cursive anymore, and that good handwriting in itself will have little value in the future. Even though I can’t remember the last time I wrote in cursive, besides when I sign my signature of course, it seems like a lost beauty.

Another lost beauty that I dwell on regularly is the ever fading art of reading books in the physical form, print media in general really. Books have been a constant companion throughout my entire life. They took me away, they taught me how to listen and understand. They gave me the tools to communicate and really consider the world.

It’s just not the same to look at a kindle. No personal notes can be scribbled into the inside of the cover of a kindle for people to read as long as the book exists. That lost beauty is a little piece of history, proof that two people had a relationship and shared an affection that they always wanted to remember. That lost beauty also ties together two others, books in the physical form and writing in cursive.

Reflecting on all this has inspired me to start a project in an effort to revive these three lost beauties through one specific action repeated over and over again. I plan to buy only books in the physical form as presents for all occasions for a year, and to write a personal note in each book in cursive.

Today I wrote my first note in my first gift that commences the project, and let me just say there is a lot of room for improvement. My cursive looks like shit. I had to use white out, I made so many grammatical and spelling errors and just I don’t even know how to say it, penmanship errors. It is harder to write correctly in cursive than print when you are out of practice. My hope is that next year on this particular friend’s birthday, the quality of my gifts will have enhanced a great deal through practice.

While writing my first personal note I became very frustrated that it looked so shitty and thought of my Granny. She has always painstakingly crafted her cursive with very specific and grand results. During my childhood I remember her teaching me penmanship and her looking at my handwriting in a way that made it apparent that she disapproved of my skill level.

Now Granny is dying. Cancer has spread throughout her body. I haven’t felt emotional about this at all yet.

There is no logical reason why my skill would be impressive considering my immense lack of recent practice. Then it occurred to me, could this sadness for the end of cursive and disappointment for my lack of skill in said art be my way of expressing grief for Granny’s departure? Strangely it left me feeling relieved. It makes me feel more human to know that I’m experiencing grief in some kind of way. How odd that a person would experience relief at the act of feeling human.