I am writing this on the train bound for my home town from London, where I am now living in a girls flat-share. It is the first time I am paying my own rent and covering dentist appointments, like the one I had yesterday. Three fillings which I conceded were necessary and set me back just under £400. But I digress. Nonetheless, I like giving spatial context to my writing because I think it offers texture and richness, like adding red wine to a simmering sauce. Would we taste the difference had it not been added? Perhaps not, but it adds a quiet indulgence which makes it all the more flavourful.
I should also note that I'm writing long hand on my reMarkable tablet which was gifted to me at Christmas. I've realised that it's a good solution to writing by hand on a moving train as it is slightly less sensitive than an actual pen and has an eraser feature so I can pretend that any mistakes never happened. But what is lost? Feeling in a rut with inspiration, I began thinking about various modes of writing and what could be holding me back.
Although typing on a laptop can be convenient and produce a feeling of efficiency, I also wonder if how I show up is somehow different. I think that the standardisation and sterility of printed text makes us more acutely aware of what precedes us at the blank screen. Spell and grammar check instantly reminds us of our ‘errors', and lines are formatted according to specific margins. I suppose writing on paper is similar, however, spacing and placement feels more conscious and intentional. Will I fit this whole sentence on this line…well, I found out that no, I won't.
Seeing our own handwriting unfold is a reminder of the individual, and perhaps the child that learned to write, gradually developing a unique style that bore various scrawling iterations before its consolidation. Technology has been an integral part of my life as a writer since I can remember. During free time in class I would type stories on the clunky computer keys, living out the fantasy of being a professional author. The feeling of printing these stories and holding them in my hands as something tangible and transformed from the abstract ideas in my head was nothing short of magic (which I mostly wrote about). I still get that feeling now, however, it has been the rudimentary and primitive tools for writing, the ones with which I began, that have allowed me to express myself most fully. I made the decision to buy a small brown leather notebook where I would jot snatches of ideas and lines for poems rather than typing into the notes app on my phone. This wasn't always practical, and I found myself feeling quite exposed. I couldn't pretend to be texting and I feared that someone could be peering over my shoulder as I noted down something I gathered while eavesdropping. All the same, I continued to stay true to my love of all things analogue (including vinyl and film). My friend and writing partner, Hannah, seemed to recognise and resonate with this endeavour. She too enjoyed writing long hand as well as annotating books in pen as she read.
I'm not sure if we ever found the words to discuss exactly why we made these choices other than acknowledging the fact that we both did. Before getting this tablet, which allows you to convert things to text, I would frequently type things up from longhand to make them easier to share (and read). I've wondered about sharing things online in my handwriting. It reminds me of the hoops we jump through in sharing film images online when they were originally intended for personal collections which would be shared in company. However, in the age of AI where what is real is not always immediately obvious, there is a premium on authenticity. Despite this, sharing my handwriting with strangers feels too invasive. The mask is off and I cannot hide—people may as well have access to my diary.
One of the turning points in how I felt about analogue modes of writing came when I purchased my first typewriter. It was an old 1960s Remington with sticky keys and a ribbon that I had to manually wind when the ink was running low. My first use of it was on the morning of a local festival where I would be offering bespoke typewritten poems 'on-demand’. My family helped me bring down a rickety wooden table, a handmade cardboard sign (which would get soaked in the rain), as well as a crochet blanket I found in a charity shop to use as a tablecloth, and a small vase to hold a single bright apricot coloured rose, named the 'Evelyn rose'. It has become tradition for me to have this flower on my writing table because it shares a name with my late grandmother who loved poetry and taught me how to hold a pen (and subsequently how to fall in love with writing), while stressing the importance of good handwriting.
My Nan (as we called her) had such distinctive handwriting which serves to immortalise her—the birthday cards and labels (VERY SHARP KNIVES!!!) keep her close to us. It was particularly hard to ignore how strongly her personality shone through her handwriting when we received little notes addressed from "the fairies", when we so desperately wanted to believe, so more often than not, we did.
People approached the sound of my typewriter’s clicking, tapping, and dinging, and as they recounted their personal nostalgia, I could not separate my hot bruised fingers at the end of the day from their stories. Writing is a physical endeavour and leaves traces on all of our senses.
I had the privilege of interpreting and translating the things I was told via my typewriter, impressing letters on to the page which I hoped would reflect back something which resonated with prospective ‘owners’ (since these were indeed physical pieces). Often there was palpable tension hanging in the air between us as they waited for my typing to cease and for me to read the words out to them.
Without dragging out an article which I have intended to be ‘bite sized’, I did want to at least mention the role of handwriting in personal correspondence, even if it provides a seed for further contemplation. If we apply the principles discussed above to the world of texting and letter writing respectively, you can imagine how today’s digital society is lacking qualities that may only be found in more archaic and ‘imperfect’ modes of writing. Referring back to the mask I mentioned earlier, this perspective is relevant to my declarations of love and apologies—if something is in my handwriting, surely the person knows that I sincerely mean what I say.
This raises questions about what can truly be taken back or erased. One could burn a piece of paper, yet the pen has expressed ink all the same and the absence of the sheet of paper would betray this act. Technology has blurred these lines, meaning that everything is both permanent and ephemeral at once.
I remember my Mum telling me about the practice of addressing letters ‘by hand’, indicating that they were to be personally delivered, outside the postal service. I was struck by this sentiment, wondering why it would be necessary to specify such a detail, but perhaps it’s something that I could never be expected to understand, at least not fully, now that the world has changed.
I'm often grateful for the ease brought by new technology, but in feeling that particular strain down my wrist and forearm, I’m reminded of how far I've come as a writer. It's a recognition that although I gather ideas and store them away in my mind—an ineffable and intangible place—it will always be me, Libby, who shows up to the page.