Connect the Thoughts: A Requiem for Penmanship

Recently, I chatted with a neighborhood mom in my fave local stationery shop. She remarked how lovely it was to find an oasis of dedication to the written sentiment and materiel to support it.  Then she told me that she was grateful that the private school that her son attended still taught the kids how to handwrite in cursive.

“I’m sorry…what do you mean?” I said.

“Well, the public schools have decided that it’s a waste of time for the kids to learn how to write in cursive since everyone uses computers now.”

“But – do they still teach them how to write? I mean, is it just computers in the classroom?” I was confused. To me, it seemed as illogical as ceasing math studies because everyone has calculators and spreadsheets.

“They still learn how to print.”

Hmmmm. My involuntary reaction to this news was a blast of nostalgia: learning to write in kindergarten or primary grades was a very sensory experience. I would scrape fat pencils on buff-colored paper between blue and red lines spaced strategically to hopefully guide the swoops and swooshes of my pencil lead. I loved the skritchy-scratchy sound it made. There was always a penmanship poster at the top of the chalkboard to help the class mimic both printed and cursive formations of each alphabetic letter.  One enormously lettered sentence would take up the bottom half of the sheets we wrote on; the top half was blank, for us to illustrate our writing. I found penmanship exercises really, really entertaining and challenging. (I realize the nerdiness of this – many of my classmates did not share my enthusiasm.)  I made my mom buy me a whole pack of that paper so I could write and illustrate a 10 page novella about my favorite stuffed animal.

As a songwriter, I have no doubt that this is where the seeds of my creative writing were sown. I fell in love with the process, and the intimate thrill of seeing words emerge in my own unique hand, at my command, definitely still carries over to the joy I feel at completing a handwritten chord chart for a new song.

Considering my childless state, I’m quite removed from current educational trends. But this mother’s concern about the value of cursive writing for her son spurred me on to do some research. Turns out there were quite a few articles around the beginning of the 2009 school year about dropping penmanship from the curriculum, so it’s a national issue. I asked myself: despite my nostalgia about my childhood penmanship lessons, what were my writing habits as an adult?

I opened my journal. hmmm….pages and pages of rapid-fire all caps printing.

Work documents: either typed or printed.

Mushy notes to my beloved: printed, except for my signature.

Yikes! Was I contributing to the death of penmanship? Were the public schools correct, that by the time we reached adulthood, we didn’t need to connect our thoughts with connected letters?

I found an article about an interesting study at the University of Washington that (to simplify) researched whether handwriting or typing was a better method of transcription. In the article, “transcription” is defined as “a basic cognitive process involved in writing that enables a writer to translate thoughts or ideas into written language.”

Prof. Virginia Berninger who directed the study, notes:

“Brain imaging studies with adults have shown an advantage for forming letters over selecting or viewing letters. A brain imaging study at the University of Washington with children showed that sequencing fingers may engage thinking. We need more research to figure out how forming letters by a pen and selecting them by pressing a key may engage our thinking brains differently,” she said.”

The thought of encouraging a new generation of writers to view their words, and maybe also, their thoughts, as detached and disposable – as in text messages, flaming emails, impulsive tweets and status updates – saddens me. Good handwriting and clear communication of one’s ideas, along with good reading comprehension, are requirements of an educated culture.  Wouldn’t it be awful if only the children whose parents can afford to send them to private school would be the only kids who learn to handwrite clearly? Will low-income kids in America really all have access to computers and be able to grow up typing their thoughts? Or would they feel inclined to write at all, or that their ideas have value, if they lack the tools to write and express themselves effectively?

The existence of my fave stationery shop tells me that at least in my locale, there are enough people still journaling and sending handwritten notes to allow the store to stay in business on a high-rent retail strip. Check this video out: Jimmy Fallon even has a regular skit on the Tonight Show where he writes a stack of sarcastic thank you notes. Maybe all these writers aren’t writing those notes in cursive, but hey, at least they’re writing.

And if we have to come to a legible compromise somewhere between cursive and printing, just to keep handwriting alive, we do have a choice, presented to us by the New York Times:

We can “go italic”.

The write reasons

A couple of months ago, right after I started this blog, I wrote to one of my friends (who will remain anonymous) whose smart, pointed and funny email writings I often admire and enjoy.  I said, “hey, if you have a minute, read my blog, lemme know what you think.”

His response:

“I’m quite ambivalent about the e-world and how it fuels (the) disease…(that) started with “now everybody can be their own label and we’ll all sell more records..isn’t this great?” and has naturally spread to journalism.  I think you…are more than talented and articulate enough to share your insights with the world, but 99% of everybody else who does so is NOT.  A lot my friends enjoy my witty little (emails), and repeatedly suggest I start a blog.  I tell them:

1.) blogs are voluntary reading, whereas my (emails) are unsolicited, and therefore journalistic terrorism. Much more fun!

2.) more importantly, I think musicians, or anybody with something to “sell”, should be proprietary …about WHERE they post.  So I hereby encourage you to “blog” on your own websites, so you can drive traffic there.  It’s one thing if you don’t have your own sites, but they’re yours.  Maximize their value.  You’re selling somebody ELSE’s website by blogging elsewhere.”

Well, this reply kind of made me question blog-writing for a time as I sort of don’t think I have anything truly exceptional to say. I mean, sure there’s the struggling musician thing, but I know other women who run an entrepeneurial business, raise a child, entertain friends in their home regularly, have a healthy relationship/marriage, run marathons, do charity work, and write popular, engaging blogs as well. I feel I could probably do maybe two of those things marginally well. So here I sit, unconventional yet a bit unremarkable, and only “interesting” perhaps because of my supposedly glamorous and mystical vocation.

Perhaps I need  a different tack. Or, perhaps I just need to eschew this bad habit of measuring my efforts with another’s yardstick. I’m too averse to evangelism to want to engage in “journalistic terrorism”, yet I also don’t presume to be the kind of writer who would make a daily “best of” list.

Yesterday I wrote an entire song lyric before I got out of bed and had finished the song (and it’s a good one!) before suppertime. Yay! But is that interesting reading? I don’t know – I guess, readers, you will tell me. I thought about introducing a weekly feature where I post a song lyric, either in progress, or from the past. Hmmm. Maybe that could be fun, less wordy, and people might be more interested to hear what I’m working on rather than my miscellaneous rants and rambles once in a while.

As far as posting solely on my own site, I guess I would rather that the “blog” on www.celiachavez.net be more “news” related, and that this blog be less about selling myself and more about creativity or the experiences and challenges surrounding my life as a creative person. Plus, the idea of joining a community of bloggers with the accompanying interaction with readers felt interesting to me.

It’s an odd thing to document one’s life thusly, publicly. I blog infrequently, but I have to admit that as a concept, blogging is attractive both as a writing exercise and also in relating real human history and current events from a non-journalistic point of view. I remember having a particularly progressive high-school history teacher who, at the start of that term, told the class that instead of having us memorize a litany of dates, names and places, we would be learning about how historic events – wars, plagues, crusades, revolutions, technological advances and such – affected the everyday life of the average person. History finally came alive for me that year. Dry objective reporting is one thing, but it’s nice to balance it out with tales from the trenches.  That, I can contribute to.

To paraphrase Dr. McCoy, “I’m a songwriter, not a writer writer, Jim!” But if you”ve read this far, I must be doing something right. I guess I’ll keep showing up here if you do. Maybe even if you don’t.

Fun with Fatalism

Saw the Coen Brothers’ latest this weekend: A Serious Man. While I won’t give the plotline away, I will say that the filmmakers did not disappoint me with a story and tone that echoed many of their previous movies while also delivering a fair bit of humor.  From Blood Simple to No Country for Old Men, I always marvel at their ability to weave together humor, violence; love, desire; innocence, evil; charity, greed; and of course, luck and unluck, or at least the perception of it. All this demonstrated through characters and environments that seem to be somewhat devoid of empathy.

Coincidentally, before the movie, I was compelled to pop into the nearby Barnes & Noble and replace my copy of The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. This is one of those books that you give friends to read all the time and then find that you want to refer to it while it’s out on loan….so you buy it again. Therefore, I’m probably on at least my eighth copy of the book. (My first copy was a birthday gift about 4 years ago. )

The basic premise of this book is that Resistance is a creative person’s tireless and impersonal nemesis, and that you basically have to resign yourself to the battle against it. In a nutshell, that you will encounter the worst and most heartbreaking obstacles around that which you are most called to do. It defines the different forms that Resistance takes and basically recommends that an artist hunker down and assume the mentality of a professional soldier in an endless battle.

As cold as this approach may seem, it is somehow more comforting to me than anything I learned in twelve years of Catholic school. In one Coen Bros. movie, a character sobs miserably in a scene, as he feels cursed by his genius. It seems the best application for his talents that can help him sustain a living is illegal, and he has brought shame on himself and his family by being caught for excelling in his field. He says, why has God cursed me like this? He hasn’t given me sh*t. His companion comforts him by telling him God doesn’t hate him, and it’s nothing personal, and everything will be OK. (I’m paraphrasing slightly and leaving out detail so I don’t spoil anything for anyone who hasn’t seen this particular film yet…please forgive my inaccuracy).

It’s always nice to step back and know that a misfortune is not personal – I remember loving this about the beautiful people of New York City – their refreshing bluntness – truth, not malice;  words undecorated for clarity. You could be told one moment that your opinion is sh*t and five minutes later be having a drink with your “adversary” and asking about each others’ families.

Energy spent on anger towards a disadvantageous situation: zero. Freedom freed up to create: endless.  I wouldn’t take this to mean that the battle is easy, but at least you can move past setbacks with more grace than pain, hopefully.

I watch the Coens’ movie endings noting that innocents do perish in the fatalistic mayhem, but there are also characters who, by maintaining some measure of grace (though perhaps twisted), they are left standing when the credits roll. We see them aware that they have survived, but still staring darkness in the face. Perhaps the only major change is that they recognize that darkness more readily than they did at the start of the story. That, and the battle is not necessarily over.

And at least we, the audience, get some laughs in the process.

Autumn Renewal

Somehow, the day after Labor Day, I wound up at Simon Cowell’s house.

 

This adventure began when a friend of mine called needing a couple of backup singers to join her supporting the contestants of X Factor, which is basically the UK’s version of American Idol.  So I agreed, then spent the weekend learning a dozen cover songs, weathered the song changes about 18 hours before call time, woke up at the crack of dawn, and drove to Mr. Cowell’s house for a semi-glamorous day of crunch rehearsals and filming.

 

Now, I have to admit I don’t make a habit of watching competitive performance shows. That said, on this day, contestant after contestant charmed me with their passion and unbridled love for the songs, and I also saw how, as a group, they supported and encouraged each other. They were just so grateful to be singing and to have made it through to this stage. Plus: this segment of the competition was completely without amplification, so the contestants had nothing but a single instrument, minimal backing harmonies, and their own voice to create a dramatic arc for their 2-minute-snippet version of a popular song. They would have to emote in a genuine, powerful, and sometimes understated way to win.

 

During a break, the other band members and I remarked how refreshing it was to hang out with a bunch of amateur singers who were still able to become excited about music, and who were visibly throwing all they had into their performances.  Not in a desperate way – just simple, sweet passion, and joy.

 

The timing of this day was not lost on me. After a couple of years playing some of the best gigs people no one ever saw in Los Angeles, I decided earlier this summer to stop booking gigs and take a two-month sabbatical from performing my own music. Despite having an incredibly supportive band, life partner, and a beautiful sunshiny place to live, I was just a little spent. Various outside requirements of me were draining away my time and energy, and creatively, I just needed to retreat and recharge.  Found myself looking forward to an indian summer of reading, writing, bicycle riding, cinema watching, and listening just for myself.

 

As a pro musician, one usually works in an environment where everyone is at an assumed experience level, and that typically includes jaded veterans. To spend an entire day seeing the process through an newcomer’s eyes, seeing their face when they first heard our harmonies behind them…I suddenly felt like I did on the day I arrived in New York City. I remembered what it felt like to feel only opportunity before me, how the skyscrapers teased my chin upward and how the people fascinated me. I loved every sensory input and burned to sing, compose, perform. I loved every person I met. I had no fear.

 

Somehow since my transition back to the west coast, I became dazed, confused, just tired. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the amazing opportunities here that I never would have won if I had stayed in NYC, or my hometown of Seattle.  But I craved that inner flame of possibility again, and as I would least expect, I found it – in the gaslights on Simon Cowell’s white marble back patio, as an anonymously humble backup singer to the would-be stars.

 

My autumn renewal had begun.

 

A few days later my long awaited vocal session for my own songs finally arrived, and I was at the mic, headphones on. I felt a wellspring of pride as the arrangement swelled and filled my ears with the love and care my band and producer took with the material.  My voice worked effortlessly, I sang unconsciously – finally, with that feeling again of opening up to be the vessel of some unseen force that would pull me along without fear.

 

And so, onward I go…