February 28, 2004
The Handwriting of Boys


Yes, the web is wonderful, but all the electronic type in the world pales in comparison to just a few lines of hard-earned handwriting.

As Tom and I have been cleaning house, I've come across dozens of old letters. Stuffed in crates, bagged in plastic, preserved lovingly in hinged wooden boxes with a lock. Letters from boys.

Here, I share some samples of the handwriting of boys I have known.

(Click images for larger excerpts.)


Exhibit A (above): Brent. One of my most faithful correspondents, Brent had some of the most disturbing handwriting I've ever come across. Look at that sample! (Witness The Strange Violence Of The Capital Letters!) When I was in college, Brent's letters came in a wild flurry, sometimes two in one day. Then they would dry up for months, years at a time.

Brent's instrument of choice was usually a Sharpie — bright red or heavy black ink. He wrote on cheap photocopy paper and sent off his letters in drugstore envelopes made of kraft paper, often taping a provocative newspaper clipping to the outside.


Exhibit B: Andrew. Which is more stalkerly: the fact that I'm actually posting this sample of Andrew Bird's handwriting, or the fact that I will probably never, ever part with the sheet of paper on which the set list is written? Karen stole the set list for me last month at the Andrew Bird show in Chattanooga; she slipped it into my pocket when I wasn't looking. "NTMOHTTL" stands for "Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left," one of his newer songs.

I'll give Andrew the benefit of the doubt and suggest that his sloppy capitals could be the handwriting of a fledgling genius.



Exhibit C: Tom. In our courtship Tom and I exchanged frequent letters, even though we saw each other frequently (and for one year lived right next door to each other). Tom liked to write in pencil on a legal pad. He would leave notes on my deesk or slip them under my door. His handwriting is a lot like he is — casual, unrehearsed, endearing.

Tom wrote this letter in December 1997, and it refers to a very strange evening we spent together during our first winter.

He was working for Coca-Cola at the time and invited me to join him at the corporate Christmas party. Naturally, when Coca-Cola sponsors a corporate Christmas party, it is not a quiet, decent little affair. It is an aggressive, teeth-baring spectacle. This year, Coca-Cola rented out the Georgia World Congress Center and gave a wretched party with the adorably plastic theme of "Holiday Town." The party was a spectacular example of late-90s corporate indulgence.

In support of the "Holiday Town" theme, they had erected a full-sized Dickensian village and outfitted it with dwarfs (real dwarfs) dressed in cheerful red and green suits (sorry, Rob).

I think the display was supposed to feel opulent and luxurious and holiday-ish-ly glamorous, but it was actually sort of terrible, and the only way Tom and I got through it was by ordering red wine from the open bar and and eating three platefuls of hors d'oeuvres each while laughing uncomfortably at the plight of those poor dwarfs who were making a killer wage for three hours of waving cheerfully at Coca-Cola middle managers from the window of Ye Olde Candy Shoppe.