After finishing a talk about my last (OK, only) book at a
local park district, I autographed a copy for a woman from the audience. She
shook her head as she walked away. During the rest of the signings (both of
them) I glanced up occasionally to see her staring intently at my inscription, shaking
her head even more. When the last copy was signed, she stormed back to the table
and said, “Mr. Riley, your handwriting is atrocious.”
Instantly, I was
drawn back to Sister Marcos’s class in fifth grade. She had told me exactly the
same thing except she didn’t call me mister. The good sister, right then and
there, made it her personal quest to single-handedly turn my chicken scratches
into elegant script.
@#$% You, Austin Palmer
Her chosen form
of torture was the Palmer Method. Developed by one Austin Palmer, his method was
used from the 1880's to the 1950's in an effort to force every schoolchild in
America to turn out script like Thomas Jefferson’s. If only I’d been born a few
years later I’d have been spared this torment. By the next day, Sister Marcos had
rummaged through the school’s attic and presented me with a writing workbook
that looked like it hadn’t seen the light of day since Hoover was President. It
would be my ball and chain until the end of the semester.
I was subjected
to staying after school making countless loops, wearing pencil after pencil
down to the nubbins, and wasting reams of specially-lined yellow paper (both
sides) in a futile attempt to make the perfect loop. I actually got pretty good
at it but it was nothing like the unattainable flawlessness displayed in the workbook.
Tens of
thousands of loops later, I could make excellent loops but my penmanship still
looked like the product of a deranged chicken with a pencil for a beak. The
beatings the good sister inflicted upon my hand with a ruler (on edge) didn’t
seem to help either. In fact, I think they permanently consigned my cursive to
that of a ten-year old.
The word
“cursive” as it applies to handwriting probably comes directly from those of us held prisoner with Mr.
Palmer as our cellmate while our friends happily went home. Even with the obligatory
Catholic school crucifix hanging over my head, I cursed him with every loop.
Yes, I agree
with the woman and Sister Marcos. My handwriting is indeed atrocious.
Analyze This
Then the woman said, “I’m a handwriting
analyst and…” Oh God, I didn’t want to hear the rest. I knew this day would
come and what it would bring. After all, more than half of analyst is “anal.”
It almost made me long for another round with Sr. Marcos’ ruler.
“…your loops,
look at them,” she said as she thrust the inside cover page inches from my
face, bringing me back from my fifth-grade reverie. “The L and the E slant in
different directions. That tells me you’re a slovenly person.”
Slovenly?
There’s a word I hadn’t heard since grade school. I thought only nuns used it. Of
course I’m slovenly. I’m a writer. I work in my pajamas or a ratty bathrobe. I
go days without shaving. My office is a spare bedroom strewn with books and
paper. I submit all my work via email. I never see an editor and rarely leave
the house. If I’m straightening my office, shaving, showering, or washing
what’s left of my hair, I’m not churning out scintillating pages of brilliant
prose, like this one.
“The tittles
over your i’s,” she continued, seemingly without taking a breath, “they’re not
directly above the letter. You care nothing about symmetry.”
Lord, have
mercy. My tittles aren’t symmetrical. My dots probably aren’t either. Look, I’m
not designing an airplane or erecting a building. I take ideas and turn them
into ones and zeroes in my computer which, I hope, will turn into ones and
zeroes in my checking account. Symmetry, schmimmetry. I put words on paper,
straight left side, ragged right. You want symmetry? Go find an architect.
Then she went on
about the J in my first name, “You’re too loopy…”
I’m
too loopy?
“…and the Y in
your last name. The bottom loop isn’t complete. You have problems finishing
what you start.”
Listen, lady, I’m
finished with this conversation and
I’m starting to hate you. Try this
crap on Steven King. I’m sure he’ll love it, and so will his security people.
When she started
on the sexual ramifications of poor penmanship, I wanted to tell her about the
sexual ramifications of being a nit-picking old harridan. Then I got to
thinking sexual ramifications might be the least of her worries. The giveaway
was her attending an evening event like this all by herself. I wondered if maybe
she had a cat or seventeen waiting at home.
I packed up my
gear and never did another book signing. But in the back of my mind I couldn’t
help thinking about just what the sexual ramifications of poor penmanship might
be.
Now where did I
put that Palmer Method workbook?
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