Story of a School-Aged Scribe

Scribe New York has, I think, been decades in the making. When I was a second grader, I was taught to write cursive letters using a pencil; a student could only earn a pen when their script handwriting was perfected. I wanted a pen so badly — I still remember the American flag at the top of the plastic barrel — that I practiced the letters in my copybook all the time. When I finally earned my pen, I vividly recall thinking that: a) it was a privilege to use ink and b) I was very grown-up.

A few years later, my mother gave me a Sheaffer broad-edge pen set with colored ink cartridges and an instruction booklet on italic, gothic and uncial letters. I imagined myself in a medieval scriptorium, writing important works by candlelight. What a little nerd! Anyway, it was the beginning of a lifelong curiosity of and passion for alphabets and lettering.

In the last few years, I’ve been thinking about how novel calligraphy seems to many people because, you know, keyboards and emojis. I disagree with those who claim there’s no place for handwriting in a digital world; instead, I see the possibility of a cursive resurgence, if for no other reason than the fact that it’s beautiful. And because I worked hard for that pen!