“Dear Dad,
It’s 1:20 a.m., and the campers are finally asleep.

I’m crouched on my top bunk, hunching between the rafters of the counselor room, writing by the glow of my fifth instructional YouTube video. My hand is cramping, I’m covered in sweat, and there’s ink all over the sheets. But check it out! Cursive!”

It began in June. As I was packing for camp, I found an old fountain pen that had been given to my dad as a groomsman gift. He’d never used it, and the wedding was long enough ago that the couple is now divorced, so I supposed he wouldn’t miss it much. But to justify owning such a fancy writing tool, I told myself, I needed equally fancy handwriting.

I had never learned cursive in school, so I began to practice in whatever free time I could find. Late nights, mostly. But as I practiced, I started to realize that cursive might have more to offer than loops and flourishes.

Frankly, learning this dying skill is exactly the kind of thing that excites me. I have a fierce appetite for learning, especially when it comes to arcane crafts. Last year, I taught myself to use the neglected manual sewing machine in our basement and, in an afternoon, created a pair of pants out of an old bedsheet. In May, I produced a friend’s punk album from my room with 20-year-old equipment. And a few weeks ago, I taught myself to read and write in ancient Nordic runes. But what I’m learning about cursive, and where I think its real value lies, is in its peculiar blend of strategy, improv, and art.

First, in cursive, I’m working without a net. There are no edits, no redos. If I lift the fountain pen from the page, the ink will drip, so planning is key. I have to be confident about what I’m writing the moment I put pen to paper. It reminds me of rock climbing. When I joined a climbing club last year, I thought I’d spend hours in death-defying ascents hundreds of feet in the air. Instead, I spend most of my productive time on the ground. I can’t hesitate in the middle of a climb (or I’ll fall), so each move must be mapped out beforehand. How can I save more energy here? What will that hold feel like? Often, I’ll lie under a route for several minutes, staring up and miming each motion in sequence, so when it’s time to climb, I can do it fluidly.

Cursive also encourages me to improvise. It’s like theater. On stage, no matter how carefully the cast rehearses, mistakes are inevitable. Someone will flub a line or miss an entrance. These moments can be heart-stopping: suddenly, the team needs a quick path back to safety. So what can we do? We invent something new. We work together to keep the story going. Cursive feels like that. If I slip up, I must remember to keep my pen moving, creating a new line that takes me where I need to go.

But mostly, I just love making words into art. Beyond any lingering practicality, there’s an elegance, a mindfulness, and a personality that cursive brings to writing. The intention and care that go into making a message more beautiful also make it more meaningful. These days, writing to someone in cursive is a way to say, “Hey, I made you something.” And maybe that’s why it’s worth learning.

“P.S. Please excuse the inkblots, I’m still practicing.”