When the Hand Goes Quiet

On losing handwriting, and finding other ways to reach one another

Dear Reader,

A friend recently mailed me a letter (typed) explaining that he would love to write to me by hand, but circumstances beyond his control have taken that ability away. His letter reminded me that as wonderful as it can be to write by hand—to express thoughts and feelings, offer gratitude, or send a simple birthday wish—there are many people who cannot do this.

Unless you are someone who cannot freely pick up a pen and produce something legible on the page, you might not think about it either. I’m sorry I didn’t acknowledge this sooner, especially because I am acutely aware of what it feels like to lose an innate ability.

My father, aside from always being the smartest person in the room (no matter the size of the room), had perfect penmanship. As a boy at Boston Latin School, neat handwriting was expected. It was reinforced through college and law school, shaped by years of careful notetaking.

Printed or cursive, his letters arrived to me at camp, in college, and throughout my early twenties in careful, orderly rows, while the words themselves often felt like poetry. I didn’t always understand his meanings then, but I’ve come to appreciate them deeply.

And just as much, his penmanship.

My father has lived with Parkinson’s disease for more than twenty years. His once elegant, precise handwriting has nearly disappeared. In the early years of PD, he was still able to edit my books with a red pen. I enlarged the font and spacing, and though it took him longer and the markings were messier, I could still follow his arrows, his edits, his suggestions. I know it pained him to watch this skill slip, almost literally, through his fingers.

As for me, my handwriting never earned gold stars in elementary school, even though I practiced during all those recesses when I stayed inside writing I will not talk in class one hundred times. (I know. Right? Me?)

Today, I can write neatly if I slow down and focus: at book signings or when writing letters, but more often my brain is moving faster than my hand, and the neatness suffers. I didn’t receive many complaints during my year of writing 365 letters, but I’m sure a few recipients encountered squiggles where words were meant to be.

So I want to acknowledge, more intentionally, those who cannot write by hand, and to thank the friend who reminded me. Because at the end of the day, connection, not always the method, is what matters most.

With love (and the freedom to color outside the lines),

Felice

P.S. Tomorrow, February 4, is Thank a Mail Carrier Day!!

P.P.S. This Saturday there is a 24-hour Letter Writing Marathon! It’s to coincide with World Cancer Day 2026. It’s free! Sign up here. See you there!

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Felice Cohen is an award-winning author, best known for squeezing big ideas into small spaces—like her 90-square-foot NYC apartment (yes, really). Her books include Half In: A Coming-of-Age Memoir of Forbidden Love, 90 Lessons for Living Large in 90 Square Feet, and What Papa Told Me, with praise from legends like Elie Wiesel and Rita Mae Brown. Her viral YouTube tour has racked up over 25 million views—mostly from people wondering where she kept her shoes. More at felicecohen.com.