I never learned to write in cursive. While every second grader across the country practiced dotting their i’s and crossing their t’s and writing without ever letting pen leave page, I memorized the keyboard. 

I remember being mesmerized by my teacher’s ability to type without looking, allowing her to simultaneously hold a conversation and transcribe it. As her fingers glided over the keys, I watched the words appear on the page as she spoke, a multi-tasking miracle in a time before dictation software normalized speech-to-text functionality. And when asked about this great feat, she promised us we would all be able to do the same by the end of the year. 

Mrs. Adam was an early adopter, decking out our classroom in a high tech Smartboard while the other classes, being none the wiser, settled for age old Elmo projectors. At every open house and parent-teacher conference, she drilled the importance of typing, a necessary skill for the information age. Many parents were apprehensive – mine included – about their kids not studying penmanship the way they had and their parents before them had, but she persisted in her message. 

Each week we would embark on a journey to the computer lab, to take on the mighty challenge of memorizing the keyboard with accuracy and agility. Said computers were outfitted in unlabeled keyboard protectors, to ensure we weren’t peeking while practicing. As my typing improved, my medium of choice shifted from notebook to desktop. I felt empowered by the ability to type as I thought, no longer limited by the slow and arduous process of hand-writing. That spring I wrote my first piece: a short narrative about a recent apple picking trip. 

Mrs. Adam encouraged me to take it on as a personal project, granting complete creative control, though she mentored me throughout the process. From start to finish, it was 2,000 words of repetitive and redundant storytelling, but in the end, I was proud to get it out there. Unlike with writing by hand, I found myself enjoying the entirety of the drafting process. I no longer had to fit red pen corrections in minuscule margins or erase entire sentences to accommodate an extra line. Instead, I could instantly swap a word, change a phrase, or bulk up a paragraph. The ease of typing established a direct line between my thought process to written word, eliminating the inefficiencies and limitations plaguing traditional writing. 

Most serious writers will praise working by hand for the benefits it confers upon memory, creativity, and focus. I, however, have always prioritized convenience. When effective writing is all about clear and deliberate communication, why would I not try to streamline the process? 

In choosing to teach us typing instead of cursive, my second grade teacher rejected tradition and embraced modernity, an impactful decision that went against the widely accepted precedent set by her colleagues across the nation. With incredible foresight – remember, this was before the IPhone 4 had even been announced – she correctly predicted the preeminence of the digital space. Not only did it contribute to my early fondness towards writing, it aptly prepared me for subsequent academic experiences. I realized it doesn’t matter how you write, but ultimately, what you write that matters. 

I still can’t write in cursive. I can, however, read it.

It’s a little ironic, how adamant I am about only entertaining physical books when I just took up 547 words to profess my love for typing. But I suppose it’s all about balance. 

While I wrote my apple orchard narrative on my family’s desktop during the day, I curled up in my fuzzy pink chair with a Magic Tree House book at night. I’ve always had a thing for sub grade level literature. Like gorging spoonfuls of Nutella straight from the tub or binging Keeping Up With The Kardashians on weeknights, consuming YA is my guiltiest pleasure. But before I found Red Queen and These Violent Delights, my diet consisted of children’s series, like Dork Diaries and Geronimo Stilton. 

In second grade I was a repeat offender at the St. Charles Public Library, accumulating overdue fees like nobody’s business. It wasn’t that I meant to hog the books, I was just a tad overconfident in my pacing. Every time I went in I would check out a fat stack: two full tote bags overflowing with Babymouse, Rainbow Magic Fairies, and 39 Clues. Despite reading seven days a week, three hours a day, I couldn’t finish it all in two weeks. I apparently never learned my lesson, since I – or rather my parents – continued to pay library fines up until the day we moved. 

My choice of books clearly spelled out LEISURE ONLY, nothing particularly challenging or thought-provoking found in the mix. Rather than an intellectual activity, I viewed reading as a stand-in for conventional entertainment, a pastime that certainly pleased my mom and made me less than popular with my peers. Though this once committed relationship has become on-again, off-again over time, I still choose to read light, as a way to offset the critical analysis and comprehension needed for required texts in school. 

These days my library card is the fourth most important thing in my wallet, after my license, debit card, and student ID, though I have been neglecting it as of late. I’ll always be the library girl not the bookstore one; the new page smell and stiff, crease-less backbones can’t compare to softened pages and folded edges, a homey reminder of the many people who’ve read it before you. And as for the overdue notices, I promise I’ve gotten much much better at turning my books in on time. For the most part.