Writing by hand, by Clifford Thurlow

Writing by Hand Atril press e1721360055413 — “When you write with a pencil you can smell the graphite, with a pen the resins and wax. The words as they loop across the page awaken something emotional and vaguely nostalgic…”

Writing by hand in the days of keyboards has become an art form, an anachronism, even an act of anarchy.

When you write with a pencil you can smell the graphite, with a pen the resins and wax. The words as they loop across the page awaken something emotional and vaguely nostalgic.

For Zen monks, painting is a meditation. They keep the tip of the brush, their elbow and heart in a perfect triangle. This discipline allows the work to ‘happen’ without concern for rules or perspective. In the same way, writing by hand taps into a different part of your brain and uncovers feelings you never knew you had.

When I complete a story or a chapter of a book, I print out the pages and read them in the living-room rather than my office. It is smart to surprise the work by changing the routine, by coming at it at an odd time or angle.

I often pause during the correction stage and add notes on the back of the page. My thoughts at this point always race along as if driven by some force outside myself. Next day, when I add the fresh material to the manuscript, the writing is always the best that’s in me.

This work I think of as having been channelled more than written. It’s as if there is a hole at the top of my head and the universe has streamed the words down to my hand and across the page in a flood of mystical energy.

Writing by hand is a conflict between you and the blank page. You can’t feign your mood or trick your adversary. It knows you better than you know yourself. If I sit down with a notebook and wait for the channel to open, nothing happens. Prayers are a bit like that. They are only answered when you don’t ask.

The old skill of writing by hand has been overwhelmed by computer programmes that autocorrect errors even when you don’t want them to. Emails have killed letter writing, once an indulgence that allowed writers to be obtuse, romantic, poetic. The Cloud stores everything, our very souls, and future generations will be denied the pleasure of stumbling on granddad’s secret manuscript in the attic.

Clifford Thurlow Atril press — Clifford Thurlow was born in London and started work as a junior reporter on a local newspaper aged 18. He has travelled extensively through Europe, Asia, Africa and South America. He worked as the editor of the Athens News in Greece, managed a travelling dolphin show in Spain and studied Buddhism in India, leading to the publication of his first book, Stories from Beyond the Clouds, an anthology of Tibetan folk stories.
He met actress Carol White in Hollywood and wrote her memoirs, Carol Comes Home. It was the first of a dozen books as a ghostwriter, including the Sunday Times bestseller Today I’m Alice – the story of multiple personality disorder survivor Alice Jamieson. His lates book, How to Rob the Bank of England, will be published in September 2024.
www.cliffordthurlow.com

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