My Mother's Writing

My mother’s writing is powerful. It moves people. Her poetry and stories are personal and emotional and engaging. She started many years ago by writing stories and year end recaps to send out with our family Christmas card. She began by imitating another writer until she found her own voice. Now in her retirement, she’s been able to focus on her writing and I can’t wait to see where it takes her.

Like many others, I love my mother’s writing. But more specifically, I love my mother’s hand writing. I’ve always loved it. I remember looking at her little notes by the phone when I was a kid and wishing my writing looked so effortless. 

Her writing is stylish but not in an overly pretty way. She’s not dotting her i’s with hearts but it has personality. Her capital letters are big. The rest of the letters are somewhat scribbly but still fully legible. She doesn’t use cursive but it all flows together.

Her signature has two big, confident C’s and the rest is a mess of loops and squiggles. I have pages of childhood notebooks filled with me practicing my signature (for when I’m famous, duh). I was under the impression that a signature had to be in cursive. Every attempt looked disjointed and unnatural. No flow, no style. The day I started writing two confident M’s and just fuckin’ scribblin’ away at the rest, was the day I became a woman.

My mom’s writing is the Cool Girl of writing. It’s the vintage jean jacket that’s been perfectly thrashed. It’s your hair when you leave the hairdresser and immediately mess it up a bit so it isn’t too done. It’s that girl that can show up in a t-shirt and jeans and somehow look way more put together than you ever have even on your best day. Not too perfect, not too messy, not trying to be anything other than what it is. The type of writing a daughter will attempt to emulate for the rest of her life.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom! I hope you never put down your pen.