who needs suspended inscription?

Computers and Composition II, 191-201 (1994)

Who Needs Suspended Inscription?

DANIEL CHANDLER

University of Wales, Aberystwyth

A survey of British academics reveals o notable divide between writers who favor a word processor as their main writing tool and those who favor the pen or pencil. Each tool has particular characteristics that make it more suitable for some purposes than for others. Most fundamentally, while the act of inscription on paper is direct and immediate with a pen or pencil, and immediate but indirect with a typewriter, it is bath indirect and delayed with a word processor. Some writers value handwriting for the sense of “closeness” that it gives them to their evolving texts. This seems to be especially so for “discovery-oriented” writers. The use of the screen in particular is felt as most restrictive by those whose approach to composing involves oil painting (jotting down ideas and organizing them later) or bricklaying (polishing each sentence or paragraph in turn). Educators may need to legitimate handwritten drafts or reversion to handwriting for some word-processor users who seem to feel that such prpctices are somehow improper (and perhaps for most users for particular tasks).

composition computer handwriting pen pencil phenomenology

revision typing word processor writers writing

A 1991 survey of 107 academic staff at a British university showed that while 31 (29%) reported making frequent use of both a word processor’ and a pen or pencil, 39 (36%) frequently used a word processor but not a pen or pencil and 33 (31%) frequently used a pen or pencil but not a word processor (Chandler, 1992a, 1992b, 1993, 1994).’ There was a notable divide here between handwriters and word-processor users that did not seem to be based solely on cost, ease of access, or the availability of training in the use of word processors. A surprising number of academic writers do seem to reject the use of a word processor in preference for the pen or pencil, while others largely abandon handwriting when they adopt the use of word processors. If it genuinely suits some writers to favor one tool, there is no problem here, but educators need to monitor the dynamic ecology of media and modes of knowing to ensure that the real needs of writers are met.

The technical features of different writing tools clearly play some part in writers regarding each kind of tool as more or less suitable for their purposes. Although such assessments are largely comparative and are shaped by sociocultural conventions, we can hardly disregard the key design features of the tools involved (Figure 1 outlines these). Any attempt to compare some of the formal features of word processors with those of

Correspondence and requests for reprints should be sent to Daniel Chandler, Department of Education, UWA, Old College, King Street, Aberystwyth, Dyfed SY23 2AX, Wales, UK.

‘Editor’s note: Word processor, as used in this article, may refer to a machine dedicated to word processing,

to a general-use computer with word-processing packages and other types of software, or to both.

20nly four people reported frequent typewriter use: Two favoring this as their only tool and two combining typewriter use with frequent use of pen or pencil. Four people reported frequent use of dictation: One subject

used dictation as the only frequently used writing method; another combined dictation with frequent use of the

word processor only, and the other two subjects reported using both a word processor and a pen or pencil.

191

192 CHANDLER

Pen/pencil Word processor

SPEED Cannot be as fast (Ihough shorthand).

DIRECTNESS OF INSCRlPTlON

Direct and immediate inscription lies writing to paper.

EDITABILITY

UNIFORMITYOF LETTERFORMS

Immediate availabilily of whole text on paper.

Limited editability, especially Very editable and easy when neatness mailers. to reorganize.

Revision requires rewriting. Revision does not require rewriting.

Pen in particular preserves erasures wilh unpremeditated degrees of unwanledness.

Handmade, more idiosyncratic letterforms.

Potentially much faster (though more revision may slow down final product).

Indirect and delayed inscription.

Selective access to text on screen and delayed access to text on paper.

Screen-based deletion obscures evolution of text. (Counter- measures require more effort.)

Uniform, standard letterforms.

Figure 1. Comparative features of the pencil or pen versus the word processor

other tools is of course frustrated by continual changes in software and hardware; in this sense, many argue (defensively?) that there is no such thing as the word processor. However, some broad generalizations about key features of this metamorphic tool have been applied long enough for various writers to have referred to them repeatedly. Most of these features are sufficiently familiar to readers of Computers and Composition to need

little elaboration.

DIFFERENT KINDS OF WRITING

It is useful to consider how some of the key features of these tools may relate to our tasks and needs as writers. The behavior of some writers suggests that the types of texts with which they deal may affect their gravitation toward particular tools. From a review of published accounts on the writing of writing, this seems to be evident among literary writers: Ernest Hemingway usually wrote initially in pencil but switched to a typewriter when writing dialogue (Plimpton, 1963, pp. 184-219). Similarly, Tom Robbins reported writing descriptive passages in longhand and dialogue with the typewriter (Strickland, 1989, p. 211); Gore Vidal said that he wrote novels by hand but plays and essays on the typewriter (Clark, 1981, p. 304); V S. Naipaul said that he preferred to use longhand for fiction and the typewriter for more factual reporting (Galbraith, 1992, p. 68); Elizabeth Bishop said that she could write prose on a typewriter but for poetry she used a pen (Spires, 1985, p. 129); and Conrad Aiken, who began to compose on the typewriter in the early 192Os, reported that: “I began by doing book reviews on the typewriter and then went over to short stories on the machine, meanwhile sticking to pencil for poetry” (Wilbur, 1977, p. 33). By the mid-1920s, however, he began to write poetry on the

Who Needs Suspended Inscription? 193

typewriter. The sequence in such cases is interesting, suggesting that it is with “poetic” writing that the issue of which tool is used may be most sensitive, and it is perhaps here that there may be the strongest tendency for writers to favor the pencil or the pen. In my survey of academic writers the largest proportion of frequent users of the pen or pencil was indeed in the arts (20/31) and the smallest (21/40) in the sciences, although the largest proportion of frequent word-processor users was in the sciences (32/40 with no nonusers) and the smallest was in the arts (17/31; Chandler, 1992a, pp. 188-189).

To some extent, what is involved may be a sense of a pen or pencil as appropriate for more personal writing and of a typewriter or a word processor as appropriate for more public writing. The social status typically accorded in public to different presentational

forms offers us a modal hierarchy of text as printed-typewritten-penned-pencilled that must influence the framing (by both writers and readers) of what it means to use each

tool. In many cases, shifting from one tool to another may be less a matter of the generic

nature of the text than of a phase in its development from a more personal to a more public document. Handwriting is favored by many writers for tentative initial phases in the

evolution of their texts, while typewriters and word processors tend to be associated with greater formality, typically at a later stage in the development of ideas. Poets in particular frequently refer to writing early drafts by hand. For writers whose primary purpose is expressive, words seem to spill out “hot” with the writer’s own thoughts and feelings, only gradually “cooling” and “setting” into something more detached. Byron called poetry “the lava of the imagination” (Abrams, 1953, p. 49) and writers such as Ray Bradbury and Henry Miller referred to letting their stories “cool off” (Strickland, 1989, p. 54; Wickes, 1963, pp. 143-170). The fondness that some writers have for the pen may

be related to a peripheral awareness of ink drying on paper. This may reflect a sense of their thoughts passing from wetness to setness, from being a dynamic part of themselves to being objects separate from them. Umberto Eco felt that “you need the flow of ink. You need to wait for the ink to dry in order to allow time for the thoughts to travel on to paper”

(Boylan, 1992, p. 19). Of course, the cooling off of a text at some stage is essential for any writer, offering

sufficient sense of detachment or distance for critical revision-or at least for it to be released for publication. However, for some writers the immediate generation of printed letterforms may seem to make their writing cool off too fast compared with longhand. In terms of editability, text may be “wetter” (more fluid) with a word processor than with a typewriter, but in terms of formality both a word processor and a typewriter are often felt to be “colder” than handwriting: The shaping of letters is immediately divorced from the writer, and some writers report that these tools give their evolving texts a public resonance which does not always suit their purposes. One academic writer told me that “perhaps there’s. . . the sense with a word processor that you’re nearer the final version-there’s a sense of finality about it” (Chandler, 1992a, p. 248). Writing in the 194Os, the philosopher Martin Heidegger deplored the proliferating use of the typewriter:

The word no longer passes through the hand as it writes and acts authentically but through the mechanized [italics added] pressure of the hand. The typewriter snatches script from the essential realm of the hand-and this means the hand is removed from the essential realm of the word. The word becomes something “typed.” (Heim, 1987, p. 195)

In this last remark, Heidegger alludes to typewritten letterforms as standardized “types” in contrast to the particularity of handmade letterforms. Handwriting involves more free-

CHANDLER

flowing movements of the arm and hand, and a physical sensation of moving across a subtly textured surface.

Related to this is a key difference between writing tools in the directness of the act of inscription involved in their use. Iris Murdoch did not like the idea of a “machine between you and the page,” preferring the “particular closeness” of handwriting (Hartill, 1989, p. 87). A surprising number of writers associate handwriting with a sense of “closeness” to their evolving texts. In my own survey of academic writers, 31 (29%) reported that they frequently felt closer to their writing when writing by hand and that this was important to them (Chandler, 1992a, p. 343).

Directness of inscription is also related to a sense that some writers have of their texts as having physical substance. Some word-processor users find the fluidity of screen text attractively noncommittal. but other writers find it disturbingly ephemeral. Primo Levi (1989) felt that when he used a word processor “the words are shadows: they are immaterial” (p. 79). Tom Sharpe’s first experiences with a new writing tool led him to observe that when using the word processor, his writing was “simply an image,” whereas “a piece of paper is substantial. You can hold it, touch it, and when you’ve written a lot of words on paper you feel by God you’ve done something” (Hammond, 1984, p. 214).

Note that to such writers, the act of writing is primarily associated with the process of generating words on a surface. When using a word processor, this surface is the screen

rather than the paper. Hence, Sharpe felt that his writing was “not even on a piece of paper” (Hammond, 1984, p. 213), and others have referred to being ‘*worried about the absence of paper” (Zinsser, 1983, p. 97) or “deprived of the reassuring support of the paper” (Levi, 1989, p, 79). Word-processing enthusiasts may find this absurd, since paper is always available for printing. Text can indeed be transferred to paper at any time, but this printing is a separate process in which words appear on paper untouched by human hand. In the Romantic tradition, the process of generating text is at least as important to the writer as the eventual product. In writing by hand, inscription is both direct and immediate. With a conventional typewriter, inscription is immediute but indirect. With a word processor, inscription is both indirect and delayed. Although this may lead some Romantics to feel a sense of loss. for many word-processor users this is of course a major advantage: The suspension of inscription with a word processor means words do not have to be committed to print until the writer makes a conscious decision to print them.

Of course, not all writers express an enjoyment of the tactility of writing by hand (and there are indeed some who particularly enjoy the tactility of typing) but the physical closeness of the hand to the paper is associated by some writers with a sense of “intimacy” with their text. For some writers, in contrast to the text that is printed with a typewriter or a word processor (which has the book-like resonance of published. “public” text), “handwriting is associated with a process of discovery and an intimate (therefore private) relationship with the words” (Lyman. 1984, p. 78). Writing is a way of thinking for those who tend to avoid preplanning and devote their main attention to revision: The physicality of reworking words on paper is experienced as indispensable in the generation and shaping of ideas. Harry Kemelman’s advice to writers was: “Don’t think and then write it down. Think on paper” (Winokur, 1988, p. 97). For such writers, the act of writing is a kind of bodily thinking.

Michel de Montaigne, perhaps the greatest phenomenologist of the act of writing, called particular attention to writing as a bodily way of thinking. Writing about his thought was “but to give it a body” (Montaigne, n.d., p. 561). Indeed, he felt that his E.wuy were an embodiment of himself where he hoped that “at one view the veins,


muscles and tendons are apparent” (p. 320). What he wrote were “essays of flesh and

bone” (p. 700). He insisted that

the body has a great share in our being, has an eminent place there.. .Those who go about to disunite, and separate our two principal parts from one another are to blame: we must on the contrary reunite and rejoyn them. (p. 539)

In the spirit of Montaigne, Wendell Berry declared: “I am not going to use a computer because I don’t want to deny myself the pleasure of bodily involvement in my work”

(Berry, 1990, p. 192). He continued:

In using computers writers are flirting with a radical separation of mind and body, the elimination of the work of the body from the work of the mind. The text on the computer screen, and the computer printout too, has a sterile, untouched, factorymade look.. The body does not do work like that. The body characterizes everything it touches. What it makes it traces over with the marks of its pulses and breathings, its excitements, hesitations, flaws and mistakes.. And to those of us who love and honour the life of the body in this world, these marks are precious things, necessities of life. (p. 194)

For some modern writers the process of writing with a pen or pencil (rather than any other tool) is experienced not simply as a preference (though it may indeed be largely a matter of habituation), but as fundamental to their processes of thinking. Graham Greene commented: “Some authors type their works, but I cannot do that. Writing is tied up with the hand, almost with a special nerve” (Winokur, 1988, p. 159). Similarly, Fay Weldon declared: “I choose to believe that there is some kind of mystic connection between the brain and the actual act of writing in longhand” (Hammond, 1984, p. 16). Rebecca West felt that a lot of her intelligence was in her hands: “My memory is certainly in my hands. 1 can remember things only if I have a pencil and I can write with it and I can play with it.” She reported using a pencil “when anything important has to be written,” adding that “I think your hand concentrates for you” (Warner, 1985, pp. 23-24). Similarly, John Barth reported with approval the observation of a friend “that there’s something about the muscular movement of putting down script [with a fountain pen] on the paper that gets her imagination back in the track where it was” (Plimpton, 1987, p. 236). Although such examples may seem bizarre to those who frame the act of writing in a different way, we should acknowledge that for some the act of writing as a kinesthetic mode of knowing may be necessary to them. And this may mean that the use of a word processor does not always suit their purposes.

OIL PAINTERS, BRICKLAYERS, AND THE SCREEN

Perhaps most critically, writing tools differ in their suitability for the tasks of planning and revision. And, to a large extent, both the writer’s approach and the tasks involved can be seen as related to the degree to which planning and revision matter. Clearly, even for experienced writers, some kinds of writing need more or less planning or revision than others. Short, routine, or formulaic pieces of writing usually need less planning and revision; the more complex and unfamiliar the task and the more substantial the text has to be, the more planning and/or revision may seem desirable. But in addition to the nature of our textual tasks, a crucial difference between experienced writers affecting our use of writing tools is the extent to which we experience a need to plan or revise-which seems to be part of our identity as writers. A few of us seem able to write successfully most of the time with minimal planning or revision, but most of us commonly experience a need

196 CHANDLER

to plan and/or revise substantial texts. To some extent, of course, such needs may be shaped by the kinds of writing tasks we have most often had to deal with.

Elsewhere (Chandler, 1992a, 1992b, 1993, 1994) I have explored at length some of the rich and subtle complexities underlying differences in the habitual needs of writers to plan and to revise. There can be little doubt that for some of us writing seems to be experienced as far more of a way of thinking than it does for others. Such writers stress a sense of discovery as they write, agreeing with the aphorism: “How do I know what 1 think until 1 see what I say?” Discovery-oriented writers seem to have a strong need to revise their writing, and the functional features of the various writing tools may matter more to them than to other writers.

An orientation toward discovery is common among writers who make frequent use of a composing strategy I call oil painting. Oil painting involves minimal preplanning and major revision; ideas are jotted down as they occur and are organized later. In my own research I have distinguished this from three other common composing practices. The watercolor strategy involves producing a single version of a text relatively rapidly with minimal revision (a strategy requiring considerable skill, of course), the bricklaying

strategy involves polishing each sentence or paragraph in turn before proceeding to the next, and the architectural strategy involves conscious preplanning and organization followed by writing out, with relatively limited revision. Of the 107 academic writers 1 surveyed, 57 (53%) were frequent users of the architectural strategy, 38 (36%) made frequent use of the bricklaying strategy, 33 (31%) used the oil painting strategy often. and 20 (19%) frequently employed the watercolor strategy. For convenience, I will refer here to architects, watercolorists, oil painters, or bricklayers; in fact, 4.5 of these writers reported frequent use of only one strategy, 35 listed two. 9 reported using three. and only 1 reported using four (only 15 used none frequently). All four strategies showed up (in varying proportions) across the academic subject spectrum.

Frequent users of the various strategies seem to differ in their experiences with particular writing tools. For architects the use of a word processor does not seem to be problematic. As preplanners, architects are less likely than others to see writing as a way of thinking, and this may lead them to be less concerned about the tools used. In my survey, those who were word-processor users showed a far stronger tendency than other writers not to find a word-processor screen restrictive. As for the watercolorists, those in my survey exhibited a stronger tendency than others to make frequent use of the pen or pencil but not the word processor. Writers for whom the first draft tends to be the last may feel little need to use a word processor. Too few watercolorists used one (8120 or 40%) for any general patterns of use to be explored (although they were evenly divided over whether or not they found the screen restrictive). Feeling little need to reread. such writers would be unlikely to find the use of a word-processor screen problematic. But it is the bricklayers and oil painters who showed up most clearly as finding the use of the screen a particular problem. It may be significant that, in their different ways, both need to rework their texts and tend to work on them for longer than other writers.

Certainly, the potential speed of writing depends on the tool used. Proficient typing is much faster than the most fluent longhand, and on a word processor the typist can fly along with a happy disregard for typing slips. Some writers do seem to experience a need to write at high speed. One writer even reported a need “to write it before I can think about it, write it too fast for thought” (cited in Murray, 1978, p. 90). Less dramatically, those whose main concern is to keep up with racing thoughts find a word processor helpful. However, for some experienced writers there is a special value in writing slowly


and/or in rewriting. E. L. Doctorow declared: “When I’ve decided to change something, I like to retype the whole page” (Winokur, 1988, p. 159). And for novelist Susan Hill, who reported writing with a pencil and a biro, “there is nothing like having to write every word down for making you think about the value of what you have to say” (Boylan, 1992, p. 19). Christina Haas (1989) has offered the plausible suggestion that “writing and recopying done by hand may serve a rehearsal function, helping writers to ‘know’ their own texts better” (p. 26). There is no functional reason why a word processor could not be used to write slowly or to rewrite, but some users have reported that they feel lured into writing too quickly (Bridwell-Bowles, Johnson, & Brehe, 1987). A student felt that “the quickness of editing. . . didn’t allow enough time to ‘mull’ things over” (Bridwell, Sire, & Brooke, 1985, p. 174) and a linguist declared: “You tend to develop the material too fast. The time spent in developing a manuscript is time often spent in reflection” (Case, 1985,

p. 321). Even experienced users of a word processor sometimes report an apparent drift into serving the tool’s functions. One must insist to those who dismiss such experiences that there are indeed writers who feel pressured in this way, although other writers have noted that however fast they may generate initial texts, using a word processor leads them to dwell on their texts for longer than with other tools (Lyman, 1984, p. 79), a feature which some find valuable.

In my study, bricklayers (who employ a sequential chunk-by-chunk strategy) reported that they usually had a clear idea of what they wanted to say and strongly disagreed that thinking would be difficult without writing. One might therefore expect such writers to

be less concerned about which tool to use. In fact, those in my sample of academic writers showed a stronger preference for handwritten letters than did other writers and tended not to use a word processor. Those who did use a word processor (17/38 or 45%) showed a strong tendency to find the screen restrictive. It has been suggested that the brick-by-brick nature of this strategy makes it important for writers who use it to reread their texts “to

check.. .for unity” (Zinsser, 1983, p. 101). The technical limitations of the screen as a reading medium may make it particularly pressing for such writers to reread their texts on

paper. I interviewed a bricklayer who was a biologist. He had been using a word processor for

4 or 5 years and was increasingly using it to compose from scratch. He was very much a preplanner, but he liked to have his plan on a separate handwritten sheet: “It’s something I want to refer to and wave about in the air. . . something to hand” (Chandler, 1992a, p. 266). Even if he had multiple windows on the screen, or a bigger screen, he would still not feel he could dispense with his handwritten plan. Although he felt that in general a word processor suited the way he wrote, he said: “I do confess to having sometimes to print out an article before it’s finished, so that I can see it, page by page. And I find that easier” (Chandler, 1992a, p. 267). Note the “confession,” presumably of a lack of complete commitment to a word processor. As for seeing “the composition as a whole”: “You just can’t do that. I know you can flip though the screens but somehow you can’t go back and forwards with the same facility.” He might print out a paper two or three times “just to see, just to get the feel of it.” This particular writer would not usually make any extensive handwritten annotations. The need to review on paper reflected a “fundamental limitation” of the word-processor screen because “it’s as easy as it could be on a screen here. . . You can’t. . spread out the article” (Chandler, 1992a, p. 267).

A word processor differs from other writing tools in its screen-based framing of the text. Some writers find that spreading out their sheets of writing in front of them on a desk, floor or wall seems to help them to get a better sense of the shape of their text and of

198 CHANDLER

their ideas as manipulable, physical objects. It also easily enables them to compare one part with another. It is intriguing to recall that the root meaning of the word e.@anation is “unfolding” or “laying out flat.” Even where multiple windows exist on a word processor, some writers still find the screen much less supportive of browsing or comparison than with loose-leaf sheets of paper. But repeatedly printing the current draft is not always a practicable strategy for multiple drafters (comparing drafts is one problem).

Reflexivity suggests that readers may find it useful to know that my own approach to writing seems to be largely that of an oil painter and that 1 wrote this article (and usually produce most of my academic writing) mainly with a word processor, printing out several drafts. One might expect a word processor to be the perfect writing tool for writers whose approach is characterized by major revision, as in the case of oil painters. And indeed, the word processor showed up in my survey as being most frequently used by these writers: 79% (26133) of the oil painters used one often. They also showed a stronger tendency than other writers to report that they felt more productive since they had begun using a word processor. But they shared the bricklayers’ reservations, although perhaps for differing reasons. Oil painters show a strong tendency to write to understand better what they arc thinking; this may lead them to be especially sensitive to the features of particular writing tools. Certainly, those in my survey showed an overwhelming tendency to review their text on a printout rather than on the screen and, generally, found the screen restrictive. It has been suggested that writers who engage in major revisions (as oil painters do) may

tend to get lost in their evolving texts and have a stronger need to reread than other writers (Harris, 1989, p. 187).

One oil painter I interviewed was an academic lawyer. He did feel able to compose directly with a word processor but tended to do so only “for smaller pieces.” He told me of “the limitations of seeing something in small snatches on the screen” (Chandler,

1992a, p. 249). He added:

You just don’t pick up on certain inconsistencies over four or five pages.. And it’s very interesting that when you’re just reading through it in hard copy this thing becomes evident quite quickly, and it doesn’t as you’re scrolling through the screen. (pp. 249-250)

On the screen

you lose sight of the overall argument. It’s a very subtle physical and psychological thing, but it does restrict your view of what you’re working on. There is then the temptation to print out so that you can work from hardcopy. And I think it does then interfere with a certain spontaneous reflection on what you are working on. (Chandler, lVV2b. p. 249)

Like the bricklayer’s confession, the oil painter’s reference to the temptation of printing out a draft suggests that some users feel that it is somehow “heretical” not to compose from start to finish on the screen without resorting to paper. I have repeatedly noted such religious rhetoric among computer users, suggesting widespread belief in all-or-nothing styles of use: a disturbing devotion to the tool. The lawyer was aware of this. He added that “some people would regard it as inefficient that you’re still looking at hard copy. as though there’s something primitive about it” (p. 249).

In addition to feeling frustrated by the screen, the oil painters in my survey were much more likely than other writers to be interlineur editors (adding annotations between lines of text on paper). The fixity of words in paper-based writing encourages some writers to regard their thoughts as something with which they can engage in a kind of dialogue, and interlinear editing can be seen as such a dialogue. Although annotated text on paper


remains fixed, neither screen-based text nor multiple printed drafts (as opposed to annotated drafts) have this quality. The lawyer I interviewed made frequent use of interlinear editing. When writing with a word processor he usually printed double-spaced drafts so that he could add handwritten annotations. He used to do the same with the

typewriter. He felt:

there’s something more definite, perhaps there’s a greater confidence about making amendments, when you’ve got some paper. and you can start writing on it with a pencil. On the screen, annotations don’t. stand out when you look through it again. (Chandler, 1992a, p. 250)

Handwritten annotations to a printed text have a different and identifiable status. Many writers choose to annotate their printouts by hand (although this is seldom as

complete a record of changes as that of the wholly handwritten draft). Apologists who point to the existence of facilities and techniques that cater for preserving changes with a word processor fail to recognize the deliberateness such strategies require in contrast to a rapid slash of the pen-which can preserve every change (even with subtle degrees of unwantedness). Comparing the pen and the word processor, the lawyer felt that making amendments was “more spontaneous when you do it with a pen” (Chandler, 1992a, p. 248). Such observations suggest that teachers of writing should be prepared to disabuse those users of word processors who seem to feel that the “proper” use of a word processor involves abandoning the writing by hand of initial ideas and the handwritten annotation of printouts.

CONCLUSION

As Joseph Weizenbaum observed, there are no “general-purpose tools,” and this is as true of writing as of any other domain (Weizenbaum, 1976, p. 37). Though the word processor may have largely eclipsed the typewriter through absorbing its main functions, there is little chance of it replacing the pen and the pencil, which seem likely to remain more suitable than a word processor for particular functions which many people value and for which such tools are well adapted. The most distinctive feature of a word processor (setting it apart most clearly from the conventional typewriter) is its suspension of the process of inscription on paper. This is its greatest strength: It is what enables it to be such a versatile editing tool. But this same feature of indirect and delayed inscription is also the greatest weakness of a word processor for other purposes or other writers. Because this feature seems unlikely to be amenable to a design solution, we need to recognize that a word processor is not the perfect writing tool: There can be no such thing.

None of this is intended to suggest that the designers of writing tools have reached the end of the road, of course, although it could perhaps alert some to the diversity of writers’ tasks and approaches (and deter them from offering us yet more technically sweet solutions to problems that we may not have). It is also worth reflecting that constantly updating and replacing word-processing systems gives users little chance to grow as accustomed to them as they may be to traditional tools. One may have written by hand since childhood-one may even have typed for all of one’s professional life-but change is so much part of the commercial world of the computer that one may not use the same word-processing system for more than a few years. And (despite convergence) each system is different. Part of the closeness that some writers feel for the pen may relate to the “me-ness” of the familiar: Tools with which I have a long familiarity are part of me.

200 CHANDLER

Particularly with those for whom the act of writing is central to their sense of identity, endlessly switching to new tools may be deeply unsettling. We can only speculate about the implications of this for those who may grow up with increasingly less dependence on writing by hand.

This discussion of writers and their tools does have educational implications, supporting a need for pluralism-for encouraging alternative approaches to writing and alternative tools rather than wholesale conversion to computer-based composition. There is certainly no need for any word-processor user to feel that reverting to handwriting at

key stages is undesirable. In choosing if and when to use new tools for writing tasks we need to consider that handwriting (both product and process) may be important for some of us in relation to our sense of self in ways which we may not fully understand. A word processor has undoubted advantages for many purposes (and particularly suits some users), but these should not lead us to neglect the special character of handwriting. Its uniqueness to individuals and its responsiveness to mood is wordlessly expressive in a way that the uniformity of print can never be. For many of us, writing in our own hand has a

resonance of privacy and informality that makes longhand a supportive medium for the initial expression of tentative ideas. Its relative slowness may sometimes be useful in helping us to dwell on (or even in) our words as we write. Our shaping of words may help us to remember them. The permanence of the words on paper allows us to “retrace” our thoughts. The physical closeness of the hand to the paper may encourage a sense of intimacy in our relationship with our words. And the directness of inscription by hand may give us a sense of carving our meaning. For some of us, or perhaps for all of us some of the time, such subtle features of handwriting may be valuable: at least for certain phases of a writing task. This is not a rejection of new technologies, but may begin to account for why some of us remain “attached to the pen” and will never be fully computerized: Word-processor users or not, we are still the children of the pen.

Daniel Chandler is a lecturer in media theory in the Education Department of the University of Wales. Aberystwyth. His interest in the phenomenology of the act of writing is part of a broader concern with ways in which some people feel influenced by the tools and media with which they engage.

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