When getting things wrong is right

'Why is this child holding her pencil like that?’ The school inspector’s words are etched in my memory. I was five years old and it was the 1960s so, of course, the comment was made in front of the whole class. I can’t remember what the teacher said. I imagine it was something along the lines of ‘she’s left handed’, said in a hushed tone as though I were to be pitied which, on reflection, was fair enough given that everything back then was designed for right-handers. But I can recall the shame caused by this small act of public humiliation. A sensation that was repeated, years later, when a retired nurse asked me whether an injury had led to the odd way I held my pen.

I haven’t been scarred by these experiences. It’s not as if I was forced to write with my right hand, as was the case for previous generations of school children, but it is a good example of how early experiences of getting something ‘wrong’ can lead to a lifetime of having to get things ‘right’ (however wrong-headed that ‘wrongness’ is).

It also encourages duplicity and dissembling. I now have two ways of holding my pen. If I’m being observed there is the ‘correct’ way – thumb and fingers neatly grouped around the pen; alone or with friends, I revert to the ‘wrong’ way – two fingers above, two below the pen, the thumb at right angles. This, in turn, has led to two styles of handwriting: the first knows its place - is neat and tidy, always staying within the margins and ruled lines; the second goes wherever it wants, sprawling freely across the page, all flourishes and loops. A clear case of nurture versus nature.

The quest for perfection is, of course, a familiar one and most of us continue to fly in the face of the evident futility of such a mission. We might be failing, but we can always fail better, as Beckett suggests.

But at least there is a creative and comic potential to be found in getting things ‘wrong’ - something I’ve been discovering through my own practices and from teaching improv and mindful play workshops. In a recent workshop, someone misunderstood the ‘rules’ of a particular game. My instinct was to correct her - as if it mattered – and then I recognised her ‘mistake’ for the joyful, creative offer it was, and everyone joined in with the fun of it.

So, if I could go back to that 5-year-old me, I’d say, ‘Wow – you’re writing! Who cares how you hold your damn pencil.’ And I’d promise her, 'One day you’ll see the funny side of getting things wrong.'