Oh, to have royal penmanship!

They say, of course, that growing older is just one long realization that your parents were right. About everything.

I have not, by this standard, gotten completely old. I still think my dad was wrong, for example, about not letting me drive myself to a Springsteen concert half a state away a few weeks after getting a driver's license. (No, I would not let my own child do this. I'm not sure I'd let my own child drive across town at that point, but that is neither here nor there.)

I have, however, begun to realize they were right about quite a lot. Not the least of which is this: I should have worked more on my penmanship.

I am a handwriting disaster. I hold my writing instrument in a peculiar way. (Once when interviewing an educator, she noticed my grip and said: "Your first grade teacher should be fired." I found that to be a bit harsh.) But my grip isn't really the whole problem. I'm not sure what the whole problem is. I can't draw either, for what that's worth. Perhaps it's a fine motor issue? Maybe someone should study me!

I did at some point realize, perhaps in high school, that really cool, lovely, pretty girls -- the popular ones -- have neat handwriting, completely unlike what I do. I write sort of like a guy. A sloppy guy. A guy who's not trying. A guy who is scribbling. I made some effort to shape up then. But it was too late. Or I didn't make enough effort. Or something.

Years of taking notes as a reporter only made things worse. My scribbles turned to scrawls. I could read my own work -- although sometimes only barely. I lived in fear that some day, in real life, my editor would do what Lou Grant always did on television. He would tell me to give my notes to someone else and let that person write the story. What a laugh that would be! All my failings would be exposed. The notes would be passed around and people would try to guess what language they were in.

About three years ago, I left daily reporting and my handwriting improved a little. I was able to write more slowly. I was able to drop some bad habits. But when my book came out last month, I encountered again this problem. See, people kindly asked me to SIGN their book. It's a writer's dream -- to get a book published and then have people ask them to sign it. I was thrilled! Until I actually held the book in my hands and held a pen and started to write!

I held this lovely book, which this nice person has purchased, and which represents a lifetime of storytelling development, and I contemplated actually writing my name in it.

My signature, you see, remains bad. It has been resistant to the improvements I made in general writing. When you sign your name, after all, you don't think about it. The motions learned in 3rd grade -- or whenever you learned cursive -- just come automatically.

An autographed book is supposed to be a treasured thing -- a keepsake, a collectors item. Generations from now people will go through their grandparents bookshelves and get rid of almost everything -- but an autographed book? THAT will be a keeper.

Except, I fear, in my case.

Could I actually be making the book LESS valuable by signing it? "Gee, look at this," I imagine someone saying, "A third grader scribbled in it!"

So yes, my father was quite right. I should have worked more on penmanship. And to all the people who were kind enough to have me sign their book, I apologize. I really do!