The Physical Act of Writing

A friend on Facebook pointed to a study that said writing by hand used more of the brain than using a keyboard. As someone who prefers keyboards to writing by hand and has since I learned to type at 16, I was a little skeptical.

I looked up the study and not only found it, but found a significant critique of it published in the same journal.

When I read over the study, I discovered that the participants did the “writing by hand” using a digital pen on a screen, while they did the typing using only their right index finger – that is, the equivalent of “hunt and peck” typing, which is not the way that people generally type on a keyboard. They limited it to right-handed people as well.

According to the study, they did this because using both hands would make it hard to interpret the results. The critique noted the one-finger typing as a problem, as well as looking at other things from the perspective of researchers and finding it wanting.

And I came away deciding they hadn’t really proved anything about the difference between keyboard use and writing by hand.

I suspect there is some value in learning to write by hand – the study points to the understanding of how each letter is constructed, which makes sense to me. But if you want to convince me that it’s better than using a keyboard, you’re going to need to study people using pen on paper and typing with both hands on a keyboard.

I am assuming that most people who spend time using a computer keyboard use it with both hands and know the QWERTY layout in their fingers. If a large number of people are actually doing some form of hunt and peck while staring at the keyboard rather than the screen, the bigger question is why aren’t the kids learning to use a keyboard properly.

I have seen all kinds of arguments about whether kids should still learn cursive. There are those who argue that learning to print is enough. Perhaps it is, but printing was always harder for me than longhand. So I’m inclined to go for teaching all those things – printing, cursive, and typing – and letting people decide which to use when.

Lately teachers have taken to requiring students to write by hand in blue books in class to keep them from using LLMs (“AI”) to write their essays, so they need to be able to print or write longhand. A friend of mine tutors a high school student who is finding the physical act of writing difficult because he wasn’t taught it well when he was younger.

I take notes by hand out of the books I read in my morning reading practice and have noticed a slightly different need for paying attention when writing by hand. But here’s the thing: once I learned to type, I vastly preferred writing on a keyboard where I could see what I was turning out much more easily.

manual typewriterNow mind you, I learned on an actual typewriter back before the personal computer existed. In typing class we used electric IBMs – not the correcting ones that I lusted after as a college student, but still fine machines. At home and for my school assignments, I used an old style manual typewriter, one of the ones that takes effort to punch.

Despite what the research implied, typing is a physical act. Using a keyboard is embodied in my physical self. And while computer keyboards don’t require as much effort as the old fashioned manual machine, the physicality is similar.

I put my fingers on the keyboard, think of what I want to say, and it comes out. I don’t have to think about the individual letters unless I use a word that I’m not sure how to spell.

I like writing this way much more than I like writing by hand, because writing by hand requires more concentration on the physical act of writing – making the letters clear enough, staying within the lines, and so forth.

I pay more attention to the idea when typing, and that’s what I want to pay attention to. Continue reading “The Physical Act of Writing”

Reprint: Strongmen Doomed to Fail!

The ‘warrior ethos’ promises victory — history says it leads to defeat

Hitler and Mussolini salute Nazi troops in 1937.
Bettmann/Getty Images

John Broich, Case Western Reserve University

At Marine Corps Base Quantico in September 2025, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth promised assembled generals “maximum lethality” and no “stupid rules of engagement.” Under his leadership, the newly rebranded Department of War would “untie the hands of our warfighters to intimidate, demoralize, hunt, and kill.” Troops would be held to the “highest male standard,” he said. “Weak men won’t qualify.”

Hegseth also restricted anonymous whistleblower and discrimination complaints and limited how long past misconduct can be held against a service member, weakening internal rules and oversight processes the military had built over decades.

Months later, with the Iran war underway, he told reporters at a Pentagon briefing that the U.S. was “punching (Iran) while they’re down, which is exactly how it should be.” He has also said the U.S. will give “no quarter, no mercy” to its enemies, language legal experts say can constitute a war crime under international law.

Hegseth calls his military doctrine the “warrior ethos.”

Historians of fascism have catalogued similar rhetorical patterns — strongman posturing, contempt for constraint — for decades.

I’m a historian of race and nationalism and author of “Blood, Oil and the Axis,” a book about World War II and nationalism in Iraq and Syria. I’ve studied how fascist regimes fight. At its core, fascism is ultranationalism fused with a cult of masculine strength, racial hierarchy, paranoia about socialism and contempt for democracy. It also has a theory of war: Victory belongs to the ruthless and the ideologically pure. Rules are for the weak.

Nazi Germany, fascist Italy and Imperial Japan all built their military strategies on some version of this ideology in the run-up to the Second World War. And in each case, the strategy failed, undone by its own contradictions.

The fascist theory of war

Democracies don’t necessarily fight clean wars. During World War II, the Allies firebombed cities, created internment camps and dropped atomic bombs.

What distinguishes fascist powers from democracies is their contempt for rules based on their sense of superiority. In 1933, Adolf Hitler’s propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels announced that the Nazis would claim the absolute right to override democratic constraints. “This contemptible parliamentarianism … is gone,” he said.

Italian dictator Benito Mussolini said it more bluntly in 1936: “We do not argue with those who disagree with us, we destroy them.”

But rules of engagement function as a control system that ties tactical decisions to strategy, law and the risk of escalation. Discarding them tends to produce the atrocities and strategic blowback that lose wars.

Democratic procedure does similar work: Political scientists who studied 197 conflicts from 1816 to 1987 found that democracies won about 76% of their conflicts and non-democracies 46%, in large part because accountable leaders and public access to information force a government to notice when a plan isn’t working.

A fascist regime that treats democratic constraints as obstacles is likely to decide inconvenient information is an obstacle too. Because of this, in fascist governments, loyalists rank higher than experts. Fascist systems don’t remove people for being wrong; they remove them for insufficient loyalty. The man who tells the leader what he wants to hear rises. The man whose report contradicts the leader’s views endangers himself.

Benito Mussolini stands beside Adolf Hitler as they watch a military parade
Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, King Victor Emmanuel III and Queen Elena watch a parade held in Hitler’s honor in 1938. Behind them, from left: Joachim von Ribbentrop, Galeazzo Ciano, Joseph Goebbels and Rudolf Hess.
Bettmann/Getty Images
The closed circuit

Consider Joachim von Ribbentrop.

Before becoming Hitler’s foreign minister, he was a wine salesman whose years in Canada became his qualification for understanding America. He attached himself to Hitler and was rewarded with a top seat in his government, where Ribbentrop’s signature contribution was overruling the diplomats who warned that Americans would fight if pushed too far by the Axis.

The Nazi view prevailed: Americans were too racially mixed, too soft, too consumed by money to be dangerous. When Germany declared war on the U.S. four days after Pearl Harbor, it did so partly on that disdain for what Hitler called a “mongrel nation.” Ribbentrop was among the most consequentially wrong foreign ministers in modern history – he’d also misjudged Britain’s willingness to join the war over the invasion of Poland – still, he kept his job.

The ideology that produced Ribbentrop’s overconfidence also produced the Nazi theory of the Eastern Front: that Slavic peoples – fundamentally inferior and tainted by Bolshevism – would collapse within weeks. But the Red Army didn’t collapse. Hitler fired the officers who reported as much and demanded more of the same operations that had already failed. Operation Barbarossa, which was supposed to take weeks, stretched to years.

Attempting to match Hitler’s conquests and assert dominance over the Mediterranean, Mussolini invaded Greece in October 1940 with shorthanded divisions, in mountain terrain and at the start of winter, because he believed Italian spirit would overwhelm Greek resistance in two weeks. His generals had doubts, but many did not express them. The Greeks counterattacked, but Mussolini blamed his generals’ “insufficient will,” the only kind of failure his theory allowed. Germany had to intervene.

What the leader said happened

Connected to the fascist superiority complex is a contempt for feedback, creating a closed information system that can’t register failure, tolerate disagreement or revise a plan. Strategy requires accurate reporting, even when the news is bad, and the willingness to be wrong. Fascist regimes punish the first and refuse the second.

German high command was still reporting a controlled advance in November 1942 when its 6th Army, some 330,000 soldiers, was being encircled at Stalingrad. Hitler had declared the city practically taken; the press never reported the Soviet counteroffensive that surrounded it. When the remnants finally surrendered on Feb. 2, 1943, it was a turning point in the war – Germany’s first catastrophic defeat on the Eastern Front, from which the Wehrmacht never recovered.

Mussolini bragged about his mighty army of 8 million soldiers while 3.5 million – the real number – were being routed on three fronts in as many years.

Imperial Japan fused racial supremacy with a military code that forbade surrender and treated anyone who did as subhuman. Loyalty to the emperor was absolute; questioning his depiction of reality was betrayal.

In that environment, officers had every incentive to lie up the chain of command when reality on the ground did not match what leaders wanted to hear. For example, after the Battle of Midway, a catastrophic defeat for Japan in June 1942, naval headquarters filed reports that bore little resemblance to what happened. Later that year, the Imperial Navy told Tokyo they had sunk twelve American ships near today’s Taiwan when they had merely damaged two.

Two years of retreat later, the kamikaze program – which sent some 3,900 pilots to their deaths in suicidal crashes against Allied ships – was the logical conclusion: Let pilots prove their loyalty by dying.The Conversation

John Broich, Associate Professor of History, Case Western Reserve University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Continue reading “Reprint: Strongmen Doomed to Fail!”

Travels with my books

I’m writing this in May, but you will receive it in June. As you read it, I’ve just left the Australian national SF convention and am packing up, ready to go home. I might even be on my way home. As the crow flies, it’s over 3000 km from Perth to my flat. Distances in Australia are what they are.

When I lived in Sydney, I explained that going to Perth meant going from the Pacific to the Indian Oceans. Canberra is inland a way, however, so it’s a shorter route and there’s only one ocean involved.

In my dreams I take the train from Adelaide across the Nullarbor. The Nullarbor Plain’s name describes it literally – hundreds of kilometres with no trees – which means the night sky is apparently brilliant. The train costs, alas, more than my whole eight days in Perth, including flights and food and conference, so this is a dream. A friend (and her dog, Bill) will drive across the Plain the day I fly, however, and has promised to look up and wave.

What am I doing at the SF convention, besides talking (to anyone who wants to hear) about my books? I am in charge of the Humanities part of the academic programme. I’m also giving a workshop. And I intend to spend much time in the dealers’ room with friends.

If I’m already home when you read this, I suspect I’ll be catching up on sleep. Just suspect, mind!