I had recently seen a reel on Instagram talking about how cursive writing stimulates many more neural pathways than typing and texting — and it stopped me in my tracks. Not because the idea was new, but because it articulated something I had felt intuitively for years. It prompted me to explore further, and to reflect on how we as artists benefit from our countless hours at the easel or sketchpad, quietly building something far deeper than a body of work.
Cursive writing is a curious thing to defend in a world obsessed with speed. It is slower, more deliberate, and requires a level of attention that block writing, and certainly typing, does not demand. When writing in cursive, each letter flows into the next, forcing the brain to plan movement in advance, to anticipate form, rhythm, and pressure. The hand does not simply execute isolated commands; it performs a continuous choreography. This engages motor memory, spatial awareness, language processing, and emotional regulation all at once. Block writing, by contrast, breaks thought into fragments. Each letter is a stop-start instruction, efficient but disconnected, functional but less embodied.
Typing and texting strip this process back even further. The fingers repeat identical movements regardless of what is being expressed. A love letter, a grocery list, a poem, and a resignation email all ask the same thing of the body. The brain shifts into a mode of symbolic substitution rather than physical meaning-making. We are thinking, yes, but we are not inhabiting the thought. Neural pathways are used, but they are narrow, repetitive, and optimised for speed rather than depth. Over time, the brain becomes exceptionally good at skimming, scanning, and reacting, but less adept at lingering.
Cursive writing slows thought to the pace of the hand. Ideas unfold as the sentence unfolds. Mistakes are not deleted with a key but crossed out, incorporated, lived with. This matters because the brain thrives on complexity and resistance. Each loop of a letter, each change in pressure, each slight variation in slant is feedback. The brain adapts, refines, and strengthens its connections. It is not simply recording information; it is integrating it.
As artists, we take this principle even further. Painting and sketching are not just extensions of writing; they are full-bodied cognitive events. When we draw, we translate three-dimensional space into two dimensions, interpret light, judge proportion, and make decisions in real time. The eye, hand, and brain are locked into constant conversation. Unlike typing, where the outcome is predetermined by the key pressed, mark-making is unpredictable. The charcoal behaves differently each time. The pastel resists or yields. The brush carries more or less paint than expected. The brain must respond, adjust, and learn.
This is where new neural pathways truly flourish. Repetition alone does not create richness; variation does. Each sketch is a problem-solving exercise layered with intuition. Memory, emotion, and sensory input are all involved. We are not merely representing the world; we are negotiating with it. Over hours, days, and years, the brain becomes more flexible, more observant, more capable of holding ambiguity. This is not abstract theory. It is visible in the work of artists who have spent decades drawing from life. There is a confidence not just in line, but in seeing.
There is also a quieter benefit that is harder to measure. Painting and sketching place us in a state of sustained attention that is increasingly rare. Time stretches. Internal chatter softens. The brain moves from reactive to reflective. This state is fertile ground for insight, not just artistic but personal. Neural pathways associated with empathy, memory, and emotional processing are activated alongside those governing motor skill and perception. In this sense, making art is not a luxury; it is maintenance.
Cursive writing teaches the brain to connect. Painting and sketching teach it to listen. In a culture that prizes efficiency and output, these practices may seem indulgent, even obsolete. Yet they are precisely what keep the mind supple, perceptive, and human. As artists, our hours at the easel are not time away from thinking. They are thinking, embodied, patient, and profoundly alive.
The irony, of course, is that this entire article was drafted on a smartphone using my two faithful opposable thumbs, which means the very fewest neural pathways were probably involved in its creation. So if the argument above carries any conviction at all, it’s clearly time for me to put this glowing rectangle down and return to where the real cognitive gymnastics happen. Excuse me while I get back to my charcoal and pastels!
Guy McGowan
WASA representative in Durban KwaZulu-Natal
Chairperson of North Coast Artists, KwaZulu-Natal.