Evenings, I write on scrap with a pen, wet then dry, soaking in smell.
I have long descending strokes and oversized capitals, an A like a large safety pin loosed from its hasp, a B like a 3 sliced through. (Acquired in counterfeiting the signature of a teacher. B for Bruce, 3 slash ruse.) I can write any C word so you'd like it and ask for more. My I is too fancy, a Jehovah's J with a personal kink. My Z comes like something Byzantine. All are disjoint. I failed cursive writing decades ago and still have clumsy boyish curls in my lowercase b and d.
In the morning, I transcribe from the scratch and smoke to weightless keyboard taps, then feed the originals into the company shredder.