I still write letters. I always have and I see no reason to stop. As long
as there continues to be a postal service in the countries I live in or visit,
I’ll happily buy my stamps and address by hand the postcards and letters I write
to family and friends.
This past weekend, I sent one letter and two postcards
from Charleston, South Carolina. A week ago, I sent three letters from zip code
36481, otherwise known as Vredenburgh, Alabama.
Considering how often I write
letters, you’d think I have a lively correspondence with people near and
far. Truth is, I don’t. The last letter I received was from my Mom and
it arrived over a month ago. She is one of the only people who ever writes me
back. Other than that, I probably get the same bland serving of mail you get:
bills, free credit cards, solicitations for money, etc.
The question is, why
do I still write letters? In this day and age, in the face of email, Twitter, and
Facebook, why do something so analogue, so time-consuming?
The reasons are
many and I expect to opine about this topic in the months to come, so I’ll take my
time answering the question.
For me, time is what writing letters is all
about. Specifically, slowing time down.
To write a letter you must take
time. Literally. First, you gather the tools for writing: pen (I favor a
black ink, Pilot P-700), paper, envelope, a stamp or two.
Then, you gather
your thoughts. Do I write about where I am – the landscape, the light, the
street? Do I write about what’s happening in my life – the gigs, the
travel, my hopes, my friends? Am I saying something specific – thank you,
I’m sorry, I’m thinking about you?
I never really know how
I am going to get from the greeting (“Dear So and So”) to the ending
(“Love, Kate”). These two phrases are the only things I am sure
of. When I sit down to write, I take a deep breath, secretly wonder how I’m
going to fill the page and if I’ll be able to strike the right tone.
(By the way, this never knowing how the letter will end up is very similar to the
process of writing a song, but that’s a whole other blog entry.)
I am
always surprised by what I write. I sit at the table and wait for the words to
come. Time passes. I write one line; I write another. More time
passes. Soon, I am at the end of the page; eventually, I am at the end of the
letter.
Time continues to pass the moment you drop the letter into the maw of
the mailbox. You wait for the letter to arrive. You wonder. You forget about
it. Finally, if you are very lucky, you hear from the other person (usually by
email or phone) that they’ve received the letter. In the meantime, your life
has moved on. You’ve left the city you were in. The street scene has
changed. The world has changed.
And yet, the letter is a fact.
You wrote it at the cluttered living room desk. Your aunt now has it in her hand
in her kitchen in Kentucky. It is proof of how you felt, where you were, what you
were doing. Time stood still as you were writing it. Hopefully, time stood
still for the recipient as she was reading it.
Isn’t that
marvelous?
To me it is.
