An Ode to Letter Writing
The reason I like writing letters is that the act requires thought. Putting pen to paper creates a record which is not easily undone, so when faced with it we ponder, meditate, and ruminate. We take our time, and in doing so force a certain level of introspection.
I’ve thought about this a lot recently, what with the proliferation of easy, direct, and near-instantaneous communication.
An example: an acquaintance I once knew called me to say he’d accidentally sent a text message to the girl he was courting, and now had no easy way to recall his message.
“What was the message?” I asked.
“‘I want to put my balls in your mouth,’” he said.
“I know,” I said, “but let’s stay on topic: what was the message?”
Jokes aside, this made me think of the period of time that exists between the writing and sending of messages, and how short that time has become. Yes, we can send messages within seconds of typing them, but should we?
“I wonder,” I said to my acquaintance. “Is there is an optimal period of time for leaving a message you’ve written before reviewing and sending it?”
“Bro,” he said, “what am I going to do? I think she’s seen the message already. And the photo. Should I call her?”
(Editor’s note: for the sake of brevity, let us ignore the fact that said acquaintance ‘accidentally’ sent a photo with his text, and what exactly the photo was of; I’m certain you already know.)
“I wonder what that period of time is for the average person?” I said. “Surely it changes based on factors like frame of mind, length of relationship, proximity, and level of alcohol consumption.”
“How is any of this solving my problem?”
I shrugged.
“It isn’t,” I said, “but you have to admit, it’s an interesting thought experiment.”
Later, I pictured my acquaintance as Geoff, a man in an old English manor sat at his desk as a winter wind whipped snow against the windows. I saw him dip a fountain pen in a small bottle of ink, and watch the snowflakes dance as he thought. After some careful deliberation, he began to write.
Dearest Cynthia,
On this cruel, chilly winter evening, as the wind seeps through the windows like the whispers of my pining for your presence, I cannot help but feel a strong desire to place my testicles past the vestibule of your precious lips, and into the loving warmth of your person.
Is this what love feels like, my darling?
Geoff
P.S. We met at Roger’s party.
P.P.S. You called my scarf “rather dashing.”
P.P.P.S. We talked briefly about the weather. It was cold.
Geoff then paused to regard the sentences on the page before him. He wondered, are these the words that speak my heart? Will they be accepted with glee and the joyful, fulfilling warmth of young romance? Is it too early for such honesty? Should I save this for a time when we share this manor, and sit before the fire with glasses of wine on the polar bear rug my grandfather was gifted?
These are the questions that tug at the mind in the moments after emotions are put to paper; gentle reminders to consider the delivery, the timing, and the recipient.
But let us assume that Geoff was quite satisfied with his letter, full as it was of his most true and honest passions in the moment. Even then, he has a night to think it over; a whole evening in which to consider his choice of words, and their tone, and whether or not it is necessary to also provide a diagram.
The following morning, a development: Geoff does provide a diagram, which he painstakingly spends hours perfecting, and later places with his letter in his coat pocket.
With his letter ready, Geoff makes the slow, somewhat agonizing journey over snowy pathways and rocky roads to the town post office, where he presumably buys a stamp and an envelope, and proceeds to write Cynthia’s address.
It is here, however, that Geoff realizes he has left Cynthia’s address in the drawer of his desk back at the manor, and cannot summon it through sheer memory alone.
And it’s in this moment — on the frustrating walk back home, cursing his hangover — that Geoff comes to a realization: he’s only met Cynthia once, it was fleeting, he was drunk, and she gave him her address somewhat begrudgingly. The events play out in his mind a few times, and each time a little more reality creeps in, together with a clearer understanding of the relationship that exists between the two of them.
Thus, when Geoff arrives home, he burns the letter and diagram, stares somewhat longingly at the polar bear rug, and proceeds to return to life as he has always known it; ordinary, slow, and without any odd humiliations.
This whole imaginary flow of events is why, when my acquaintance called me again for help, I suggested he write a letter.
It is also, incidentally, why we are no longer acquaintances.
Nevertheless, I like to think that ultimately, the point still stands; placing a period of time between the thinking of something and the doing of something — whether it be admitting your love or sending a simple dick pic — is a worthwhile and meaningful use of time, if not a fine method for avoiding a mini-crisis.
And there is perhaps no better example of this period of time (at least in this writer’s opinion) than the humble letter, followed closely by the humble mix-tape, another underrated (and soon to be lost) work of craft.
Incidentally, the last I heard of my acquaintance, he was developing an app that lets you write a message but won’t let you send it before a requisite amount of time is met based upon conditions you’ve entered at the point of writing; frame of mind, length of relationship, proximity, and level of alcohol consumption among them.
To each his own, I suppose.
— -
Music
(Weezer — Butterfly)
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— Hengtee
