Dear Unknown Reader
Most often I write “for myself,” quickly, in notebooks, without looking back, in a habitual act of connecting with myself. Perhaps it’s the easiest way to purge and process thoughts I find more convenient to write than to discuss with anyone. After all, thoughts don’t wait until a convenient time to make themselves known. Whoever reads anything I put out in the “universe at large” is a often a secondary consideration. In other cases, the recipient matters, sometimes more than anything ever actually written. There’s no way to know how you’re reading these words, dear reader. There’s no way to gauge your level of amusement or lack of interest.
As we know, the lengthy letter is an anachronism. Texts, emails, facebook posts, and tweets are what remain. However, I must ask: is there not a lovelier sentiment than that of Emily Dickinson, who wrote her letter to a world that never wrote to her? Once, in a frenzied state, I wrote the longest letter of my life, a nine page, sprawling letter about my interest in Taoism, among other topics, as an undergrad, to a friend studying abroad. Later, I learned that a second mutual friend read all my letters as well, including the nine pager, a small surprise. Some writing is best left unread or perhaps read aloud for one listener.
The only sure method to safeguard a piece of longhand writing is to incinerate it, which I tried once, years ago, in a secluded section of a forest preserve, in mid-autumn. I doused several thick notebooks in lighter fluid and set them inside a garbage bin before setting them in flames. Unfortunately, the wind was stronger than expected that day. Small, half burnt pieces of paper flew everywhere. Burning writing is something I have no plans to do again. Maybe I had a delayed chain reaction to the minor trauma and embarrassment of having some private journals passed about and read freely in my past. One summer, I moved suddenly and I absentmindedly left three journals behind which contained pages written while drunk or halfway drunk, full of self debasement and petty jealousies, interspersed with first drafts of poems, some of which “resembled lyrics.” That others read over and possibly mocked or discussed my most personal writing may have been a violation of trust but it was probably more an act of carelessness and outright stupidity on my part.
Some thoughts should remain private. I’m reminded of a studio art professor who lectured students about the intrigue of a hidden mystery object, forever trapped and sealed inside a sculpture, which may or may have made a jingling noise when shaken. Of course, this situation is different, dear reader. You’re cordially invited to read the thoughts before you, to openly practice what Stephen King described as “telepathy.” It’s unfortunate that I can’t see your face as you read these words. Please take what you can and discreetly leave the rest behind.