Notes on a Gentle Art

A long-winded epistle to the one and only Mary Basquez.

    In my room there is a closet. In the top of that closet there is a shelf. And on that shelf . . . there are shoeboxes. Lots of them.

    A few are stuffed so full that they are bound shut with shoelaces and odd bits of string. And one wonders: why does a girl who is so into throwing away junk tolerate these excesses?

    Because they are filled to bursting with letters. I've kept every letter I've ever been sent. Every one. And I will never admit them to be "junk". Junk is a knicknack that your dear old auntie gives you. Or an old library card, an earring with a missing mate, that lucky T-shirt with the tear in the armpit (you swear you'll sew it up someday). But not letters. Never, never letters.

    "Letter" is a small word we use to describe thoughtfulness and love, sealed up in an envelope and sent across kingdom come. A letter is a small, powerful of piece of faith: faith that it will reach its destination; faith that the time you spent on it, which could be so much more efficiently used sending an email or text message instead, was worth it. And when a person receives this gift, it means more to them than a thousand text messages. Why? Because when you send a letter, you send a little bit of your heart.
    That's why I keep them.
   

    Contrary to what many people believe, letter-writing is not some monstrous undertaking which can only be done by "smart folks", novelists, or the Queen of England. Letter-writing is for everyone. As E.V. Lucas says, "It is because plain talk is very often better than brilliant talk that education is of little service to correspondents, and the best writers of books are by no means the best writers of letters." My dear friend Cordelia once said, not long after we first met, that she did not send letters, and wouldn't know what to write. She obviously underestimated herself, because nowadays she is without a doubt one of my most entertaining correspondents. Rather more so, I believe, than even the Queen would be.

    In the old days, everyone wrote and received letters. I live in a time when one barely affords one's own relatives a passing wave, but long ago that passing wave was unheard of, and in its place lived a steady correspondence with any or all that you knew. It was not done only by adults, or spinsters, or elderly people, or professors, but by gentlemen, gentlewomen, businessmen, housewives, schoolchildren, young lovers, soldiers.

    Every sort of person, sending every sort of letter: a marvelous patchwork. 

  

   

    Before the typewriter was invented, every letter was executed with the personal touch of the sender's handwriting. I think such a thing would give me a kinder opinion of humanity overall. Even a typed-out letter with someone's actual signature on it sends me into raptures.

    There's something about knowing that at one time the person's hand touched that paper, held a pen to it, and marked it with the name that they had been taught since childhood to write. It is a pleasure to know that I am worth that special squiggle of ink, that expression of the sender's true identity, that certain moment in their busy life.

   

    I wonder sometimes what people think when they read my letters. Do they sound natural enough? Do they adequately express my feelings at the time that I wrote them? What is it, exactly, that makes a letter good? The key, it seems, is to not overthink it. "The less trouble you give yourself, the better it will be. Letters should be easy and natural, and convey to the persons to whom we send just what we would say if we were with them," says Lord Chesterfield, whoever he is. * 

    Well, I began to follow this advice. Not only do people seem to respond more quickly and cheerfully when you write to them as you speak with them in person (rather than as though they were your English professor), but letter-writing becomes an even more pleasant ritual for the sender.

    At times, of course, I get discouraged. Letters aren't always answered, and even if they were I wouldn't always feel like writing them. When that happens, it takes some reflection to get back in the mood. 

    The truth is, I love so many people so well, and sending them kind words on paper is the best way to show that to them, since all of them, friends and relatives, live too far away for me to see often.

    But even after I tell myself that, I protest again: I don't have anything to write.

    People, that is not an excuse. There is always something to write. Begin with "Dear", end with "Love", and in between tell the recipient that you are well, that you miss them. That is the heart of the letter, and the rest will follow: you'll remember something they did for you, and you'll thank them for it. You'll remember a book you read that they would enjoy, and you'll tell them about it (but just enough so they will want to read it for themselves). You'll tell them about how your life is going, and what the different members of your family are up to. Anything goes, because what their mind reads is not as important as what their heart reads: that they are loved.

              

  

*The quotes in this post were found in a sweet little book called "Writing Letters with Pen and Ink", by Edward St. Paige. Thus, I may not know who Lord Chesterfield is, but I like him anyway. 

P.S. It takes a lot out of me to admit to something like the above. I mean, what if Lord Chesterfield is one of those people about whom everyone knows except me? What if, upon saying so in company, the room rings with the words "You don't know who Lord Chesterfield is?......."

"..............you must be homeschooled."