In praise of letters

transcribed from my notebook on Nov. 2, 2023

From my film camera, a letter written with care

I had forgotten what my own handwriting looked like for quite a while. Sure, I’d seen words being scribbled down in a rush as I darted to the clubhouse after final out, or aimlessly scratched phrases uttered by interviewees to prove that I was not just relying on a recording device to save our conversation, but those instances aren’t reflective of the way that I write. I’d forgotten what it felt like to care about each letter, each distinct stroke of the pen, whose precision and accuracy is imperative in order to be understood. It’s paramount to have every piece of a phrase feel necessary. Maybe it’s because I know that these words aren’t only meant for my eyes, whose standard for chicken scratch has been lowered after many years of heuristics and assumptions have greased the path towards understanding. No, these words I’m writing have a destination that holds an importance that far surpasses my own needs. These days, when I pause my life to sit down and write in my notebook, it is no longer just to structure articles and interview notes in between the lines. I find that much of my free time and free space in this notebook is dedicated to writing letters.

I am struck by the fortitude that it takes to want to write a letter to someone. I don’t understand how it used to be a sole form of communication for many people, but I concede that there was a patience in the world that does not exist amongst modern communicators. There’s almost a masochistic quality that comes with sending away a letter. I can only assume that it’s akin to sending a child off to school, if the return from school was never promised, with no assurance of what comes once it leaves your grasp. I think I’m getting ahead of why the letters are written in the first place. The truth is, that I don’t know why I even sit down to write a letter. No one is forcing me to, and even less people are even asking me to, and yet, I feel an intrinsic need, or better yet, an evolutionary calling to write to someone at the drop of the hat when they enter my mind. These letters are less about letting somebody know what’s going on in your life, or sharing vital information that will change their life once their eyes hit the paper. These letters are flares for the self. They’re markers that exist to remind myself that I love someone. There are endless moments where I look around and find myself missing the presence of people who are hundreds and thousands of miles away. Sure, texts and calls exist, but with the trappings of busy and bustling modern life (and the urge to not blow up someone’s phone because of an outpouring of adoration and appreciation), I find myself withholding the full scale of what is in my heart and in my mind. So, these letters act as a confessional. A permanent vessel for emotions that are held behind the mask of polite restraint. The content of these letters don’t have to be especially poignant or revelatory. The power of the letter isn’t completely rooted in purple prose and heavy poeticism, though that sure helps a letter become one that’s shared and exalted for its beauty. But the very existence of the letter is where the love resides. The fact that the pen was put to paper with you in mind is proof of the impact that you have on me. They exist to show the place that you have in my brain and in my heart. With these letters, I’m not trying to convince you that I care about you. I am just writing to remind myself why I care about you, counting and recalling each reason in painstaking detail in my head. These reasons fuel my hand movements, propelling my wrist to move write to left to connect each word to the next in every phrase. It’s an expression of love in a cathartic manner, a letter that is written just for the sake of becoming real and concrete. It’s a celebration of the subject and the subject’s existence, if only for a brief page or two, one that’s not so much concerned if it is ever read, but one that is just thankful to be given space to take shape. 

HBK park, a lovely setting to write to someone you care for

One of my favorite moments in writing is Kafka coming to a very important realization in his years of letter writing to his translator Milena (you should all read Letters to Milena if you enjoy love and philosophy). He found that even if a letter reaches someone at the speed of light, this process feels akin to ghosts writing to ghosts. By the time the recipient has received and read the letter, they will be a completely different person than the one who was first written to. In fact, this metamorphosis occurs in an instant, as soon as the ink dries. The same change occurs on the sender’s side, as the person who has written the letter no longer exists in the real world. They only exist in that letter. It becomes a time capsule, an artifact that captures the rawest and most open form of the writer, using the page as a conduit for their immediate emotions, locked away until the receiver is ready to lay eyes upon it. 

I write about someone when they pop into my mind. The letter becomes a placeholder for everything and anything I want to say. It’s why I take my time with each word, each sentence, and each punctuation mark. They're the physical incarnations of my love for someone. That’s why it hurts to rip them from the notebook, fear-inducing to send them off in an envelope, and paralyzing to wait for any sign of a response. But the very fact it produces this level of strife means that it actually matters, unlike so many phrases and platitudes that pass from our lips. You may not know how they’re received, or what the subsequent reaction will be. But you do know that it is important that it was said -- that true life and form was given to the love that rests inside you for another person. It likely doesn’t do us any good to not tell the people we appreciate that love them. Do it with a few words, no matter how forthcoming or withholding. Let them have a physical reminder that they’re on your mind, refusing to let any semblance of the fear of being forgotten sneak into the silence.