The Zebra F-402, fine point pen.
Resume-weight paper.
A writing desk.
These are my necessary supplies for a first-rate letter.
I love the scrape of weighted paper as it slides out of the packaging. The blank, textured sheet holds endless possibilities. As I grip my pen in contemplation, my mind starts constructing and organizing sentences; once the pen pulls across the paper, the words are committed--one of the joys of letter-writing. Thoughtful but raw. Planned but vulnerable to sudden shifts. I write a sentence, a paragraph, stopping to re-read, ponder, expand and explain. This is my most sincere and reflective writing. There is an air of romanticism about the entire process.
Letter writing has all but disappeared in our generation. The joy of sitting at a desk under a reading lamp with some soft music and one's own thoughts is something virtually unknown, unexperienced by many of my peers, and yet I have passed countless evenings in this manner. As I write in the late-night silence of the house, I labor over wording and penmanship, encouraged by the resistance of ball-point over texture. I read it over once, sometimes twice, and sometimes end up rewriting the letter altogether. Ultimately, the vast majority of these letters remain unsent. There is little to no precedent these days for such communication. I convince myself that its intended recipient would think the form archaic or might feel uncomfortable with the time spent on a letter when email would be more practical. The letter usually gets stuck in a journal (14 volumes at last count) or a drawer. Sometimes I wonder if I should send them.
Letter-writing is one of the richest forms of communication we have. There is so much more than words on a page. Letters immortalize handwriting, spacing of letters and lines, paper and pen used, and there is evidence of care or speed. People reserve special information for letters. Letter-writing, though it may consist of many of the same aspects as journaling, often has something more. When we journal, we are either merely recording events with little commentary, or are writing to make sense of certain events. Very rarely do we manage to strike a balance between the two. However, when we write letters we have to learn how to give both to the reader, so it often ends up being a more complete record than we might even have for ourselves. We also put things in writing that we may not ever say in person. And in hard-copy form, with the personality of the sender's handwriting, paper, pen and time, those words can be revisited again and again--for better or for worse.
There is a certain electricity in the air when I find a handwritten letter sitting in the mailbox or on the kitchen table. This happens less frequently now, especially with the loss of my weekly correspondent, my grandmother. It's been two years and I still miss writing to her and receiving her letters; I have her last one sitting on my desk. Every once in a while I pull it out and read the shakey handwriting, but mostly I just like to have it there to remind me what my desk is for, once I clear away my laptop of course. I have a ream of resume-weight paper just waiting to be used, with dreams of finding a faithful correspondent again (I told you; there is an air of romanticism about the whole process). My Zebra F-402 is currently out of ink, but perhaps with its replacement I may finally decide to start sending some of those letters. We'll see.
Resume-weight paper.
A writing desk.
These are my necessary supplies for a first-rate letter.
I love the scrape of weighted paper as it slides out of the packaging. The blank, textured sheet holds endless possibilities. As I grip my pen in contemplation, my mind starts constructing and organizing sentences; once the pen pulls across the paper, the words are committed--one of the joys of letter-writing. Thoughtful but raw. Planned but vulnerable to sudden shifts. I write a sentence, a paragraph, stopping to re-read, ponder, expand and explain. This is my most sincere and reflective writing. There is an air of romanticism about the entire process.
Letter writing has all but disappeared in our generation. The joy of sitting at a desk under a reading lamp with some soft music and one's own thoughts is something virtually unknown, unexperienced by many of my peers, and yet I have passed countless evenings in this manner. As I write in the late-night silence of the house, I labor over wording and penmanship, encouraged by the resistance of ball-point over texture. I read it over once, sometimes twice, and sometimes end up rewriting the letter altogether. Ultimately, the vast majority of these letters remain unsent. There is little to no precedent these days for such communication. I convince myself that its intended recipient would think the form archaic or might feel uncomfortable with the time spent on a letter when email would be more practical. The letter usually gets stuck in a journal (14 volumes at last count) or a drawer. Sometimes I wonder if I should send them.
Letter-writing is one of the richest forms of communication we have. There is so much more than words on a page. Letters immortalize handwriting, spacing of letters and lines, paper and pen used, and there is evidence of care or speed. People reserve special information for letters. Letter-writing, though it may consist of many of the same aspects as journaling, often has something more. When we journal, we are either merely recording events with little commentary, or are writing to make sense of certain events. Very rarely do we manage to strike a balance between the two. However, when we write letters we have to learn how to give both to the reader, so it often ends up being a more complete record than we might even have for ourselves. We also put things in writing that we may not ever say in person. And in hard-copy form, with the personality of the sender's handwriting, paper, pen and time, those words can be revisited again and again--for better or for worse.
There is a certain electricity in the air when I find a handwritten letter sitting in the mailbox or on the kitchen table. This happens less frequently now, especially with the loss of my weekly correspondent, my grandmother. It's been two years and I still miss writing to her and receiving her letters; I have her last one sitting on my desk. Every once in a while I pull it out and read the shakey handwriting, but mostly I just like to have it there to remind me what my desk is for, once I clear away my laptop of course. I have a ream of resume-weight paper just waiting to be used, with dreams of finding a faithful correspondent again (I told you; there is an air of romanticism about the whole process). My Zebra F-402 is currently out of ink, but perhaps with its replacement I may finally decide to start sending some of those letters. We'll see.
5 comments:
I could not agree more. Beautifully said!!!!!
Thank you Julie. Thank you.
I love that we talked about this post and now i get to read it. I like it. PS when do i get to be one of your blogging friends???
I would have preferred the post in a handwritten letter.
I have found that when I write something long hand that it comes out different than when I type. Hand writing takes longer and is harder to change than using a word processor on a computer. Both expressions give vent to feelings which puts our spirit more in contact with our minds but the two different processes seem to use our brains in slightly different ways. It is interesting to observe the different workings of our brains through these two different processes. When I type the information is closer to what I would say but with edits. When I write long hand the information is closer to what I think more deeply and my spelling is much worse than my typed spell checked expression.
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