epis·to·lary [\i-pis-tə-ler-ē,
e-pi-stȯ-lə-rē\],
adjective, 1: of, relating to, or suitable to a letter;2: contained in or carried
on by letters; 3
: written in
the form of a series of letters
Maybe it’s the fact that I am finally reading
– loving – lost in A.S. Byatt’s phenomenal Possession: A Romance. Maybe it’s that every day I barrel head first, sans helmet, into the when-I-was-your-age/I-remember-when-a-slice-cost-a-dollar/get-off-my-law/grumble-grumble-grumble
territory. Maybe it’s the daily, dreary delivery of bills, catalogues, credit
card offers, political pamphlets and other boring forms of tree-killers. But –
I miss letters. I miss sending and receiving them. I miss the lost art of telling and being told a life story in truncated chapters lasting weeks, months, years.
Before
my introduction to these newfangled things called “electronic mail,” “text
messaging,” and “Facebook,” – before real life took over with its long commutes
to and fro work, its travel schedules, its plop-down-with-exhaustion end to the
days – I was a dedicated letter writer. Even at a young age, I had the kind of
life that lent itself to making friends across towns, states and countries.
The
first letters I remember sending were to elementary school friends whose
families had moved from the Lower East Side of Manhattan to the outer reaches
of Queens and
Not
only did I love exchanging letters - I was good
at it. (I think. I hope. May God smite me down if I am wrong.) I would write
out several drafts of my letter (mistakes and cross-outs being as anathema to
me as wearing gold and silver jewelry at the same time), and decorate them with
drawings, magazine collages, cut-outs, you name it. I wanted the recipients of
my letters to smile when they opened them, to see in the aesthetic detail how
much I cared about them. I never minded if their letters to me were not as
elaborate – it was enough to receive a response, the thrill of seeing a letter
in the mailbox – to me, to me, yay yay
yay a letter to me! I would rush, excitedly, to tear open the envelope,
sometimes causing grievous injury to the letter itself. I’d curl up to read the
letter several times over, even as I was already planning my response. I would file them away in my lowest dresser
drawer, only to find them years later – individual pulp and ink time capsules
of my past.
Modern
forms of communication – email, instant messaging, Twitter and their ilk – are
surely convenient, but they do tend to lend themselves to brief expressions of reaction
and inquiry, rather than the conscious expression of feeling, the concentration
required to put thought to virgin paper. Emails and the like can be breeding
grounds for lazy, misspelt writing, not to mention misinterpretation and tonal
deafness. They are usually placeholders for anticipated face-to-face
interactions (“…So, are we on for this weekend, or what?”), rather than the
embodiment of a relationship that can go on for months and years without
requiring physical exchanges. It is too easy, for me at least, to lose track of
emails and forget to answer them; but letters, by their very presence and the
effort required to write and send them, were unflinching in their demand for a
response.
It’s
true that email and the like allow us to keep in touch with more friends than
would normally be possible. How else would I know what my pediatrician friend
La Doctora was up to if not for emails and text messages? Because in case you
didn’t know, saving babies’ lives on a daily basis doesn’t leave much time for
letter-writing. Other important, my-life-wouldn’t-be-the-same-without-them
friends live in
But
still – wouldn’t it be nice to sometimes open your mailbox to find an envelope
where your name and address were handwritten, posted with a million crazy
stamps from foreign countries? To years later have tangible proof of your
communication with people who meant a lot to you? To receive letters like
the one "Lewis Caroll" sent to May Mileham on 6 September 1885?
Dearest May,
Thank you
very much indeed for the peaches. They were delicious. Eating one was almost as
nice as kissing you: of course not quite: I think, if I had to give the exact
measurement, I should say ‘three-quarters as nice.’ We are having such a lovely
time here; and the sands are beautiful. I only wish I would someday com across
you, washing your pocket-handkerchief in a pool among the rocks! But I wander
on the beach, and look for you, in vain, and then I say, ‘Where is May?’ And
the stupid boatmen reply, ‘It isn’t May, sir! It’s September! But it doesn’t
comfort me.
Always your loving,
C.L.D.
© Chommo, 2009