I’m a big fan of letters— writing them and receiving them. I receive them less often than I write them, but what can you do?
When I was in high school, I spent most of my time ignoring the recommended reading and focusing on my own curriculum. I preferred female writers from the Regency, Victorian and Modernist eras: Jane Austen, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), Virginia Wolfe, and the Brontë sisters (not just Emily and Charlotte, but the lesser-known Anne, who published Agnes Grey around the same time Emily published Wuthering Heights).
It wasn’t necessarily the romance that hooked me, but the dialogue and the letter writing. Especially in Austen’s works. Letters were often a pivotal moment of revelation for the reader, and god, how I loved it.
When we moved from Philadelphia to Tampa, Florida, I was only twelve years old. Suddenly, my aunt, uncle, cousins, and my Grandmom Gert, who had lived just down the block, were over a thousand miles away.
I took to writing letters to my Grandmom Gert, and sometimes my aunt. Not an inordinate amount, but enough. My grandmom often wrote me back. I still remember her careful yet slightly messy cursive, sometimes with misspellings. Occasionally, she’d add a funny little drawing at the end. I wish I had saved them, but I’m admittedly not great at that sort of thing.
We’ve lost the art of letter writing. And I don’t necessarily mean the physicality of a letter, but the sentiment behind it. To me, a letter can be just as poignant in an email.
I realized my love for them as I’m making my way through Barbra Streisand’s memoir. I’m about to enter the 1970s of her life story, and already she has sprinkled in a few letters saved from wishful lovers and business partners. I listen to them in a trance, drawn to the vocabulary and expression.
What a special thing, to receive a letter. Especially one that tells you how wonderful you are. Not in the ways you might dismiss, but in the ways you feel that no one else quite sees. To be truly seen by someone, and to be told about it in a letter?
There’s nothing like it.
I think the next letter I write will be to the woman who answered my message about looking for a Silky Terrier.
Dear Sandy,
I’ll begin. As is tradition.
Then I will tell her about this incredible thing she has done for me. Of course, I won’t be telling her anything to help her feel seen. But I will let her know that she did successfully see me when she matched me with Gigi.
I wrote Sandy back in 2019, after we as a family had lost Lizzy. (sidenote: Lizzy was named after Elizabeth Bennet, while Gigi is named after Georgiana Darcy.) She asked me what I was looking for in a dog, and I replied:
“I don’t know exactly. I would hope for a girl again. But what I loved most about Lizzy was her soulful, gentle eyes. The way she would just look at me with an unwavering sense of love and empathy.”
Sandy wrote back, “I know exactly the dog for you.”
Attached to her email was a photo of Gigi. Her hair was a mess. Her face looked a little lost. But somehow, I just knew this person had found my dog.
Sandy sends me a Christmas card every December and asks for an update on Gigi. She draws beautiful sketches of the breed, and I love that her cards always showcase her talent.
We are missing the art of letter writing. The spark that flips our heart on when someone sends us something acknowledging us, while making us feel so deeply.
(Daily Writing 011)
Thoughts?