I enjoy writing letters. Yes, handwritten, paper, stamped letters. I even lick the envelope when I send it…sometimes.
Writing a letter is no simple undertaking. It takes a level of deliberation, but also spontaneity. I feel that the best letters I compose are those that I never planned on writing to begin with.
I write it in two steps: first, a ragged racing to scratch my pen across the page. Turning white to black. And incorporating meaning where there was once none. Second, I rewrite. I fix my inevitable spelling errors, and I strive to correct my horrendous penmanship with an air of something more temperate, controlled and pointed.
This is an old way of communication: ancient, even. But I find that there are many more robust interpretations to be made from the curve of someone’s “b” than one may imagine. It’s almost like art. When I open a letter from someone, I see more than the words on the page. Poignant periods drip of untold sorrow. Crinkled pages show the crunch of excitement. I see the very smile that hung across their face as they wrote a particularly witty phrase.
There is something timeless about a simple letter.
So, if you find yourself particularly passionate one day, or, perhaps, you simply want to partake in this long-held ritual, write a letter. Tell someone about your day or describe the beauty of a flower you happened upon. Long or short, a letter can be a little act of love, beauty and art.