writing letters

I used to love writing letters. I loved sitting down with pretty stationery paper, a good pen, and a good mood. I would write letters that ran for two or more pages, closely spaced, on unlined paper. I liked seeing my thoughts in print, and because I had a pretty penmanship, I wrote with care. There would be no erasures. I always wrote my letters in English, because my grandmother taught me that way. I would often end up with numb fingers, but I loved bringing my letters to the post office.

I wrote faithfully to pen-pals, to my aunts and uncles in the States, to my girl friends in the old town. I did not often get letters in return, but I did not care. I was happy writing.

Aside from letters, of course, I wrote in diaries. Pages and pages of heartbreaks, teenage angst, happy moments.

And then technology interfered. People learned to use email. It was faster and more convenient. And there's chatting online. Much more faster and much more convenient. And of course, texting. Suddenly there were too many ways to keep in touch.

Instead of diaries, I blogged. I wrote stories that I filed in the computer and kept back-ups in CDs.

In the midst of all this, letter-writing suddenly became a lost art. It took days before a letter would reach a friend. Thick envelopes would get lost (thieves at the post office would think you enclosed money, when all you sent were funny pictures of your beloved cat). And yes, it was easier to tap the keyboard than hold a pen for two pages' worth of chitchat.

I was opening late Christmas cards for my boss this afternoon. There were about 20 cards, from all over the world. And I realized that I was completely absorbed in it, even though the cards were not mine. I would check the envelope, slit it open carefully, and stack the cards for his inbox. Then I would cut the stamps for my scrapbook.

There is a joy in receiving letters by mail. There is a quiet anticipation in seeing the envelope, the postmark, then opening it. And then there is the thrill of reading. Be it a few lines or eight pages, when you think that the person actually sat down and wrote all that for you, the simple joy of it cannot be matched by the message alert in your email inbox.

Maybe I will teach my daughter to write letters. She is seven years old and knows how to compose and send text messages. It may be old-fashioned, but in communicating with people, the simplest thing of all is sometimes the sweetest. You choose a pretty paper, you sit down, you compose the tale in your head. Then you take the time to write. It is a real pleasure.