A love letter to writing (letters)

I love a lot of things.

Good paper. Extremely sharp pencils with good erasers. Envelopes with liners or string wrap closures that feel mysterious even when they’re empty. The flow state of a really good pen on a pretty handwriting day (good pens are like hoodies than hoodie, you know?).

I own a small business that makes note cards and notepads (among other things), which means I’ve built at least part of my job around my inability to stop romanticizing (and making) office supplies and vehicles for the written word. It also means I have an enduring love of writing things down by hand.

Writing by hand is slow, almost rebelliously so. It asks you to sit still long enough for your thoughts to catch up with your feelings (though sometimes your writing tumbles onto the page before your brain has time to think it all the way through and you discover thoughts you didn't even know were there). 

You feel the physical task of writing as your hand tires or the particular weight of the pen where it sits on the indent on your finger. You develop your own personal quirks and abbreviations. You cross things out. You mean one word and write another. You struggle to figure out the word you actually meant. You make marks of differing pressure on the page. You can see the faint evidence of erasures. It’s imperfect and honest and human in a way I don’t ever want to lose.

When you write something longhand, you leave evidence behind.
Not just of what you said—but of you.

This all gets that much better when you write to someone.

Letters are small, brave objects. They leave the house. They risk being misunderstood. They take their time. They can't be deleted or unsent. You have to wait for them to arrive at their destination.

Letters can be anything. They can be observational, casual, slightly awkward, even meandering (some of the best ones are). Imperfect.

You can write one paragraph, one sentence, one thought you didn’t want to forget.

You can write to people you see every day or people you haven’t spoken to in years. You can write to someone you miss or someone you’re grateful for or someone you don’t quite know how to talk to yet.

You can even write to yourself, which can feel a little silly right up until it clicks and you're so glad you did. Then years later you can look back on the version of yourself that took time to write something down and feel those two moments in time together.

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to it. In a world that moves fast and forgets faster, paper stays. It waits. It keeps memories.

I realize I am writing this in February, which contains a very specific card-centric holiday and it can feel like there's a lot of pressure to aim love in one specific direction. But I like to think of this time more as a jumping off point-- a reminder that sending a letter or a card is an all-the-time thing. Valentines and love cards are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But honestly? Any day you feel something strongly is reason enough.

I'd like this post to be the is the first in a series of love letters to things I love. And yes, I realize the sort of paradox of typing this all on a blog to share with all of you. But we have to work with what we've got sometimes. If I could write you all a letter I would. Maybe I will, I'll get back to you on that.