It's in the Post: A Tribute to the Perilous Act of Posting a Letter

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.

— Phyllis Theroux

This blog post was inspired by a recent video call with Fran while I was taking one of my lunchtime walks. As we passed the pub I noticed the postbox by the road was shrouded in black plastic. A printed notice declared it out of use. A little research suggests it’s part of Royal Mail’s “postboxes of the future” programme to upgrade the traditional red postboxes to support barcode scanning and handle small packages. Others in the region are being upgraded, including the box outside The Hungry Caterpillar post office in Dipton, Stanley. According to one report, “the news has been met with scepticism and sadness by villagers.”

I know how they feel. There’s a post office counter in the general store beside the pub and a postbox at our local supermarket, but I’ve used this one hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Seeing it taped up like that was a shock. It felt and still feels disrespectful. An insult to something that’s played a small but important part in my life for more than three decades.

I’ve written previously about my life-long love of letter writing but I want to focus here on the physical act of posting a letter. It’s often overlooked, but for me it’s always been one of the most meaningful parts of the process. I described it to Fran as “the ambience of mailboxes.” (We’ve been best friends since 2011 and I routinely shift into using American terms and pronunciation when we’re together.)

I’ve think I’ve always felt it. That unique combination of excitement, anticipation, fear, and commitment as I walk to the postbox, take the envelope from my bag or pocket, look at it one last time, and push it through the slot. I hold it between my fingers for a moment then let it fall inside. American writer and environmentalist Terry Tempest Williams has called it “the release of the letter to the mailbox.” It’s a watershed moment. A perilous act. The point of no return.

Who hasn’t felt that frisson as we step away from the postbox? Our words, our feelings, confessions, doubts, hopes, and dreams are sealed in there. It’s like taking a loved one to the rail station and leaving them on the platform to await their train. We’ve done our part. All we can do now is trust that our words will be delivered to their intended destination. And more, that they will be received and understood as we hope they will be.

How many times have I felt that? Too many to remember them all but a few come to me now. (One of the less obvious rewards of blogging is that I get to revisit past thoughts and experiences that might otherwise languish unrecalled.) The first was so long ago I’m unsure if it actually happened. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Did I write and post a love note to the girl I’d fancied since junior school? Or did the terrifying realisation I could do get the better of me? I still remember her name. I can’t quite recall her address but I know where it was. (Ironically, just across the road from the post office.) In any case, there was no reply. There never would have been.

Summer break from university brought ample opportunity to send letters of love and affection to the important people in my life. There were postboxes close to my childhood home but I’d take long evening walks to prolong the experience of sending my letters on their way. I’d then torture myself over the wisdom or otherwise of doing so. Did I say too much? Not enough? I’ve erred in both directions in my time. The agony of waiting for a reply is captured in one of my poems from those days.

So few words would despatch misapprehension,
End this love’s charade,
Or blow despair upon the wings of a kinder truth.

But tide and time have marked another day
And still no word
—not one—
Consoles me.

— from “Faithfully (unanswered)”

A few years later I spent six months on university placement at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. I have fond memories of writing to one of my very closest friends each week. I’d start at the weekend, gathering my thoughts and words together before copying them neatly into a letter or card. When the time felt right I’d walk to the postbox in the centre of town, savouring the moment and anticipating how my words might be received. I checked my mailbox in the nurses home each day for a reply.

I write fewer letters these days than I used to, but there are a great many memories associated with that classic red postbox by the pub. The letters and cards I sent every day to one friend through what turned out to be the final two years of her life. The letters I still send each week to my friend in Cornwall. The “Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?” card I sent a friend several years ago, months into our second breakup. Approaching the postbox, I felt the familiar mix of trepidation and inevitability. Was I right to suggest reconnection? Were my words appropriate? I might have changed my mind but knew I wouldn’t. I let the envelope slip from my fingers and stepped away. For right or wrong, I was committed. I knew there might be no response. (There was.)

It’s precious moments like this — memories like this — that are imperilled by the black plastic shrouding and the threat of a “postbox of the future.” The current box has been out of service in the past, most recently during the covid pandemic, but this feels different. Hopefully, the experience won’t be permanently tainted.

In the course of writing this piece I came across a wonderful blog called The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society, and this post in particular which discusses the origins of the hashtag #PostboxSaturday. It also includes a selection of postbox-related links and photos of postboxes from all over the UK. Do check it out and follow the The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society on Twitter/X, Facebook, and Instagram. The Society’s mission is “To inspire people to write handwritten letters to each other.” It’s a worthy aim.

I thought I’d close with a few quotations extolling the virtues of letter writing.

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox — are all acts of tenderness.

— Terry Tempest Williams

When you see a handwritten envelope addressed to you in your packet of mail when you get your mail out of the mailbox — when you see a personal letter waiting for you — it’s exciting. It touches you. You say “Oh, somebody really thought of me and didn’t just slap a mailing label across an envelope. Somebody wrote something to me.”

— Martha Williamson

I’ve always felt there is something sacred in a piece of paper that travels the earth from hand to hand, head to head, heart to heart.

— Robert Michael Pyle

Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.

— Lord Byron

I wrote you a love letter, and I sent it snail mail. Love is forever, and that’s about how long it’ll take to get to you.

— Jarod Kintz

That last one brings a wry smile, given the present state of the postal service. Posting a letter these days really is an act of faith!

Over to You

Are you someone who enjoys writing and receiving letters? Do you have a favourite postbox? Have you ever posted a letter and regretted it? Or doubted yourself only to be very glad you sent it? We’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Kutan Ural at Unsplash.

 

Call Me Another Thrower: Making a Difference In the World One Starfish at a Time

“I understand,” I said, “call me another thrower.”

— Loren Eiseley

I’ve always loved letter writing. My friend Maya and I have written to each other almost every week for years. I look forward to reading her letters, but no less welcome are the envelopes she decorates. They’re works of art in their own right. One recent envelope (pictured) reminded me of a shoreline. As I wrote to her:

Thank you for your letter and the truly lovely envelope with all its rich colour and texture. I’m seeing it as a shoreline with waves, white water and foam — and tiny starfish!

I thought for a moment, then continued.

It reminds me of a story called “The Tale of the Starfish.” Do you know it? It’s about a little girl saving starfish by returning them to the sea. More generally, it’s about making a difference no matter how small. I’m a big believer in that.

The story I recalled is a reworking of “The Star Thrower” by Loren C. Eiseley, first published in 1969. Various versions exist, of which this is perhaps the best known. The story ends with the young girl confronted by an adult’s logic.

She had been doing this for some time when a man approached her and said, “Little girl, why are you doing this? Look at this beach! You can’t save all these starfish. You can’t begin to make a difference!”

The girl seemed crushed, suddenly deflated. But after a few moments, she bent down, picked up another starfish, and hurled it as far as she could into the ocean. Then she looked up at the man and replied,

“Well, I made a difference for that one!”

The original story of “The Star Thrower” is longer and considerably darker. The thrower is a man, not a young girl. The contrary voice of logic is that of the narrator. His jaded approach to life is challenged by the thrower rescuing the stranded creatures from being taken by collectors “hurrying along with bundles of gathered starfish that will be slowly cooked and dissolved in the outdoor kettles provide by the resort hotels for the cleaning of specimens.” It is not a cosy story.

The underlying message is the same, however. There are times when the problems and challenges that surround us feel too many or too huge to attempt. What difference can we possibly make? The antidote to overwhelm is to focus in close and small. No matter how powerless or helpless we may feel, there is something we can do to make a difference. We may not be able to save every starfish but we can save this one. And this one. And maybe that one.

I smile as I write this, thinking of recent examples from my own life. A few weeks ago, a workplace friend messaged to check on me after seeing something I’d posted on social media. Her simple “Hope you’re okay” meant a lot. (Thanks, Sophie.)

Then there was the conversation I had at my local coffee shop. As I’d arrived, a woman was leaving with her daughter, who proceeded to drop the drink she’d just been bought. Her mother could have been angry. She might have yelled or stormed off. But she didn’t make a fuss. She told her daughter it wasn’t a problem and went back inside to replace the drink. I let her ahead of me in the queue and we spend the next five minutes or so in conversation. We talked about what had just happened. About how life is tough enough without having extra pressure piled on us when something goes wrong or we do something silly. About how life’s too short to cry over a spilled oat latte. We got to the head of the queue and in a further act of kindness, the staff refused to take payment for the replacement drink. We said farewell and parted. Her daughter got a fresh drink, but I received something every bit as valuable. The reminder that small kindnesses matter in this world.

Three further examples presented themselves while I was writing this. My friend Aimee tagged me and several other friends in a social media post.

This, for my people ♥

As you get older, you really just
Want to be surrounded by good
People. People that are
Good for you, good to you,
And good for your soul.

I couldn’t trace the quote’s author, but as someone considerably older than Aimee or the other friends she tagged I agree with its wisdom. It’s the people who show up for us, who care, who do the small things knowing they’re often the big things, that make the most difference in our lives. (Thank you, Aimee.)

Then there was the They Can Talk comic strip I saw online in which two birds are watching a woman filling bird feeders in her garden. “Every morning she fills all of these feeders,” the first bird says. “Who is she?” the other asks. “To us?” comes the reply, “She’s everything.”

And the Threads post by Laurie Biethan in which she shared her experience in line at the grocery store. A woman ahead of her was short of the money to cover her basket of groceries. Laurie made up the difference. As she said, “Best $16.07 I’ve spent in a long time.”

In their different ways, these are all examples of people doing small things that make a big difference. A check in with a friend. A thank you. A replacement coffee. A conversation. A few dollars. Starfish throwers, every one. The narrator of “The Star Thrower” returns to the shore to find the man whose mission, whose very existence, has challenged his outlook on life.

I arose with a solitary mission, to find the star thrower beneath his rainbow. I found him on a projecting point of land in the sweet rain-swept morning. Silently, I sought and picked up a still-living star, spinning it far out into the wave. I spoke once briefly. “I understand,” I said, “call me another thrower.”

He understands it’s not really about starfish at all. It’s much bigger than that.

I never looked back again. The task we assumed was too immense for gazing. I flung and flung again while all about us roared the insatiable waters of death, the burning sun, for it was men as well as starfish that we sought to save, a thrower who loved not man, but life.

If you’d like to read “The Star Thrower” by Loren Eiseley in full, check out this version (PDF) edited by James Cook.

 

Envelope artwork by Maya Hayward.

 

Communicate or Hide? The Creative Dilemma

Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide. (Donald Woods Winnicott)

The above quotation describes a dynamic I know well. Publishing a new blog post every Wednesday means each week I need to identify a topic and then write a piece I’m happy to present to the world. Some are more personal than others, but whatever the topic there’s a balance to be struck between wanting to communicate and respecting my vulnerability.

The Desire to Communicate

As I’ve written previously, I can’t imagine a time when I’m not expressing myself creatively in some way. That’s taken many different forms over the years, including clay modeling, painting, woodwork, and photography. Mostly, though, I’ve sought to communicate through my writing. These days that’s primarily through this blog, but in the past it’s included poetry, factual articles, short stories, and books.

Friends have described me as having a passion for writing, or it being my purpose in life. Neither feels right to me. I do spend a considerable amount of time writing, one way or another. Apart from blogging, this includes personal correspondence, chatting online with friends, and the diary I’ve written ever day since I was fourteen years old. For all that, it’s not something I enjoy.

The book Fran and I wrote took four years of almost constant work, from original idea to publication. I don’t regret it. I’m immensely proud and consider it one of my greatest achievements in any field. But it wasn’t an easy road for either of us and there were times we came close to setting it aside. Blogging is no less demanding of my time, energy, and focus. There’s a sense of achievement when I complete a post, but my publishing schedule means there’s little time to appreciate my success before pressing on with the next article.

Why do it then? From my perspective, writing isn’t something I choose to do at all. It’s more like a need or compulsion that’s been a part of my life — a part of me — since my teens. If I try and rationalise it, I can identify three reasons for writing.

• To explore my situation and experience
• To share and educate
• To invite input from others

Most fundamentally, writing is how I process and explore what’s going on for me. That’s especially true of my journal, but applies more generally. This blog post is a good example. It’s giving me the opportunity to examine what writing means to me, and my creative boundaries. I keep a “scrapbook” document within easy reach on my phone. I use this to capture ideas, notes, and thoughts whenever they occur to me. Some may be further expanded in my journal or blog posts, but many go no further. They exist as an informal appendix to my life, and I review them regularly for the insights and ideas they contain.

Sharing and educating were the motivations behind the book Fran and I wrote together. Recognising there was little material available for anyone wanting to help and support a friend who lives with mental illness, we wrote High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder to share what we’d learned through our own mutually supportive friendship. That same desire to share and educate underlies the content we publish on our blog and elsewhere.

Communicating isn’t all one way, of course. Whether it’s through our book or blog, social media, or private conversations, one of the key aspects of writing for me is receiving feedback and input from other people. We get fewer blog comments than I’d like, but those we do receive are incredibly valuable. For the same reason, we love having guest bloggers. If you’d like to guest here, check out our contact page for guidelines. Many of our posts include ideas and insights from other people. One recent example explored sympathy, empathy, and compassion and featured contributions from people who responded to my invitation on social media.

But these positive aspects don’t tell the whole story. In and of themselves, they’re probably not enough to keep me writing. If I’m honest, I write because I’m scared to stop. It often feels to me as though writing is the only thing I have that has any real meaning, value, or purpose. If I stopped writing, what would be left? At different times, I’ve thought about stopping my personal journal. I’ve certainly considered giving up blogging, or at least taking a break from it. In both cases, the very routine — daily journal entries and weekly blog posts — imposes an imperative to continue. Were I to interrupt either, I’d find it very difficult to pick up again at some later date. And so I continue, as much from fear as anything else.

The Desire to Hide

There can be many reasons for hiding, which in this context I’ll define as choosing not to communicate about something. We may feel inadequate to the task because we lack the skills or the experience to do so effectively. This is the reason I choose not to write about certain things, as I described in a post about blogging honestly.

There are topics I’d like to write about but haven’t yet found a way to approach them as I’d wish to. These include my perspective as a caring friend when someone I know has taken an overdose or harmed themself. I can’t imagine ever writing about abuse, addiction, rape, or trauma. Those are too far beyond my lived experience for me to do them justice.

It’s wise to be aware of our limitations, but it’s easy to become stuck in a mindset that keeps us from trying new things or exploring beyond the boundaries of our comfort zone. Those boundaries may still be relevant and useful, but it’s possible we’ve outgrown them. It’s worth checking in with the stories we tell ourselves, especially those that begin “I’m not the kind of person who ...” Maybe we are or could be, if we gave ourself permission to try.

I’ve written about things I’d once have felt uncomfortable sharing. These include open letters to my mother and to my father, and how I let a friend down when she was most in need. In recent years I’ve written about my physical and mental health for the first time, in such articles as My First Doctor’s Appointment in 30 Years, My Visit to Grey St. Opticians, Anxiety and Me, Return to Down, and This Boy Gets Sad Too. I explored what being a man means to me for International Men’s Day last year, and have described my self-doubt and feeling a fraud. This blog post is something I couldn’t have imagined writing in the past. It’s an example of how I feel increasingly comfortable being open and honest about myself.

That said, there are areas where I still feel the need to hide. For right or wrong, most of the reasons are fear-based. As I’ve previously described:

I would like to be completely honest, open, and genuine in everything I do and write, but honesty means admitting I’m afraid people might not like what I’ve shared, and won’t like me as a result. Who I am — who I really am, with my insights, experience, and wisdom; but also my faults, failings, and hang-ups — is all I have to offer. There are things I’ve chosen not to write about because of that fear.

I’m wary of discussing topics where I’ve not reached a clear decision or opinion, or where I feel unable to justify my position logically or respond adequately to the counter arguments. For these reasons amongst others, I choose not to write publically about religion, politics, gender issues, or war and conflict. With a few exceptions, I don’t write about my personal relationships, present or past. I don’t discuss sex, things I’m ashamed of or embarrassed about, or things entrusted to me by others. What are my fears, exactly? Several spring to mind.

• Fear of embarrassment
• Fear of ridicule, censure, or criticism
• Fear of negative or hurtful repercussions
• Fear of upsetting or disappointing people
• Fear of inciting controversy or anger

How realistic are these fears? That’s difficult to gauge in advance, which is why the urge to hide can be so debilitating. I mentioned there were times Fran and I came close to setting our book aside. That wasn’t because of the effort involved, although that brought its own challenges. It was because Fran feared the negative repercussions of revealing so much about herself, especially her mental health. She had good reason to be cautious, having experienced a great deal of stigma and discrimination in the past. Her health and wellbeing were always my primary concern. On several occasions we came close to setting the entire thing aside. It’s a testament to Fran’s courage that we completed the project.

I had no such fears, but the situation was very different for me. I was mostly sharing caring and supportive aspects of myself which were unlikely to attract negative attention. The closest thing to criticism directed at me was a sense of incredulity that I could devote so much time and attention to someone outside my immediate family. I feel far less confident sharing other aspects of my life, personality, and behaviour. It’s scary to contemplate lifting the lid and exposing my inner self to the world. Hiding may be neither honest nor honourable, but it can be comfortable. Fear can also be healthy, in that it guards us against sharing too much or inappropriately. Maintaining healthy boundaries is important. We can be honest and genuine without sharing everything with everyone all the time.

You may have heard the injunction “write what scares you.” But why would you? Why would I? One reason is to help other people take an equivalent step. So much of what I’ve learned about mental illness is the result of reading, watching, and listening to people willing to share what it’s like for them. It’s one of the very best ways to educate yourself about your loved one’s mental health condition, or indeed your own. There are other benefits too. We grow by being open about ourselves. That doesn’t have to mean sharing publically, but however we do it, choosing to communicate rather than hide is an act of commitment to who we are. Knowing that something we’ve said or shared has helped someone is profoundly encouraging and validating. In simple terms, helping people helps you too.

But what about the dark bits? I was discussing some of my past writing with a friend recently. Specifically, the short stories written between 1996 and 2005 when I ran a Tolkien fan group called Middle-earth Reunion. I’m proud of many of those tales. I referenced a few in We Are All Made of Stories, in which I discussed storytelling as a vehicle for self-exploration. My friend asked if any of the characters in my stories represented me. Aside from a few tales in which I appear as myself — including this one — there are only two characters I identify with to any great extent. The first is Malcolm, the confused and largely inadequate antihero of “Playing at Darkness.” The second is dour widower William (Bill) Stokes in “And Men Myrtles.”

It’s neither easy not straightforward for me to admit this. I’m fond of Malcolm and Bill, and the stories in which they appear represent the best fiction I’ve ever written. Nevertheless, there are aspects of their personalities and behaviour that I strongly disavow. In these and other tales there are instances of sexism, classism, obsession, inappropriate behaviour, and aggression. Some of these are fundamental to the narrative, others arguably less so. They sit uneasily with me now precisely because I recognise echoes in my own nature, behaviour, and experience in the past.

These stories were written almost twenty years ago. It would be convenient to say that’s where I was at the time, but I’ve learned and moved on. In many cases I believe that to be true, but the fact they make uneasy reading today suggests not all of the work has been done. I may or may not make these pieces public, but these are important topics in their own right. I do no one any good, myself included, by hiding them away or hiding from them.

I’ll close with two quotations by therapist and coach Saadia Z. Yunus. The first speaks to the fear of wanting to speak our truth.

Your heart may race every time you’re about to speak up for yourself. This doesn’t mean it is wrong. It means it didn’t feel safe when you spoke up in the past. Have grace for yourself, breathe through it and speak. Your voice deserves to be heard.

I’m reminded of something I wrote myself, years ago: “Speak your truth. Whisper it. Scream it. You never know who might need to hear what only you can say. This stuff matters. You matter.” The second quotation by Saadia Z. Yunus asks a very important question.

When did you receive the message that everyone around you has to be OK and comfortable at the expense of your own comfort, autonomy, and self?

We may, with good reason, fear the repercussions if by speaking out we upset other people. No one, however, has the right not to be upset or offended. Other people’s comfort is not more important than our commitment to the truth as we perceive it or our lives as we live them. On my bookshelf is a copy of Susan Jeffers’ Feel the Fear And Do It Anyway. I think it’s due for a re-read.

 

Photo by Road Trip with Raj at Unsplash.

 

Call for Submissions: Hope for Troubled Minds: Letters Between Those With Brain Illnesses and Our Loved Ones

I had the pleasure to be contacted recently by Tony Roberts, Chief Shepherd of Delight in Disorder Ministries and author of When Despair Meets Delight. He invited me to contribute to an upcoming book, Hope for Troubled Minds: Letters Between Those With Brain Illnesses and Our Loved Ones. This interested me because the topic and message fit so well with what Fran and I share in our books and here on our blog. I also love the open letter format, and posted a selection of open letters here last year.

At Tony’s request, I’m delighted to share the details of the book and extend the invitation to contribute. If you’re interested or would like to know more about the project, get in touch with Tony at the details shown below. Closing date for submissions is June 1, 2023.

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Hope for Troubled Minds: Letters Between Those With Brain Illnesses and Our Loved Ones

At 8 you started hearing voices. We took you to a doctor who put you on medicine, but your depression plunged. In Middle School, you started drugs to self-medicate and later alcohol. At 15 you were diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. The voices, paranoia, seeing things and violence has been too much to endure, but my love for you has not stopped. You hit the walls causing holes and break my dishes, but then you apologize and my heart melts. You can dance and tell jokes that draw me in. I love to hear you tell me the latest thing you heard in a movie or documentary. I love you more than you will ever know.

— Angie C.

Dear Fellow Advocate,

You are invited to submit a letter for inclusion in Hope for Troubled Minds: Letters Between Those With Brain Illnesses and Our Loved Ones. This anthology of letters and photos will serve to celebrate our humanity and contribute to advocating for those often counted as “the least of the least,” those with brain illnesses such as schizophrenia, bipolar, schizoaffective disorder, and major depression.

Your letter expressing love for care and gratitude for life in spite of what can be debilitating brain illnesses should be directly addressed to your loved one. Speak from the heart. The letter can be up to 1,000 words in length, and names may be kept anonymous or under a pen name if you prefer.

Some example letters can be found here and here.

The book will be published by Delight in Disorder Ministries, with all proceeds above cost being equally distributed to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), the Treatment Advocacy Center (TAC), and Delight in Disorder Ministries.

Letters will be accepted until June 1, 2023.

Use this Letter Submission Form, or e-mail Tony Roberts directly at tony[at]delightindisorder.org with your contact information and letter.

 

Marks on a Page: The Art and Craft of Letter Writing

I think I became a writer because I used to write letters to my friends, and I used to love writing them. I loved the idea that you can put marks on a page and send it off, and two days later, someone laughs somewhere else in the world.

— David Nicholls

I recently shared a selection of open letters I’ve written over the years, but what about regular, personal letters? Letter writing has always been an important part of my life and I thought it might be interesting to explore that a little. The inspiration to do so came when I discovered my friend Louise shares my love of letter writing. “It’s such a lovely thing,” she told me. “That hardly anyone does now. My mom used to make us write thank you letters to all our relatives after Christmas and birthdays so I think it’s been instilled in me.” I can trace my letter writing back to childhood too. I mentioned this last year in a blog post titled Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude.

We’re taught to be grateful — or rather, to express gratitude — at an early age, whether we want to or not. I remember writing grudging thank you letters to grandparents, aunts, and uncles every Boxing Day. It’s polite, I was told. It’s expected. But is a forced, ritualistic, thank you really a good thing? If I help someone and for some reason they’re not grateful, wouldn’t it be better if they felt able to say why, without worrying they’ll upset me or push me away?

Grudging thank you notes aside, the first letters I remember writing were to two French penfriends when I was at school. I can’t recall either of their names, and I don’t think the exchanges lasted long, but it opened me to the delight of sharing aspects of my life and learning something of another person’s life that might be quite different to my own.

Letter writing really took off for me during my years at university in Bradford. In those preinternet times, if you wanted to keep in touch with someone you had two options; phone calls or letters. I never felt confident on the telephone, even with close friends, and relied on correspondence to stay in touch with ex-school mates when I was away at university, and with university folk during Christmas and summer break. As I mentioned recently in an article describing my adventures with Teeline shorthand and other writing systems, I corresponded for a time in Elven Tengwar with one school friend who shared my fascination with the writing modes described by JRR Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings.

One university friend, Vicky, was a wonderful letter writer. She left Bradford early when she realised the course wasn’t for her, but we wrote to each other for a year or more afterwards. Her letters — I still have them — were delightful, full of silliness and wonder. She once sent me a large box of gifts, using mini bags of jelly tot sweets as packing material. I miss her a lot. I wrote a good deal of poetry in those days, too. One poem describes the — delicious — agony of waiting for a reply from someone you care about very deeply, hoping they feel the same but knowing they probably don’t.

Faithfully (unanswered)

Faithfully I keep the vows
I never made,
chastening a love I know
yet understand not
in the flames of its integrity
—waiting for devotion doubt denies me.
So few words would despatch misapprehension,
end this love’s charade,
or blow despair upon the wings of a kinder truth.

But tide and time have marked another day
and still no word
—not one—
consoles me.
My mind spins in its circles,
weaving reason out of darkness,
filling the silence with dreams and sighs and promises
beyond regret:
how long before it weaves my love a shroud
and the one I needed fades
like the last strains of a finale …

Tomorrow may bring my consolation
or find me waiting still
—impaled upon a desire
that cannot cede
but wears its agony like a crown of thorns. Renewed and
selfless adoration
in this modern age?
Perhaps.

I spent two six-month periods away from Bradford on placement. Letters were a lifeline, and kept the pulse of friendships going when we couldn’t be together in person. This was especially true on my second placement, at the start of my final academic year. The following is taken from a blog post exploring loneliness.

One Friday in September 1982, I arrived in Norwich to begin a six-month work placement at the regional hospital. I unpacked in my tiny room in the nurses’ home, and phoned friends to let them know I’d arrived safely. I enjoyed the months I worked there, but on that first night as I put down the phone, with the weekend ahead of me in a new city with no one I knew, I felt an almost existential loneliness.

I wrote to my best friend Dawn every week of those six months and checked the post each day for replies. I can still remember my excitement when I’d find an envelope from her in my pigeon hole. Letters to and from Dawn continued after I left university and moved to London. I was writing to several friends at that time, on a more or less regular basis.

One thing I like about letter writing is that it finds its own frequency and rhythm. I’d write to some friends more or less by return of post; others every few weeks; others less frequently. Pam (PJ) was a return-of-post kind of friend, and I loved her for that amongst much else. Our letters — I still have many of hers and drafts of mine — were a delightful mix of what we’d been up to, what our mutual friends were up to, our dreams, hopes, and plans for the future. I’d often take a several days to write to a letter. I’d treat myself to each step of the process; jotting down a few ideas, writing the letter in draft, copying it out neatly, addressing the envelope, and walking to the post box to send it off on its way. Thinking about it now brings many warm memories.

After three years in London, I moved north to Newcastle upon Tyne. I continued writing to friends from university and others I’d made during my time in the capital. The frequency and content of the letters reflected the friendships themselves. Some were of the what’s-been-happening-lately variety. Others went much deeper, exploring what we were each thinking and feeling, our hopes and fears, the birth of new relationships, and the pain as relationships fractured and ended.

Around this time I connected with an amazing artist called Yuri Leitch and exchanged many long and detailed letters on topics I knew very little about but was keen to explore. Our friendship led to an introduction to someone who became a close friend and wonderful return-of-post correspondent for several years. Sorcha’s letters were full of life and energy, and I wove her knowledge and love of the Isles of Scilly into some of my fictional work.

My mother was the only member of my family I ever wrote to with any frequency. As her health deteriorated, her replies became intermittent and ultimately stopped altogether. I continued to send letters and cards, nonetheless. The following is from the open letter to my mother, written and published after she died.

It’s been a while since I wrote you. Six months. What was the last thing I sent you? A postcard, probably. Someone — one of your sisters, my aunts — told me a while back that my letters to you went unopened. Hence the postcards: nothing for you to open (or not open), a pretty picture for you to look at, and less aching white space for me to fill each week. It made it easier — for me at least. Nothing too heavy. News from up here in the north. Family. Friends. Work. Then best wishes for your wellbeing and family down there.

I wrote to hide my inability — some would say refusal — to respond to her needs in more meaningful and practical ways. It wasn’t the first time I’d done this. A close friend developed multiple sclerosis, which advanced far more rapidly than she or anyone else anticipated. As I’ve shared elsewhere,

I watched helplessly as the woman I had known was overwhelmed by disease, despair, and grief. The depth of her need terrified me. I wrote to her every day for what turned out to be the last two years of her life, but never once picked up the telephone. I visited her home only once, after her death, to attend a memorial ceremony.

The friend I treated so poorly was none other than PJ. My daily letter writing was rooted in the love and meaning we’d shared in former times, when we’d often correspond by return of post. Her replies fell away, though, as the illness progressed and her hope diminished. I might have responded to those changes by asking how I could help more meaningfully, but I kept on relentlessly mailing my daily thoughts and best wishes until she became too ill to read them, or even have them read to her. I’ve no record of what I said to her, but I know where I was when I wrote the final letter. The following is from a blog post about my favourite writing cafés and coffee shops.

One of my clearest memories is of sitting at the window [of the Rendezvous café in Whitley Bay] one day in September 2005 writing a letter to my friend PJ who I’d known since university. She was very ill with multiple sclerosis and I had written every day for two years. I addressed and sealed the envelope but for some reason, I didn’t post it. A mutual friend phoned me the following evening to tell me PJ had died overnight.

I haven’t always got it wrong with my letter writing, though. I can’t recall how soon I began writing to Fran, but before long I was posting letters to her every week. As we describe in our book, “[w]e love to communicate and use all means available to us. Telephone and video calls, e-mails, text messages, letters, instant messaging, and other social media — each medium has its virtues, and adds its particular spice to our conversations.” You might wonder what handwritten letters and cards gave us, given that it can take up to a week for a letter posted in the UK to be delivered to the US. Immediacy, however, is not always the prime consideration.

In a friendship conducted almost exclusively online there is something special about sitting at a table in my favourite coffee shop, taking up my fountain pen and writing a letter, then sealing the letter into an envelope, addressing it, and taking it to the post office. The fact that a week may elapse before my words reach Fran enhances their significance rather than diminishing it. In a letter, I pay less attention to our day-to-day situation, problems, and activities, and explore more general themes operating on longer timescales. Fran often reads my letters to me once they have reached her.

These days, the person I write to most regularly is my friend Maya. We’ve been friends for many years. There have been times when we’ve struggled, and without the pulse of our letters it’s likely we’d have drifted apart or failed to repair issues when they arose. She sends the best letters, whether written by hand or typed and printed out. Our friendship has always touched on deeper topics but we can do light and fun too! Her letters interweave personal and family news with quizzes, jokes, stories, photos, and illustrations. The envelopes are true works of art, often layered with washi tape, stickers, craft papers, tissue paper, and natural elements such as dried leaves. She tells me she gets a great deal of pleasure crafting her letter and envelope for me each week. My replies are written by hand and far less colourful but — I hope — are as meaningful to Maya as hers are to me.

I’ve talked about writing letters to keep in touch, but what can letters offer that other modes of communication can’t do better and more quickly? It can take days for a letter to reach its recipient, and at least as long again to receive a reply. Why bother, when you could send an e-mail or instant message, or pick up the phone? That inbuilt delay is the whole point, though. It gives us pause to consider what we want to say and how to say it, and to ponder what our loved one might be doing when they receive our letter. Will they open it straight away or wait — as I often do — until they can give it their full attention. We imagine our loved one’s face, their feelings and reaction as they read our words. As author David Nicholls puts it, “I [love] the idea that you can put marks on a page and send it off, and two days later, someone laughs somewhere else in the world.”

It’s not always laughter, of course. Our words might evoke tears, frustration, anger, or more. Likewise, we might experience a range of emotions reading words sent to us from afar. The best letters I’ve ever sent or received were written from the heart, honestly and truthfully, and sometimes the truth is challenging, to say the least. Sometimes it hurts like hell. Where there’s no expectation of an immediate response, e-mails and even instant messages can be written as letters and received in the same way. I exchanged weekly e-mail letters with a friend at a time when we were uncertain if our connection had any future. The discipline of only connecting once a week allowed for a great deal of inner work.

Putting this article together has been more emotional than I imagined it might be. It’s brought back memories of people and moments I’d not thought of a long time. I’m grateful for all the people I’ve corresponded with over the years. Some are still in my life, many are not — and that’s okay. Not every connection lasts forever. No matter the current situation, letters provide a tangible reminder of when channels were open and love flowed “from my heart to your heart.”

I can think of no better way to close than with these words by Soraya Diase Coffelt: “Letter writing can be seen as a gift because someone has taken his/her time to write and think and express love.”

Over to You

Are you someone who loves writing and receiving letters, or do you prefer to keep in touch in other ways? What was the best or most meaningful letter you ever received? Have you ever sent a letter you wished you could recall?

I’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by the author of an envelope crafted by Maya Hayward.