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The pleasure of the written word ...
Jul. 22nd, 2004 01:46 pmMy niece Halyn wrote to my 6 year old daughter T at the beginning of the summer, thereby introducing her to the joys of having a pen pal. Much to my surprise about 3 weeks ago, I also got a letter from Hayln. It brought back a whole host of memories and feelings about writing.
When I first moved here in 1989 from California - I had not yet discovered the 'net. Much of the first two years here consisted of trading letters back and forth between family and friends. I got my first account in '92, thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sierra_victor and was thrilled that I could, at last, have instant gratification(because ... sometimes, I am that kind of girl). It didn't take me long to discover a whole host of friends with which to trade words with. Matter of fact, much of my early courtship with lapsedagnostic was over e-mail, and sadly, most of those letters were lost to me (damn, I wished I'd archived stuff or saved it to disc *feh*) I have, however, never gotten over the excitement and joy of receiving, in snail mail, a letter.
Opening the mailbox and sorting through what is now mostly junk, and finding an envelope in familiar handwriting, is like finding treasure. Better than finding a $20 bill. I will usually come inside the house, letter tucked in my fingers, under all the other stuff. Put down the mail, throw the bills in a basket, and then find a quiet corner. I look around furtively to make sure no one is going to check on me, or ask me for anything and then open it. Savour it like you would a good meal, or a fine wine. Of course, the longer the better... but a page is good too. If it's a particularly bad day, I'll tear open the letter while strolling back across my lawn. Eager to take in the words before I can hit the front door again. And in the car, I admit to occasionally trying to read and drive (no not in traffic, just up the street). Sort of like being an addict, who doesn't realize they're jones'n until the 'fix' is put in front of them.
I keep old letters. Yes, I have shoeboxes full of them. I don't read them hardly ever now, but it would be losing a piece of me to part with them. I can't decide exactly why, but in part, it's because a letter (to me) is tangible proof, that for a moment in time I was on someone's mind. Yes, in some way e-mail is like that too -- but it seems less permanent. Unless you religiously back things up or print them out, one virus can wipe out months, if not years of precious words (as evidenced in my earlier paragraph about my early love letters with Q). I'd rather have a letter, hand written over typed, crossed out words, slopply (but not unreadable) handwriting, a stray wisp of something on the paper, maybe the soft scent of perfume, dried flowers ..
I wrote my niece back today. A beautiful card, and inside I wrote with purple ink, my favourite color. I told her of our summer, and our plans for camping. That I enjoyed the sun and the pool, and how very much I miss her and her brother, her mom and dad, and being in CA.
And I can't wait until she writes back .....
When I first moved here in 1989 from California - I had not yet discovered the 'net. Much of the first two years here consisted of trading letters back and forth between family and friends. I got my first account in '92, thanks to
sierra_victor and was thrilled that I could, at last, have instant gratification(because ... sometimes, I am that kind of girl). It didn't take me long to discover a whole host of friends with which to trade words with. Matter of fact, much of my early courtship with lapsedagnostic was over e-mail, and sadly, most of those letters were lost to me (damn, I wished I'd archived stuff or saved it to disc *feh*) I have, however, never gotten over the excitement and joy of receiving, in snail mail, a letter.Opening the mailbox and sorting through what is now mostly junk, and finding an envelope in familiar handwriting, is like finding treasure. Better than finding a $20 bill. I will usually come inside the house, letter tucked in my fingers, under all the other stuff. Put down the mail, throw the bills in a basket, and then find a quiet corner. I look around furtively to make sure no one is going to check on me, or ask me for anything and then open it. Savour it like you would a good meal, or a fine wine. Of course, the longer the better... but a page is good too. If it's a particularly bad day, I'll tear open the letter while strolling back across my lawn. Eager to take in the words before I can hit the front door again. And in the car, I admit to occasionally trying to read and drive (no not in traffic, just up the street). Sort of like being an addict, who doesn't realize they're jones'n until the 'fix' is put in front of them.
I keep old letters. Yes, I have shoeboxes full of them. I don't read them hardly ever now, but it would be losing a piece of me to part with them. I can't decide exactly why, but in part, it's because a letter (to me) is tangible proof, that for a moment in time I was on someone's mind. Yes, in some way e-mail is like that too -- but it seems less permanent. Unless you religiously back things up or print them out, one virus can wipe out months, if not years of precious words (as evidenced in my earlier paragraph about my early love letters with Q). I'd rather have a letter, hand written over typed, crossed out words, slopply (but not unreadable) handwriting, a stray wisp of something on the paper, maybe the soft scent of perfume, dried flowers ..
I wrote my niece back today. A beautiful card, and inside I wrote with purple ink, my favourite color. I told her of our summer, and our plans for camping. That I enjoyed the sun and the pool, and how very much I miss her and her brother, her mom and dad, and being in CA.
And I can't wait until she writes back .....
