Letters. Gifts of thought for an audience of one — you. Neither as transient as a phone call nor as expedient as an e-mail nor as perfunctory as a text message, a personal hand-written letter is valued precisely because it isn’t technological, because it reminds us of days when people took the time to think, to care, and to deliberate before they spoke. 

     In the time-honored tradition of personal correspondence, words mean something: they are chosen, often with great pains, to impart just the right meaning. Indeed, one of the greatest consolations of receiving a personal letter is that it can be saved and savored over and over again, its lines revealing yet another layer of meaning each time it is reread. Who among us doesn’t have a stash of letters somewhere, however small, that were just too special to throw away?

     That specialness is inherent in letter-writing because knowing that another person took the time to write this message, this note, this card just for you makes you feel special. (And that, by the way, is why so many people, including me, are bothered by these single-spaced, long-winded computerized “family yearly resumes” about people whom you do not even know that masquerade as personalized holiday greetings.) Writing should be personal, as well as informative.

     Specialness works the other way too, in that a letter can’t help but reveal the writer. Whether typed on customized letterhead or written by hand on idiosyncratic stationery, rare is the letter that fails to present the personality of its author on the page. And I don’t know of any avid letter-writer who isn’t an absolute fanatic about paper and pens and ink and envelope size, and even the design of the postage stamp! We are as fastidious about all that as we are about the clothes we wear.

     And then there’s what’s inside: the words. All of us are so readily seduced by the freedom, and the hubris, of the opportunity for uninterrupted discourse that we find it almost impossible to conceal ourselves. Even in the most business-like letter, pretense is hard to  sustain past the salutation and the first sentence or two. Wittingly or not, through tone and mood and choice of language and expression, our fantasies and fears and foibles will reveal themselves, even more so when the receiver knows us well and can “hear between the lines.”

     The quiet, private nature of letter-writing allows many people to be more truly themselves on the page than anywhere else. The verbally reticent are more articulate, even humorous and playful, because they have time to think about what they want to say. Conversely, the more verbose among us (myself included) become calmer and more succinct without the immediacy of speaking. And almost all of us find it easier to write about sensitive topics — love, hurt, fear —than we do to talk about them. We are consoled by the fact that if we don’t get the words right the first time, we can start over and try again, notwithstanding the fact that once written and sent, words can’t be retracted (which is why one should never send an angry letter immediately)..

      From the time I was a youngster in school with pen pals and far-away cousins, to the three years of engagement to my far-away fiancé, I have always been an avid letter-writer. I have saved years’ worth of letters and notes and postcards from my husband, my son, old friends and colleagues, former students and their parents, and even some well-known people. Taken together, they run the gamut of purpose and emotion: accolades and praise, disappointments and regret, anger and love, acceptance and rejection. Were they all organized into some sort of chronological order, which they probably never will be, they would offer a complete biography of my interpersonal relationship, with some interesting insights on history, work, and culture, as all letters do.

     The continued existence of these letters and cards in cartons and file cabinets have been an immeasurable source of joy and reflection for me over the years, even though I don’t dig through them regularly. But each time I come across one of them in a drawer or a folder, I am immediately transported back in time and circumstance while the real or imagined face of the writer floats in my mind. Of course, letters from those who have died are especially sacred, even if they were fussing at me when they wrote them. Their lessons continue to be letters to live by.

     My long history of letter writing is at least partly responsible for turning me into a professional writer as an adult, I’m sure, but it is most certainly responsible for teaching me to appreciate the unique power of self-expression as a way to stay connected to a lifetime of friends and family members who are scattered all over the globe. That I have maintained such close relationships, even sustaining my engagement over a three year period while my fiancé, was out of the country, is a tremendous source of satisfaction and pride for me.

     “People don’t write letters anymore,” or “they don’t send cards or thank-you notes anymore.” I hear these laments all the time; perhaps you’ve said them yourself. Remember, though, that you have to write letters in order to receive them, and that you have to encourage written correspondence among your friends and family (as I am doing even now) so that it becomes a routine, even a preferred way of communicating.

     In this hectic, harried world, what could be more satisfying than spending a few minutes alone in private conversation with someone dear to you? And at still a few cents an ounce, what other pleasure is so popularly priced? So, if you are one of those kindred souls who continues to persevere in penning personal messages even when those you care about claim that they don’t have the time to reciprocate,  then I hope this will validate your efforts and remind you why you persist in writing letters to live by.