Writing letters

I’ve taken to writing letters recently. I think it’s a dying artform, and there’s something personal and intimate about a letter. Emails are fine for business… even for a quick catch-up. But handwritten letters are so much more. There’s more thought, more process, more ritual. A letter becomes like a treasured possession or part of a memory. More personality. More care.

I think you can tell a lot about a person in a handwritten letter than by text or email. The type of pen that’s been used, the way the writing slants, slopes, flourishes or loops, how a letter is dated and addressed - even the way a person signs off says a lot about them.

I get so fed up of staring at computer screens all day long, so sitting down and writing a letter is a welcome change. Although I’m a pretty fast typist - around 85-90wpm - I’m much happier with a pen in hand, scribbling and doodling over a piece of paper. I always go into meetings with a notepad and pen at the ready, because if I don’t have something to doodle on, for some reason my mind wanders and I just cannot focus or concentrate.

And the best bit is when I find a personally addressed envelope waiting for me on the porch mat. I scoop up the mound of impersonal bills, direct mail and local circulars and temporarily cast them aside in favour of my letter. I hook my finger under a corner of the envelope and steadily tear it open, before pulling out the sheets of ever so slightly crinkled, creased or dogeared pages.

And as I sit, sunk into the sofa with hot drink in hand, reading the latest news, random thoughts and questions from my sender, I start constructing my reply in my head. Sometimes I’ll read the letter again, before happily sitting for an hour or so in the quiet, scrawling across a pad, bashing out a reply. Depending on my mood, I might have some music playing in the background. The television might stay muted in the corner of the room. At other times, all that can be heard is the scratching of my pen on paper, and the rhythmic ticking of my grandparents’ wartime clock.

Occasionally I’ll pause - sit and stare out of the window, deep in thought. But more often than not I write relentlessly, until my hands are splotched with ink and the finger and thumb grasping the pen are indented and slightly sore. My written words usually come quickly and easily, although my thoughts can race ahead and my hand struggles to keep up, missing out letters or misspelling words. Sometimes I have to make additional notes or comments in the margins of the cheap and flimsy notepaper.

And then I reach the end, promising to be more coherent and to bring more exciting news in my reply. I sign off, add a few postscripts (ps, pps, ppps…), and stuff the letter into an addressed envelope and seal it close. My bundle of thoughts and comments and ponderings and frustrations and ambitions are then either dropped into my bag ready for delivery the next day, marched to the red postbox at the top of my road.

For some reason, I always hover a little hesistantly before surrending my letter to the post box’s open jaws. What if it gets lost? What if I haven’t sealed it properly? Did I write the correct post code? When will it reach the recipient? And drop. In it goes. Signed, sealed, delivered.

And then I wait for my reply.

I love writing letters.

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