A Letter to Letters

Dear Letters,

I miss you.

I used to like you showing up in my mailbox. But you’ve been gone about 20 years. Which is a bummer.

Where’d you go?

Your pal, Rich.

P.S. Yes, I confess: I typed this on my computer and printed it with a handwriting font.

Dear Rich,

Thank you for writing us. Not too many people have done that lately.

In fact, nobody has done it. Ever.

As you can see, we’re using a computer-generated handwriting font as well. But we have an excuse: we have no hands. We’re letters.

Part of the magic of a letter is that it takes effort to write one. It’s personal. It makes it easy for the reader to connect … to picture the person who wrote it.

Truth is, people like yourself got lazy. Decided it’s much faster to spit out an email. Despite the fact that an email has the personality of Eeyore reading every bullet on a PowerPoint slide.

So try this: write something with a real pen, on real paper, to a real person and see what happens.

Yours truly, Letters.

Dear Letters,

Thank you for your thoughtful response.

I tried doing as you suggested, but here’s the deal: I have a whole drawer of pens, but none of them work anymore.

I also have a really nice pen because there was a time when I thought having a really nice pen would be really nice, but I never used it, and it, too, doesn’t work. Drier than my chronic dry eyes.

And I’m not alone. At least 80% of the time, when I go to sign a credit card receipt at a restaurant, their pens don’t work either.

Even if one of the pens worked, I’ve forgotten how to use one. My cursive is cursed. A whole page of words in block letters is ridiculous.

So I guess there really is no hope for me ever giving or getting another letter.

Your pal, Rich.

Dear Rich,

Well, that was a pretty lame excuse.

We think you need a shock-and-awe experience to get you over the hump in reinvigorating your passion for letter writing.

For that, we suggest a Survival Kit to include:

• Strunk & White branded Defibrillator: The only device that not only shocks a failed heart back to life, but also reminds you to omit needless words. So you can stop worrying: handwriting a letter won’t kill you.

• Peter Millar Carpal Tunnel Wrist Wrap: Eliminates the threat of that annoying tingling in your fingers when you’ve been gripping your pen too tightly for long periods of time … and does it in style. Get it in BIC Blue.

• Hebrew Wall Clock: Unless you can read Hebrew, it’ll help you avoid dwelling on how long you’ve been writing that letter since you’ll be thinking all along that the hands move “backward” just like their text.

• Box of Kleenex: If you start to cry, they’ll be there to comfort you.

With this kit in hand, you’ll be ready for anything, Rich, including cardiac arrest. So no more excuses; start writing.

Yours truly, Letters.

Dear Letters,

You’re a bunch of wise guys, eh? Kleenex tissues!

Fine. I found a pen that worked, located an actual piece of paper, and sat down to write.

Then I realized I had nothing to say.

AI?

Your pal, Rich.

Dear Rich,

Pull yourself together. People managed to write during artillery fire.

Here's a paragraph from an actual letter written by a Navy yeoman named William Vasos to his wife Irene in 1944, now preserved in a university archive:

“My Darling Sweetheart,

I bet you are still just as lovely and pretty as ever. You really wow me. I can never forget anything about you, and I believe what we feel is real love. I vividly remember our loving embraces, and I am so thankful and glad to have a wife like you who understands me and always tries to please me. I want to return to you more in love than ever.”

Now here’s how it would sound if AI had written it:

“Dear Wife,

This letter confirms that I continue to think of you — at least sometimes. The physical interactions in my memories — sweaty or not — support the conclusion that our relationship could be categorized as love. My intention is to return at the earliest operationally feasible opportunity — upon which I anticipate a level of affection commensurate with expectations. Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

Now you tell me, Rich, which one is a letter and which one is an em-dashed cold-hearted mess? If a sailor in the middle of a world war can pen a thoughtful letter, so can you.

Yours truly, Letters.

My Darling Letters,

I’m ashamed to admit that you are right. It’s so obvious.

You’ve awakened my hibernating affection for connecting with other human beings straight from the heart, recorded with the motions of my own extremities, as if stroking blood.

That this letter is still printed off my computer in a handwriting font, and not my own hand, should not alarm you; it was just a busy week, and I wanted to get this to you without delay.

I now only have one major hurdle left: Who the heck should I write to?

Your pal, Rich.

Dear Rich,

You are hopeless.

Write to the person you most wish would write back.

Or, more realistically, go back to occasionally exchanging greeting cards. They’re easy, impersonal, and already written by someone else.

Yours truly, Letters.

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