The scarcity of letters

I’m terrible at staying in touch with friends and family. Recent events rarely, if ever, seem to merit firing off an email. And the more time that passes between each communiqué, the greater the pressure to write something substantial. Online messages have a cheap and nasty feel, the electronic equivalent of a late-night souvlaki, so writing something substantial feels like an uphill battle. No wonder my motivation withers to nothing (or so I tell myself). But a handwritten letter is truly something else, from another time, an other world.

Letters convey a level of intimacy by sheer virtue of their existence, let alone their contents. They inspire a desire, an onus, to respond likewise. They renew calluses I thought I’d never see again after my school days. Rummaging through old letters is a warm and fuzzy experience, one which no amount of searching old emails can begin to approach.

An email costs nothing to send, physically or financially, and their sheer volume and general triviality means that they become a form of clutter. Meanwhile, reading even a few biographies of historical figures reveals the amazing depth and value of posthumous letter collections. Once the de facto means of communicating with people beyond the immediate household, they provide all manner of insights into a person’s life, many of which simply have no parallel in our online communications.

They are treasures of immense value.

In this day and age, with the vast array of conveniences we have at hand, a handwritten letter truly is a labour of love. They tell such wonderful, human stories. I love that we have friends with whom this is a primary form of communication. I’m also grateful that these friends are few in number; there’s only so much toil my hand can take.