Not many people write letters these days. Invitations, thank yous, birthdays, customer service complaints…there are email forms and clever software apps for just about everything. Just ask the Post Office, which is staring some form of bankruptcy in the face. It’s even easier to send an email than to call, witness the phone companies sweating bullets competing for my dwindling landline bill while Apple smiles at my (late adopter) embrace of texting and Facebook continues to “improve” everyone’s access to my social networking information.
So it is a joy to have one friend who not only writes letters, but writes them so brilliantly, so charmingly, so richly that I can hardly wait for her next missive. She’s an American but lives in France, so we do our correspondence via emails, but not in email language. No LOLs or IMHOs for her. She’s literate, funny, frank, and highly opinionated, which I treasure. I try to be half as interesting when I write to her.
Our letters say a lot about us, much as Jane Austen’s and Abigail Adams’ and Lillian Hellman’s did about them. I mention these women not because I equate my writing with theirs, but because, as famous writers and personalities, their epistolary (now there’s a word we don’t use much any more!) writing has been captured, saved, and published, so I can access it. My friend is an artist and writer, and once edited a fashionable magazine, so she has the chops for this. She, like I, stretches her humorous anecdotes to capture the full human folly in them, and holds up a gleaming mirror to her own shortcomings so that I continue to know her as a fully-formed person. I hear her voice and understand that she spends a little time on her letters to me, not so much that her prose is stilted, but enough so it stands for something.
I’m not writing this to bemoan the lack of letter writing skills in “today’s youth.” I suspect every age feels that way about the one that is rapidly succeeding it. I do think something is lost, not just for the reader, but for the writer, when an animated card accompanied by elevator music substitutes for a handwritten birthday note. I’ll bet my grandmother had exactly the same response when a Hallmark card took the note’s place, and somewhere in the 19th century, someone kvetched when a reference in Latin fell on uncomprehending ears! We are of our era, and I will rejoice and be happy that my friend and I have this small pleasure to relish.