I just wrote a letter. I'm perfectly delighted by it. The act of writing letters is every bit as rewarding as I had hoped that it would be. It gives me an opportunity to express myself in long form, which is (apparently) my favorite thing to do, and I can make a precise connection with another individual in a way that nourishes us both.
Here's the problem. My letter will take DAYS to get there. This -- belying the idyllic past-century portrait that I'm trying to sell you above -- makes me feel nothing less than insane. The postmark on the letter that I'm answering is November 3. It arrived here on Friday, November 6. I didn't get around to my reply until Monday. That actually felt fairly efficient given all the other things that can get in the way...like, for example, this blog. I am sending my reply today, in Tuesday's mail, and it will arrive in Boise, ID, probably on the 13th. That's ten days from message to reply. TEN DAYS. I can't wait ten days. My life changes in ten days. In ten days I might be completely done with this letter-writing thing and on to making origami.
Then again, maybe origami is the solution. Every time I feel an impulse to check the mailbox -- so similar, I'm finding, to refreshing one's email page -- I could sit down and fold a paper crane.
(Paper cranes in the windows... Paper cranes on the bookshelves... Paper cranes in the bathroom...)
I hope everyone around here likes paper cranes.