Letters to Others
Dear Reader,
When I was growing up, my grandfather had this odd habit of collecting old postcards and giving them at various holidays. Christmas/New Year’s Day was the favorite, with Thanksgiving nearby. (Valentine’s Day had its representatives, and often the most entertaining verse, but it was not the favorite.)
The back of these old postcards held old notes. My siblings and I entertained ourselves deciphering these old bits of very personal, yet public conversation.
As I’ve been reading through collections of letters recently, collections from some prominent authors I enjoy, it’s been a season of observing the personal and mundane from afar.
Sometimes there’s a workshopping of ideas; others, a repeat of themes. Some give advice; others express thanks for it. Some reveal the greatness of each writer; others reveal their mortality.
Seasons of thanks and of illness are accounted for; seasons of turmoil and triumph are met with varying response.
It’s strange reading the letters of others. You are transported into a different world and into different lives. And yet they can come to feel like your own—the cast of characters with names as comfortable to you as your next-door neighbor's.
Sometimes the letters themselves can feel like your own private thoughts, expressed as though by your own hand. Or your private thoughts expressed as you wish you had expressed them once long ago.
It’s a curious thing, the letters of others.
If you’ve not tried it, I can’t say I recommend the practice of reading them. But it’s also unlikely to do you any harm.
Happy reading to you,
Kreigh