A letter from a stranger
Plus, my big TV debut, orgone pendants, and what makes a person qualified to write
This week I got the coolest letter that was ever addressed to “Resident.” It was from the woman who grew up in the house I own today. Sending it was an act of faith on her part, but as my sister-in-law pointed out, it was as if she sent it to the exact right person.
While we didn’t have a “most likely to strike up a correspondence with a stranger” superlative in my high school, I would have nailed it if we did.
I took up letter writing as a hobby back at the turn of the century when I went to college. I was 30 and worried that it had been so long since I wrote longhand that I wouldn’t be able to understand my notes.
Rather than journaling in private like a normal person, I decided I would start writing letters. I will shock no one that I write to be read. Anything left unpublished at my death is either brand new or beyond salvation. I sent long wandering letters to family members being careful to assure them not to feel as if they had to write back.
In retrospect, it could have come off like I was sending them my self-imposed penmanship homework. It was obnoxious but honest.
I picked up the habit again just before the apocalypse, writing to my nieces and nephews on their birthdays to tell family stories, encourage them, undermine adult authority, you know, uncle stuff.
The letter I got wasn’t at all self-indulgent, neither was it nostalgic or sappy. I was pleased to read a brief history of the house and learn some fun facts about the people who lived here three years before I moved in.
I almost felt bad for the letter-writer, though. My head was filled with responses and insights, stories I wanted to share, and assurances I wanted to give. I’d written three tight, nearly-legible pages before I forced myself to stop short. Then I got to work on an essay that’s already knocking on 5,000 words.
Although there was no way she could have known as much, I had been obsessing for weeks about the effect a personal letter from a stranger has. I send them all the time.
Blind Letter Journalism
I’ve been writing about some pretty difficult topics for the last year or so. Suicide, murder, betrayal, systematic racism, the kinds of family stories that people aren’t necessarily enthusiastic about telling.
I try emailing and calling whenever I’m able, but when there are no other options, I’ll shoot my interview request along in a note. I do it with full knowledge that I might be ruining someone’s day.
We all love getting real mail, and to peel open a hand-addressed letter only to be reminded of some of the darkest days in your life has to be weird. I am bringing memories they likely had stowed away into their minds unbidden. Oftentimes, they’re not even memories associated with the story, only the time or place.
Getting this letter did all of that, but it did more. A lifetime of memories, even those around difficult circumstances, will have bright spots among the dark. Reading her observations and applying them to everything that happened here over the last 25 years gave me an opportunity to revisit events or even snapshot experiences that I hadn’t thought of in decades.
It made me jealous that I hadn’t thought of it, and more jealous that I don’t have any pleasant memories of places I’ve lived. It’s not that bleak. Maybe the best way to say it is that before buying this house I’d rented three or four other places for a year or two. Before that, I lived in my childhood home for 18 years.
I can’t bond with whoever is living in the garbage rental houses I could barely afford at the time: “Hi, I lived where you do back in the 90s. Does it still suck to have to choose between food and heat?”
If you can, though, I really think you should. I relished the opportunity to recalibrate my thinking about the house, the previous owners, and some of the design choices they made. My criticism has softened on that last point, now that there’s a name and a backstory to go with the decisions.
I invited her to come by next time she’s in town. I’d love to show her around, I’m proud of what I’ve done with the pond her father installed.
If you have received or sent any pleasant letters like this, please let me know. If you decided to try sending one yourself, also totally let me know.
I’ll be on TV next week
How bananas is that? While I was researching my book I crossed paths with a documentary crew who was working on the same story. I’ll tell the whole thing next week, along with my book release date, but the short version is I’m featured in (I believe) most of the six episodes.
I’m not in the trailer, but my computer and beer are. So there’s that.
What Makes You Qualified to Write?
When you’re pitching a book or writing a bio for one you’re supposed to communicate what makes you the right person to write a particular book. Earlier this week I tinkered with the idea that the reasons we give aren’t the reasons we’re qualified.
Speaking of odd letters…
I got an orgone necklace in the mail from a member of Sherry Shriner’s cult. I had to buy it but it was a bargain at twice the price for one last glimpse into the phrphet’s network of orgone endorsers.
Day Drinking on Delmarva
In this week’s podcast, Todd DeHart and I talk about the last 13 or so years he’s been covering fun times at the beach.
Thanks so much for reading
My breakup with social media is more like a sick marriage dying than a throwing-pots-and-pans divorce. When I post things, it is more out of duty than out of joy. I can’t justify not posting, though posting gives neither the social network nor I much pleasure.
Facebook will occasionally show my friends my posts out of sheer pity (and some of them will even like them) but Facebook isn’t for clicking through, it’s for reminding people that they are still on good terms with one another.
Like and move on.
The point is, if you’ve followed a social media post here, thank you. Also, if you make a comment here I’ll answer a little quicker. Feel free to respond to this email with questions and comments, too. I’d much rather have a conversation than a bunch of likes.
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