I have often wondered what it would be like to maintain a relationship through written correspondence. I had pen pals when I was younger and there was a certain magic to opening an envelope to a handwritten letter on college-ruled paper with black ink. You can see the mistakes and the scribbles where the wrong word was selected and in the permanence of of pen there are few things so unforgiving. In my case, it’s a call to slow down and concentrate, to form my words into one half of a conversation and tap into my creative side.
My writing voice is much more interesting than my speaking voice. It’s backed by the ability to carefully compose rather than spit it out on the fly.
Unfortunately, no one has the patience for this anymore because of e-mail and social media. “Connection” is just a click away now, rather than waiting days to receive a response. The anticipation is part of the magic; the wait is the great allure. But now it’s all about instant gratification, the dopamine rush of getting things now, now, now. That’s just our culture. Now.
I often long for someone who can take the time to write me a letter because she thinks I’m worth the effort but also has the capacity to compose her words artfully and spark my wild heart and imagination. It stands to reason if she can write well she can read well.
There is gratification in handwriting, even if it’s just for yourself. I don’t update here as much because I started using a notebook. It’s the might of the pen, the magic of the words filling up a page. There’s just something about every word hand written. There are websites out there for finding pen pals but it seems so impersonal. My previous pen pals were people I connected with and shared my joy in writing. Nobody I know feels this anymore.
I have been told I’m an old soul. Maybe I’m just old.