on snail mail

I started to write a pitch for a publication that was looking for a piece on “snail mail.” It asked for the romantic side of offline connection. I tried about six times to write it before sending it to a friend who provided her usual stellar feedback with a very realistic addition: “Honestly, pitching is such an unforgiving business.” Did I get the pitch? You bet your butt I didn’t. In all fairness, I’m terrible at pitching. Off the bat I spin a tale, stir up a memory, describe a moment - a tornado taking form as my fingers on a keyboard. So, I’m learning to pitch - and it’s a fun process. But in this learning, I realized from all the tries at writing a pitch, I ended up writing a nice little piece about letter writing, snail mail, and the struggles of being “that friend” living far away.

"Address plz"

When the demand via text appears on their Whatsapp, no longer does the response "Why?" come back to me - incoming house numbers, street names, and apartment specificities from friends are listed without question or curiosity.

Well. Maybe sometimes.

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO MAIL ME I'M EXCITED AAAGGHH"

Peppering the pages of my ink-filled address book are scribbled out names of exes next to friends who remain steadfast, strange British and Danish mailing codes, and crossed-out marks above fresh lines indicating new digs from friends who move around just as much as I do. Stationary and postage in Italy is not exactly cheap (compared to the ever-accessible Hallmark-Hobby Lobby-Papyrus-Home Goods-etc. of the States). But since I'm a post-grad trying to make her life happen abroad, I'll happily - albeit reluctantly, while cringing - pay for the fancy Venetian letterhead that I know will give my mom a sense of ease and pride in her daughter who’s doing well(ish) - not to mention, the stationary is classy as all get out.  

Letter writing has been an ongoing activity in my life - so much so that to this day I find it slightly rude to not find a handwritten thank you note if I attend a wedding or send a gift. I give my mother credit for that one, and honestly, she's right.

It wasn't always a practice in etiquette for me - as new chapters of my life began in new places, it became harder and harder to have meaningful conversations through technology. Being one of the friends that moved away (and has stayed away) has reshaped how I communicate with the ones I love - for better or for worse.

First, it was the fact that I didn't have an iPhone like the rest of the American herd of sheep - how could I possibly connect without iMessage? Then, it was the request to download WhatsApp and figure out notifications, save my international phone number, and just generally remember to check it - for any of my fellow abroad Americans, you know this drill. Then it was the time zones, the day of the week, the kids had, the weddings attended, the trips taken, the lives going on beyond technology...excuses (valid or not) of my own and of my loved ones made it feel like I went from being in their lives to being a part of their lives. Grammatically, there isn't really a difference in writing this - but those who read that and felt the inflection might know what I mean.

I tried those hefty, lengthy, dramatically long emails once a month. At first it felt like I was throwing words in the wind - at one point I even did a full inspection of my outbox and sent folders to make sure they went through. As the months passed, I would get a response here or there - mostly from former coworkers and associates, a few from friends. The occasional text would say, I got your email, I just haven’t had time to read it!. My meek response would read something along the lines of, It’s fine, don’t worry about it! Miss you! End of.

In retrospect, these emails must have been daunting on the receiving end. You can see for yourself if you click here. But thinking about my reasons why, it was less about wanting them to read, digest, and respond, and more about reassuring myself that even though I was out of sight, I couldn’t be out of mind. At least my emails wouldn’t.

Alas, emails suck.

So, finally, I did what any other 20-something woman who watches too many period pieces would do: I started writing. (That's what we do, right?) I bought the stationary, the stamps, and even considered a wax seal until my bank account thought otherwise. Instead of texting out paragraphs, calendarizing inevitably canceled video calls, or even summoning my creativity to make relational comments on friends' Instagram stories, I picked up a pen and wrote. Not just fluff, either.

Fluff writing doesn't ask for a response, it dumps of the soul-sucking how-ya-doin', I-miss-you, here's-the-weather, why-did-you-write-me-just-to-tell-me-this sort of thing, and, frankly, I love my friends and family, but I can find that out over a few texts, a call, the occasional-if-lucky-and-timed-well video chat. 

Instead, I try to write as if I just saw them yesterday, this morning, an hour ago - about that guy I kissed, the way I decorated my apartment with their other sent postcard, the sweet thing my neighbor did for me, the domestic perils of lacking a dishwasher and dryer (particularly during the Alpine valley winter), the foreign word that I messed up that gave everyone a laugh...and then the other word I messed up that offended everyone. Through fiery correspondence chock full of expletives and scribbles after a hard day, I can wrap it up and send it away - a literal and metaphorical voyage for my words to land on a friend's doorstep, knowing full well she'll hear my voice better through that than with any other GIF, meme, or text. It’s selfish, in a way - I release my words without coming back to them, possibly ever. It’s not like when I write here. It’s a temporary, one-off, never seen before sort of existence. 

I am not a Luddite, I do not fear technology; a handful of my former coworkers and classmates can attest to my alter-ego who conquered Microsoft 365, who fully learned video editing and correct audio file formats, who Frankensteined an HDMI to a USB to a computer to a speaker and a projector. But I do not trust AI, I think ChatGPT is going to corrupt basic learning skills, and I never feel genuinely whole when I share my hardest moments, my biggest triumphs, or my darkest sadness unless it’s on paper with a pen.