Everything sucks, yes? We’ve activated our activism for so long and, FOR WHAT? I gave money, wrote postcards, signed petitions, made calls, voted(!), prayed to gods I don’t know or recognize (and who surely don’t know or recognize me, lol). Now, I’m sitting in my winter-shrouded house in a dark, frozen mood, writing letters to near strangers. Because the best thing about these last mad years — pandemic years, death-of-democracy years, years of unrivaled loss, sadness, rage, and anxiety — has been the mail. A habit of correspondence brings joy and a sort of peace that’s lacking in this untethered world, anchoring me in place, rooting me in my own life, forcing me to slow down and pay attention.
I tentatively joined writer Rachel Syme’s #penpalooza early in the pandemic, if only just to “feel something,” as the kids say. Rachel’s Twitter (RIP 💔) was a riot of joy, with book recs, playlists, bath talk, perfume, and poetry. Deep dives on tea, fashion, film, and shopping — a perfect mix of intellectual observation, culture guidance, and buzzy gossip. Rachel was our cruise director, entertaining us on the high plague seas. With Penpalooza, her online penpal exchange, she connected more than 10,000 of us from over 50 countries in a season of isolation. Nothing short of magic.
I thought penpals were mere childhood frivolity. Bored girls and a few boys, kitty cat stickers, and traced cartoons. As a young teen, I had a Japanese penpal, Chieko, who sent me tissue-thin letters written in perfect looping cursive, with animals and anime characters carefully drawn in the margins. She wrote of endless schoolwork, and it was clear that her letters to me were enforced English practice (we were matched by our schools). Her English was better than mine, and her letters were far more beautiful. I saved every one.
I was skeptical of the recent project — me, fiftysomething and treading water, feeling as if there’s not much new to say. But the pandemic’s unique combination of sequestered boredom and constant panic convinced me to toss my hat in the penpal ring. What was there to lose? I would play at the edges and help the beleaguered post office in the process.
It began inauspiciously, ghosted by my first two strangers. And then, comically, I received a response from a third that was a polite rejection — a cute card that basically said, “Thanks, but I’ve got no time for you now.” After these false starts, though, I found my penpal groove. I matched with a few through the project and have convinced some virtual friends to join me in the mailbox. It’s the most satisfying, delicious fun I’ve had in ages.
As it turns out, writing letters is easy. Even when I can’t write my work, I write letters. Where journaling is a chore, a letter is a break. A letter can be anything you’re in the mood for — description, complaint, questions, lists. It can tell a story or a joke or a stream of consciousness rant. Some of my letters are typed and printed; some are scrawled out in loopy longhand, slanting up one side of the paper. Some are both! Some are pages long and some are postcard notes. There are asides and exclamations; we write of cocktails and dinner, books, and politics. I speak myself, my space, my landscape to the page and then send it into the unknown. We write ourselves in letters — who we’d like to be, our best selves, but also, if it feels safe, our timid tender small selves.
And then there’s the physical fact of a letter: What does it smell like? What sort of paper is it? What stamps are these? What treasure has been slipped inside? A bookmark, a postcard, stickers, stamps, recipes — even if nothing but the words, it always feels like a gift. I’ve sent all these things, printed out poems, and decorated recipe cards. I’ve discovered washi tape and, yes, even kitty cat stickers.
Stationery is a wonderland. 100 Postcards from Penguin and gorgeous Mary Delaney cards. Etsy is a treasure chest of letter supplies, and museum stores are bursting with beautiful options. And, finally, the envelope — the wrapping — is yet another canvas. I have pulled the loveliest things from the mailbox, sometimes on the darkest days. Just the handwriting of another can brighten a mood. Some pals paint charming images on the envelope; some use elegant calligraphy and wax seals. Some are stamp collectors. I am a clumsy novice, but my envelopes have personality, thanks to a fat book of stickers and a box of washi tape. It may be a somewhat loud and chaotic personality, but I’m having fun and stuffing someone else’s mailbox with color in a bleak world.
In these Zoom times of fast chat, snail mail is saving me. I’ve lamented the lost art of letter writing but done nothing about it — until now. The payoff is in the heady mix of hope and patience; the waiting is the thing. “Patience is a conquering virtue,” wrote Chaucer. There is much to conquer, and practicing the lost and necessary art of patience feels somehow like strength training. Writing to pen pals is not like writing to old friends, picked up conversations with inside references. It’s a slow introduction of sorts, a sidling up to new connections, sharing ourselves, testing the edges. And waiting. We have, it turns out, so much shared experience.
I have a big fat book, Women’s Letters, and another called Between Friends: A Year in Letters. Just two examples of thousands of letters throughout time. They are filled with the grand and the mundane, tales of war hospitals and peacetime walks, fond memories and hopes for the future, meals and weather, tales of drama and whispered pillow talk. They were — we are — writing history, documenting the moment in meals and moods and weather reports. We are writing hard evidence of the grinding struggle of this era.
We study letters from history, like old snapshots, and learn from them. What did they eat? How did they feel? What did they share or obscure? While I am getting in touch with my neglected tween self with stickers and paper play, I am also creating my own snapshot, a midlife woman in a rural New York winter. We connect, in spite of isolation, calling out to one another from our distant corners.
“Are you all right over there?”
“Not really, but here’s a good book and a cocktail recipe! Love your stamps!”
As the pandemic cooled and life heated up, letter-writing fell away. I ghosted penpals, we all left letters unanswered. For a season or more, there just didn’t seem room for such a thing. But I’ve missed it and here we are in a new terrible place, needing connection and distraction. And so, I’m distracting myself by dropping pretty things in the mailbox, sending tiny threads out into the world, reaching across space and time. (If I owe you a letter, it’s probably coming!)
I’ve made bright, creative friends all over the world, reminding me of the value of connection and the comfort of shared experience. If things are feeling a bit too terrifying and enraging, slip a little note in an envelope and wing it to a stranger — you never know what will come back.
📬 Lisa
Things to share:
The fabulous
has a new book about this very thing, Syme’s Letter Writer. It should be in my mailbox in a few days and I can’t wait.- captures the BS of dry January. I’m all about the break, but, “I’m frankly tired of all the nice things being taken away – not only my civil liberties and those of every woman in this nation, and all of our gay and trans children and our immigrant friends and family. That’s hard enough. But then you go after my rituals too? Why can’t we have nice things!!!!?” 🥂
If you’d like a letter from a stranger, drop me a DM and maybe I’ll write to you? No promises, a few of my half-dozen penpals are still waiting for me, but it’s so fun and I’m feeling expansive and in dire need of distraction.
Fuuuuuck …..
How wonderful! I'd die for such a letter. It's a dream.
This is amazing! I want a PenPal and I would have so much fun with it! Hit me up over DM!