30 Before 30: #30 Send one handwritten letter every week for a year

In High School, Kayti and Nora used to write me beautiful letters with perfect handwriting and intentional messaging. Certainly not your average sloppy-crinkled-silly-nonsense-notes the kids pass in class. These were elegant and high-sounding. And given to the recipient with the conviction that "the written word is a lost art" and we all have a personal burden to preserve such a rich and important heritage.

Last January 1st, armed with a fresh pack of "carrie elizabeth" personalized card stock and a black pen in hand (always black), I wrote the first letter, made a copy of it, and tucked it into it's envelope for sending. (This is actually a bad example of what the norm of this process was since I wrote my first letter to Jesus and kept it in my folder instead of ecclesiastically sending it into the whim of the cosmos, but bear with me O, Reader).

I had no rules or expectations or plan at all, really, other than to just pick someone each week and write them a note. Oh dear, strike that. There were two loose margins I mentally set for myself: the notes were not to be occasion-driven such as for a birthday, and I would try to say a meaningful thing to the recipient.

For the first seven months of the year, I was fantastically committed. I wrote to friends near (a town over) and far (Paris! Chile!), old DC colleagues, an author I read. I wrote to my parents friends and my ailing mentor from HS and a Lowell Lane neighbor and a childhood friend's dad who started a wonderful film festival in Orinda.

Admittedly, I fell of the wagon pretty hard this Fall. All of a sudden weeks were stacking on top of weeks, and my consistency suffered. But I would carefully count the weeks I was behind, make a mental list of selected recipients, and take the card stock with me to the corner laundromat to grind-write.

And now there are 51 letters out there. If you received a colorful, adorable, whimsical little note card this year with my first and middle name on it, you were one of the 51. I have you all on a list and each of your letters copied and in a folder. This is the selfish part of it, I suppose, because I have incidentally created a 51-entry 2011 journal for myself. I loved writing you these notes, friends. I loved thinking about you and our shared history as I wrote.

Two final (and unrelated) thoughts...
Of course I know there are 52 weeks in the year and I am thus a letter short by admitting I wrote only 51. The 52nd letter has actually always belonged to one recipient, but the letter can't write itself right now. And... that's all this author wishes to say on that matter. What's a literaryesque post without a little emotional mystery, hm? 

Lastly, and importantly... We are indeed a society at risk of losing our letters. The jeopardy the USPS finds itself in is the strongest reflection of this long-arriving paradigm shift. Out of 51 letters sent, I received 5 back. A response on any level was never part of this equation for me, but I am compelled share that pith with you nonetheless.

So... may this be an encouragement to you to splurge on lovely stationery, select your recipients, and share willingly with them as you push the pen.