Reposted from my blog at http://www.lunarisen.com/alltheotherb...

Not so much related to the reading and writing of books, but very much about reading and writing…

Somewhere, a yellow Pennzoil box gathers dust in a garage or storage shed. Where, exactly, I don’t know.
What I do know is that the box contains dozens of letters, all hand-written and all addressed to me.

I like to think that a similar box, though perhaps not misplaced, gathers dust far from where I write this. In my imagination, that box also contains dozens of letters…all hand-written, and all written by me.

Together these two boxes contain the heart of a relationship between two people separated first by distance--and finally by time.

I wish I knew where my box waits. Its treasures--fewer, I’m sure, than 50 in all--cannot be replaced.

The dance of exchanging letters is deeper than the mere trading of words. Email can do THAT more quickly and cost-free.

Emails can be short. They can ramble. They are, it seems, deathly allergic to grammar and punctuation and the heartfelt expressions of dreams.

To pen a letter is to reveal one’s soul even in the shapes of penmanship.

To exchange letters is to anticipate.
To imagine the reaction of the reader. To keep one eye on the mailbox.

Words written on paper reveal. They archive.

Electronic facsimiles of words and sentences disguise. They may be saved, but form no archive of a life.

Who among us has ever sifted through old emails and dreamed of days lost to distance and time?

Not I. Have you?

Who among us has recently taken the time to pen a letter, lick an envelope, and drop a message into the magical post-office slot?

Not I. Have you?