Lettering...

... for Knots in the String

Dear All,

(Warning: this is a long one, so brace yourself)

The art of letters will come to an end before A.D. 2000… Ezra Pound

Ezra Pound was indubitably right, wasn’t he? To all intents and purposes, letter-writing is dead. Replaced by email and emoji.

Even cards and invitations have been subsumed.

And whilst the postman still delivers, it’s mostly unsolicited political leaflets that go immediately to the recycle bin without being read.

With the caveat that electronic mail is immediate (I used it twice this week for necessary swift communication with overseas friends), where is the pleasure compared to walking to the letterbox, opening it, seeing a hand-addressed envelope with beautiful stamps?

The anticipation!

It’s worth savouring. Making a cup of tea (or coffee if you prefer), opening the biscuit tin and making a choice, moving to the window seat with letter, cup and cookie.

Holding the envelope in the light coming through the window.

Admiring the stamps. Slitting the envelope open, retrieving the pages from inside and laying the envelope on the cushions.

Unfolding the letter – there’s a refined shuffling, crackling noise – nothing too harsh.

Then to read.

Intimate, tactile, so very personal…

I have an overseas friend with whom I exchange regular letters – purely because we want to chat, and thus preserve what is left of an historic artform. I exchange periodic cards with my most long-term friend who lives interstate and with another who is a master embroiderer and artist and who is a kindred spirit and always manages to find the most beautifully designed cards.

When I was young, we spent every holiday far from my schoolfriends at the other end of the island and so the idiosyncratic village post office was a communication lifeline. I’d hop on my bike, ride up the (gravel at that time) road to a wooden house where the front room had been converted in the early 1900’s to The Post Office. The floor was brown linoleum and squeaked under our feet, the wood counter polished with years of elbow-leaning. The mail arrived at 10AM and was always sorted by 11AM and stored in little wooden cubbyholes on the wall, by alphabetic order. The postmistress required my name every day, even though she knew who I was.

There was always disappointment on the ‘Nothing today’ days. But on the days when a letter was laid on the counter with my name on it, I was delighted! Off to a window seat or the beach, somewhere private where I could catch up on news from the north of the island.

I would then sit and write straight back, trundle back to the P.O to post said letter and then go on with my day. There was much of Anne of Green Gables in the whole thing in my childish mind.

As I grew older, I received letters from and wrote to boyfriends. Heartbeats fluttered on those days. There were invitations to balls and events, and I would sit with deckle-edged parchment paper and fountain pen to RSVP: (The example below should of course, be centred on the page, but I don’t know where the button is on Substack)

Miss Prue Wallace

Thanks the Committee of *****

For the invitation to the Christmas Ball

On 23^rd Dcecember 1969

And

has much pleasure in

Accepting the invitation.

My address and date would be sequestred on the side of the page.

Later, as friends turned 21 or married, the same process would happen with formal invitations to parties and weddings. It was the correct etiquette, taught to me by my mother, and I took pleasure in replying.

Much of pre- and post-marriage communication with my loved Other Half was conducted through letters as he was a documentary journalist in our early life and travelled frequently. We’ve kept our mail and I had an amusing half hour during the week as I dug them from the sea-trunk to take pics. I’ve decided I need to read every single one before we depart our mortal coils. Perhaps they need redacting before the kids inherit them!

I love stationery shops and salivated when I read Reader I’m Lost

82. Not lost, but shopping

 last week. Lucky Rebecca. Because in all honesty, it’s hard to find dedicated stationery now. There is a stunning shop called Il Papiro which is a personal magnet in Melbourne – just the fragrance of good paper as I enter is enough to send me into heaven. Anyone who has been to Florence will know of the mother ship.

Here in Tasmania, we do have a special shop in the country called Flywheel I’m always a little breathless when I push open the door.

Equally, I enjoy the intimate portrayal of the art of letters –

And one of my most favourite ‘biographies’ is this:

Her kindness, wicked humour and acute observation is obvious in her letters. Not sure our sea-chest collection will exhibit the same thing.

I’ll let you know…

My Time:

Most of the week is spent soothing heartsore souls – mine and our family’s. We’ve had a very tough week. So…

*Making cookies. Adding orange rind and juice into the dough, adding dark choc-bits and then drizzling melted dark choccie over the top. Very subtle and nice. Also making standard choc-chip cookies and then choc-chip and cranberry cookies because it’s a cookie-making kind of week.

*Stitching – valued displacement therapy.

*Swimming in crystal clear winter ocean water – more displacement. Literally. 11/10

*Walking with the Terrier - complete escape.

*But I thrill at picking the first bunch of daphne from the Matchbox garden in the city. The fragrance… can you smell it? Takes me far away…

Reading:

Kindle: The Venice Sketchbook by Rhys Bowen. I quite like her writing – undemanding which is requisite just now.

Print: Still slow-reading Gyles Brandreth on Queen Elizabeth II. It’s a beautiful biography and I savour every word.

Rebecca’s Substack, see above.

Delightful prose from

and Tom,

who is having a real battle with the entitled intrusiveness that is often social media.

Listening:

Matthew McConaughey’s Greenlights. This has been a revelation, maybe because his ‘greenlights’ are what I need to read at this moment. I’ve never particularly been a McConaughey fan, but I think I might be now. He writes well, BIG intellect, and no doubt because he’s an actor (and because of his renowned drawl) he narrates as if he’s reading poetry and it is good! The bio is alternately poignant, hilarious and makes exceptional points. Recommended.

Watching:

Tour de France. The Alps stage has been heart in the mouth stuff! Escaping to France…

Sandhamn Murders. Super Swedish whodunnit. BIG fan. The scenery here is topnotch too. Who wouldn’t love to live on Sandhamn (without the murders)? And OMG - the final scene of the latest series! Is he? Isn’t he? We’ve googled and can’t get an answer!

***

I look at the letter I’m writing to my friend, successful writer Anna Belfrage, in Sweden. She and I are both historical fiction authors and perhaps we are trying to emulate those of our characters for whom a letter can be integral to their lives.

And just remember:

‘A letter is never ill-timed; it never interrupts. Instead it waits for us to find

the opportune minute, the quiet moment to savour the message. There is

an element of timelessness about letter writing.’

Lois Wyse

My song for this week? It’s kind of perfect…

Cheers for now, take care and do take the time to write a letter.

Much Love

Prue