Letters—the writing of

Of these two stories, I should have clicked the one on the left. But of course I didn't.

Who needs to read what the future is for books? There will be more of them. End of story.

What's more intriguing is the matter of the love letter. Who writes love letters now? No one. No one I know of. People can barely bother to use entire words in a text message (myself all too frequently included), let alone concentrate long enough to write an entire letter.

And to put one's most intimate feelings into print—even the handwritten variety? It seems old-school, outdated, something from a distant, half-forgotten epoch when people had both the time to meditate on such things, and the balls to put those tender sentiments down on paper.

But I am all for love letters—the writing of, the reading of, mine, yours, a former PM's. And ordinary postcards and letters and emails as well.

What's not to write? What's not to love?

Fluking it

Most of the time, I forget what I've written as soon as it's on the page. So if someone gives me good feedback about something, I have to go back and open the file and actually look at it again. Even if—as in the case of a recent piece—mere days have passed since I did the work.

And usually I can't even remember constructing the sentences. Heavens, I think. Can't remember writing that. Sounds ok though. Oh well. Fluke, I guess.

Putting pen to paper professionally is one thing. After years writing for commercial entities, I've managed to extract every ounce of myself from the work—except a commitment to what I think is quality, and to having fun—so the pleasure extracted from clients' recognition of success is superficial, short-lived.

They're all happy accidents.

But a recent post on a friend's blog got me thinking beyond commoditized copy. When was the last time I put myself into something I wrote, without the fear (or: goal) of assessment? Aeons ago, and more aeons.

But as Mme Canada and I agreed in conversation today, if you don't have that thick skin—if you actually do put yourself into something—and then it is good, well, shit. How the hell are you gonna pull that off next time?

It seems like the ultimate fluke: to find that something within yourself has managed to conjure something good. How can that be? What did you do? Can you do it again?

No wonder novelists are all alcoholics with bitten-down fingernails who kick their cats.