The Hallmarks of an Engaging Letter

Yes, I know. No one writes letters anymore. We write e-mails. Or blogs, commentary, essays, stories, books . . .

Right there, it goes to show: a letter will be noticed.

The lure begins with its very physicality: a nice weight to the paper, a promising feel in the hand. It separates easily from the rest of the mail: what’s this? for me?

You inspect the handwriting, always so surprising: black ink on ivory or buff, a slant, a loop, a curlicue or spidery hand.  You might look at the stamp and wonder if it was as deliberately chosen as, say, a man and his necktie.

You slit it open, start to read.

A good letter says something. It can be an apology or a proposition. It can put something to rest or start something new. It can entertain, or inform, or enclose a photo, or a clipping. Maybe, even, it’s scented, as was the habit of a writer I once knew (Shalimar, the toilette water, just a spritz.).

Some letters can change an entire life. You don’t send information like this via Twitter’s 140 cold characters thrown up against ever-changing wallpaper.

A letter done well is a treasured thing, a hatbox set on a closet shelf reserved for this purpose. Everything else—your books, your newspapers, your essays, e-mails, your notes, lists, drafts—will get trashed or deleted, sooner or later. My money says that the last to go, and maybe not even for generations, are your letters.

Photo credits: perfume bottle – Sarah Barth, sxc; hatbox – Franci Stumpfer,sxc.