The Writing Life: Letters

I've just finished typing a letter to my friend Jerry. We've been corresponding for over a year on paper folded into envelopes that we stamp and send through the mail. I read an article about gratitude and, as is our habit, wrote my letter on the backs of the pages of it. I'll post it tomorrow on my way to work. 

I recommend the practice of writing letters to better learn the craft of writing. 

Writing directly to someone develops a sense of audience and reminds me that writing isn't just about me. When I write to Jerry, I think of him, picture him reading with his head held in one hand, a trace of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. I write for him and my letter is an act of giving. That doesn't mean it's selfless. Hell no. I get as much out of writing as  he does reading because I know my ideas will be read. And after writing to him, I write more like someone will read what I'm saying. I find myself trying to make them smile or nod and hoping they will write back. 

So why not just email Jerry? Letters are cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow.  

Email is too quick. I want things such as this to be cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow. 

It took time to print the article and roll each page into my typewriter. Jerry handwrites  because he's sensible enough not to own typewriters. The cumbersome printing and then writing is time away from television, news, Facebook, Twitter, and so on. Where's the loss?Most time I "save" through email is time I waste elsewhere. 

The inconvenience makes it special. Writing a letter requires focus on my ideas and on the person to whom I'm writing. Inconvenience such as that is too good to waste. 

Letters cost the price of a stamp and envelope, something I can offer and which makes it more valuable to receive than email, most of which is less than worthless because it's so cheap. We often spend to get value. 

The best part about writing the letter is the speed at which it moves. There's no immediate feedback other than maybe a paper cut when I lick the envelope. I let the writing go as a gift to Jerry rather than as some way for me to receive approbation. Jerry won't get the letter before Wednesday and may wait to read it and wait some more before writing back. Time passes. What a lovely novelty. 

I still write email, but not as much as I used to and most falls into two kinds. One, the quick response, businesslike and clipped, mostly saying yes or no. Two, letter-like messages I take time to craft and in which I'm thinking about the person at the other end. Letters are still better for that second kind of writing. 

Letter writing _feels_ better in part because it's a more writerly way of communicating and being in the world. Letters make me a better writer. They might even make me a better person. They certainly make me a better friend. 

Who is your next letter going to? 

Doppler

Maybe I’m still in bed. Inside a dull dream. A man sits before a page. Holds a pen. Has an idea that death is a physical thing. A child growing inside him, dull and lazy. The death inside his wife is something metastasizing, a word he fails to understand, barely knows how to spell. In his father death was a sudden short of the circuitry. An electrical explosion. He tries not to imagine the deaths inside his children, but a maggot wriggles. If this is a dream, I want to wake but it won’t let me sleep. I close my eyes but cannot lie still. There is a chill. And a smell of something burning. Outside, strange flying things buzz and call. Lights flash. A siren blares, it’s tone deepening as it moves away. I recall the name for it: the Doppler effect. A sure way to know if something is coming for me or moving away. I listen hard. The man with the pen is unsure which way things are moving. Death doesn’t make even the slightest sound. Not anything either of us can hear anyway.  

Fifty for Fifty

I turn fifty this year and feel pretty good about it. Forty was terrible. I was lost to myself and within myself, too frantic to be of use to anyone. Approaching fifty, I'm calmer, maybe wiser, and not flailing about so much. I'm useful to those I love and to myself. I'm also ready for a challenge to mark the occasion. 

I have this idea to run fifty miles for my fiftieth birthday. Years ago, I hiked Mount Washington just to climb up something and come back down. That was a breeze, a delight every step. Even coming down in rain was so lovely I wanted to go right back up and down. Three years ago, shortly after Dad died, I entered a 50K to push myself to a new limit. That run was difficult. It hurt. On the fourth of six five-mile loops I didn't think I could finish. I barely got myself up for a fifth loop and if not for my friend, I wouldn't have gone out on the sixth and finished the run. I did finish and as soon as I did, there was no more pain. I felt good immediately and the feeling lingered. 

For my fiftieth, I'm going to run fifty miles on a five-mile loop starting and ending at my house where there will be a party, and I'll invite friends to share a loop with me. After the tenth loop, or earlier if things don't go well, I'll have a party waiting for me. 

Inviting friends to run a loop is a radical idea for me. I prefer running alone. Too much of my life involves having to interact with others. Running, I indulge in solitude, released from having to think about or solve anything. That I would invite friends is unusual, but this too is part of my challenge: to let people in.  

I don't want anyone to run the whole thing. Hell no. This is my run, a birthday present for myself, and I'll run it at my pace. I want ten friends to each do one loop, making each one a  slightly different experience for me and sharing that with them. I have invited Stephanie, my wife, to share the last loop as I'll need her the most then. She doesn't run but is already talking about training so as to join me. I've told her that I'm not sure how much running there will be, but it's a dream to think of doing that last loop with her. 

Then when we finish, someone will give me a burger with mayo, bacon, crisp lettuce, and a perfect bun. I'll run through the finish line into a party. 

Sounds good. Training sounds good too. I haven't run much and this can get me back into running mind. It can be a writing project too, chronicling the preparations and whatever it is I might come to understand. 

The day I had this idea, I wanted to get started on training, but I couldn't afford time to run that day or the next. I was booked. Oh crap, I thought. I worried that this was just an idea, a pipe-dream that I would consider but never do. I'm never going to get started, I worried. 

Except I already had. I had drafted this piece of writing, imagined the idea, begun planning the loop, and thought of who to invite. I was already excited. I started doing push-ups again and loved them. I didn't eat much sugar that day or the next. I felt the possibilities of the project and was curious what might be next. And I couldn't wait to get running the third day. 

I did run that day and it felt great. I didn't plan too much about when to run next, how much, or any of that. Mostly I enjoyed the run, the feeling of moving again, and moving with purpose. I savored feeling good. 

Running fifty miles begins with one step, I'm told, but that's not true. It begins with deciding to run fifty miles and this excitement I feel. The running, it turns out, is an extra benefit in all this. I have a long way left to go and five months to prepare. I'll keep you posted on the progress. 

Easy Running

A guy I used to know was what I'd call a serious runner except he wasn't often very serious. Frank ran as if there was nothing else in the world he would rather do but without seeming to love it. Running wasn't any big deal. He ran just because. I was just learning to run when I knew him. I read Runner's World and lots of running books. I picked shoes carefully and thought about hydration, caloric intake, pace, and whatever else I was told was important. Frank didn't talk much about running, never read about it, and shrugged when I talked about it. I remember asking if he thought I could run the 10-mile Mountain Goat race through Syracuse. 

"Sure, why not?" he asked. 

"I've never run ten miles." 

He shrugged. I asked about training for it. He shrugged again. He was blowing me off, but I learned later that Frank didn't train, he just ran. 

One time he described a vacation beach-run of about eight or ten miles. I asked how he knew the distance without a GPS watch. "I looked at the clock before I left and when I got back. I know my pace." Duh, he seemed to say. It seemed impossible he went by just the feel of it. I couldn't imagine such a laissez faire approach. 

One time at a retreat, he, a colleague, and I went out for a run. Our colleague dressed in cute, tight, color-coordinated running clothes. I was in running shorts, a tech shirt, and new Asics. Frank wore an old t-shirt, cargo shorts, and ancient running shoes or Teva's (I can't remember which). He loped off like a dog at a trot. My colleague kept up. I lagged behind panting like a dying dog. After three miles he had hardly sweat while I was drenched. He had miles and miles left in his tank. I was done.  

Since then I've traded running shoes for sandals or bare feet. I buy any inexpensive lined short. I like wool shirts but will wear any old thing. I wear a GPS/heart-rate watch but mostly out of habit. Though he's ten years older, I'm sure Frank still runs eight- or seven-minute miles while I haven't cracked ten-minutes over any distance in years. So it goes. He's fast and will likely always run easier than I do. 

As a novice, I wanted Frank's speed, endurance, and grace. I still think of myself as knowing only the tiniest bit about running, but have run far enough to know I most envied the ease with which Frank ran. The thing that matters is to just run, the easier the better. Such a simple lesson, but I'm still learning and doubt I'll ever finish the race for the understanding Frank just seemed to know without giving it a second thought or even a first.  I think too much. I'll keep at it until it all becomes just easy running.