A Win-Win
I can write the hell out of a card. Birthday, anniversary, graduation, condolence—you name it. I fill up that card* and receive smiles, laughs, and misty eyes in return. And sighs. My performance is important; something is at stake. I sketch the message out carefully in my mind before pen hits card. Pulling memories. Scaffolding ideas.
I personalize. I scour the past and peer into the future. I consider and reconsider. And then, I go. No cross outs, no carrots, no arrows. Once the pen makes first contact and bleeds onto and into the paper, every stroke matters.
***
To my dad, after his retirement:
… I credit my work ethic to hearing stories of you darning shirts and ironing pants and tutoring to get through college in 3 years. Then whipping through dental school, a stint in the Army, and into private practice at 26. I hope Emma and Jack will mirror that work ethic themselves as I have, and I am confident that they will—inspired by your impeccable example.
***
It’s one thing to write words on a page or screen, edit and craft and stick and move and change and read and re-read until you think you have it. Cut, paste, x-out, drag, click, and arrange until just right is an independent thrill. The writing’s impact on anyone else, however, remains unknown until other eyes are on it: professor, spouse, classmate, friend, or editor (though I never had one). A reader’s criticism can frighten, horrify, or devastate. A listener’s evaluation can also produce pride, a rush of excitement, a sense of accomplishment. When you, the writer, pour yourself into words, sentences, and paragraphs, and then release them to be read by real eyes and heard by real ears and in real time, you lose control of the response.
During college, a masters, and then teaching, I wrote and wrote. I published in a few literary magazines; got mountains of rejections. Then, my writing life got buried deep. Circumstances ruled over dreams. I tried. On occasion, new inspirations arose. A poem here, an essay there. A short story crafted on a yellow pad during eighty-three trips on the “L” downtown and back. A novel drafted and edited in the wee hours seated on the floor of my sleeping daughter’s room, leaning against the crib, her soft coos in the fluttering darkness. Getting at it again, creating and crafting, revitalized me and crushed me simultaneously. Attempts went places and nowhere. In the end, after a long battle, I couldn’t win for losing.
***
To Elizabeth upon empty nesting:
…Happy Birthday my Love…our presents from now on shall be presents from each of us to both of us…Everything we do now is with and for each other.
***
The moment the card is dropped in the mail, or the email or text is sent hurdling through the infosphere, electric expectancy runs through me, but I know, it’s gone. I relish an in-person opening, my preferred option—nerves like embers in my gut as I watch the face of the card reader and the gathered audience. I’m back in my writing classes, seminars, groups. The careful opening of the envelope, then the card. The eyes say yikes, there’s a lot here. The hush. The pocket pat for the glasses and the squinting (my penmanship is sad). The chin comes up. Mouth corners lift or sag and head tilts to the side. Maybe a chuckle or red-cheeked embarrassment. Thanks. So sweet. Beautiful. Aw, Seth.
That’s a win.
***
An email from my friend Andy, on the death of his stepfather Fred:
Seth, my mom has read your note over and over to our entire family. It meant the world to her. I just got off the phone with her, and she read it to me, again. Midori [Andy’s wife] migrated into the room to listen. Fred indeed made an impact on everything he touched… you summed up his gruffness perfectly . . . a serious dude with little time for the superficial stuff, even when we were kids . . . and that tennis story . . . my mom tells me about every note she receives, and your note leads the pack.
***
A personalized, meaningful, well-crafted missive must mean something, no? As the card is slowly closed, I get a nod, a smile, a thanks, or a hug. That short private moment between the recipient and me is everything. The audience wonders – what did it say? I, too, they think, want a moment like that. But a card, despite the current relevance (and the staggering genius employed to create it) is typically disposed of, while the sweater, scented candle, or crystal bowl that it accompanied remains. In its moment, the card hits hard. The words are substantive, but they are fleeting.
Maybe some cards get saved, likely by accident. Left to rest in a pile of bills, forms, magazines, catalogs, and credit card balance transfer offers. And I do hope that the recipient, sitting down one morning weeks later, faced with the inexorable task of sorting the piles and handling the life that they contain, sees the card, and opens it for one more read before it goes the way of the recycle bin.
***
Card writing filled the void. It’s not what I wanted. It wasn’t the goal. But writing comes in different forms, so I took what I could get and ran with it. I appreciate the audience and the reputation. Indeed, I thrive on it. After all, writing is putting your heart on the page for someone else to see, and in whatever form it takes, that’s a win.
*Texts and emails too, but the beauty here is in the card, which to me, is a lost form.
