I’ve got a few.
Letters, that is.
More so than journalism I’ve done, or my two books (and three
unpublished ones), I will reread my letters from time to time.
Love letters, some of them. Blasts from old pals. A thunderbolt
or two from a family member.
There is something about letters, both old and new, that’ll stir
my juices. Like a dog who suddenly comes upon a long-lost pack pal, his tail
a-wagging to beat the band.
As to my current letter-writing life, so far, so good. Rather
than write in my diary today (Sept. 7), I could be writing a letter – I owe one
to a relatively new friend in New Haven, Conn. But I don’t feel it as an
obligation. I actually can’t wait until I have enough free time to reread his
letter (with delicate pen drawings, in his case) in order to best shape my
reply.
This blogpost isn’t going to mark the distinction between a life
in letters versus a life in pocket computers (What most people call “phones”).
Draw your own conclusions. Enough said is how I put it in my
latest novel. (More about that later, I hope …) I realize my sermonettes here
aren’t likely to be changing any hearts and minds. To each his own, I say.
I just gotta crow. This life in letters I’m leading gives me so
much pleasure – and it relates to two of the blog’s three themes: running,
reading and writing. As in the letters I’ve been writing to my dear 85-year-old
mom. I only wish I had have started writing them more regularly years ago.
But, as they say, there is no time like the present.
Especially when it comes to a life in letters.
Next: Running for
Your Life: Latest Word About Shoes
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