The Handwritten Letter Is A Dying Art

The romance of a ribboned notebook. The smell of the oiled leather cover. Inside, virgin paper awaits, just begging to be touched with the thrill of violet ink. A Moleskine notebook has real pulling power on me, as does proper stationary. Stationery is romantic, poetic, sensual. Tech gadgets are anonymous, anodyne, soulless. Writing an e-mail is just something you do, perfunctorily and without much thought. Writing a letter or a card is a careful considered act and one that makes the recipient feel as if they’ve received a tiny present. Tragically, letter-writing is a dying art, even when it comes to love letters. It seems people are perfectly content to be wooed by text these days. I know this sounds shocking coming from me, a self-proclaimed tech whore. I do love my gadgets, but I also love the written word. There is just something about the feeling of a pen between my fingers and paper beneath my palm. To me it’s intoxicating. Technology makes our life simpler, faster and more convenient to communicate with one another. However, isn’t it nice sometimes to just take your time? To not only listen to your heart, but to speak it. To gather your thoughts and feelings and let those thoughts and feelings flow down to your fingertips. To capture and preserve it on paper. Nothing is better than a handwritten letter and your recipient would surely agree.

If you’re a remotely tactile person and one who likes to communicate, no gadget in the world will ever replace the sensuous joys of stationery. Your BlackBerry or iBook may be equipped with more useful programs than you know what to do with, but do they make you feel randomly happy? Do they make you look forward to opening your bag and jotting something down? You can’t stroke them. Well, you can, but nothing much happens. You can’t sniff them (and few things are as delicious as the smell of virgin paper). And you can’t marvel at the way some clever person decided to emboss the leather and beribbon their covers.

For many women, and a few enlightened men, virgin paper is the adult equivalent of the sweetest candy. Some experience a physical thrill of delight when confronted with piles of diaries, pristine stacks of paper, personalized stationary, jotters and an assortment of writing instruments. I know it may sound silly, but compare and contrast with the orgasmic rush a writer feels just setting foot in an office supply store. Paper and pen calling to you like a sex starved whore. Stationery may not come with built-in GPS, but it fills you with a sense of hope and possibility. Think of a beautiful piece of paper that you can’t keep your hands off, or a bottle containing the perfect shade of violet ink. It almost reminds me of being a kid when I got high off of smelling Sharpies, Pink Pet erasers and bottles of Elmer’s rubber cement glue. Honestly, I still steal a whiff of these any chance I get. I always thought I was strange in that regard, that office supply stores sort of turn me on (not to be confused with sexual excitement). I thought I was alone in feeling that way, that was until I met "DC Girl", she too shared this same love. I remember the day she confessed it to me and I shouted out "YES" in total agreeance. I was shocked, yet relieved, that someone else experiences the same simple pleasure I do in office supplies. We were definitely an interesting pair.

I don’t think we are completely alone though. During the Back-To-School days when teachers and mothers are helping children/students stock up on pencil-case contents for the upcoming new school year, I see a small flicker in a some of their eyes. Eyes strangely glazed, absent-mindedly stroking an especially nice folder. They’re squealing at the Hello Kitty pencils. Lingering in the aisle for far longer than is actually required, occasionally catching each other’s eye with a complicit smile. Ahh yes, I know the feeling well. And I should inform them now that this delight will most likely never fade with age.

Perhaps it’s partly that these virgin objects hold so much promise. Even as a child browsing thru the Back-To-School supplies, I could envision myself being anything I wanted. The possibilities where endless. I was only limited to my own imagination, my own dreams. Today when I look at a blank sheet of cream colored paper, I still feel that way. I could write a bestselling novel in the blank notebook with the beautiful cover. I could become an artist, if only I owned that amazing paint palette. Call me old-fashioned (and this statement is against everything tech I love), but I never get that feeling with Word or Photoshop. They just make me feel harassed. I feel put-upon, time-conscious, forced to perform. My Moleskine notebook, on the other hand, makes me feel creative and free. It makes me feel like me.

Just as there is enormous pleasure in holding and thumbing a well-loved book, the kind of pleasure that can never be matched by reading books electronically, there is something indescribably wonderful about acquiring a diary and writing the year’s first entry in it. It is not a pleasure that can be re-created technologically. Typing in a date in your online calendar is entirely efficient, but not remotely pleasing. And pulling your little device out of your pocket is nowhere near as enjoyable as showcasing your beautiful leather-bound journal stuffed with deckled paper. To me, the appearance of the hand torn pages possesses amazing character! It looks old, important, cherished, sentimental, artistic and loved. I find myself wanting to fill each and every page with the most creative free-flowing words I can muster up from deep within my soul.

As you know, as of right now, I am not a published writer. I write for free. However, I feel I am paid in terms of pleasure on a daily basis. The handwritten word is beautifully human. It is about caring enough to communicate properly, whether it’s with other people or with yourself. It turns quotidian tasks into small, pleasing celebrations. Simply put, it is wonderful. It is a dying art that I do my best to keep alive and hope to forever treasure.