a.k.a “Why I didn’t write Christmas cards in 2012” (yea this post is kinda 1.5 years late)

I find it difficult to write letters, cards and fuzzies, which is ironic since I put myself out as a ‘writer’. During those obligatory card-giving warm-fuzzy-writing events, I find myself caught between the inanity of what I would write to people whom I don’t actually have that much to say to and the guilt of not having anything to give during an occasion of giving.

For people who do matter, words are too precious to scatter thoughtlessly onto a page as a gift. For people who don’t, words are just too precious (fullstop).

Which is why I believe very much in writing – when the need arises, without event or (overt) trigger. Letters are a way to carve out a personal moment in a person’s life to simply say something which needs to be said. You don’t need a cafe, you don’t need a gossamer night, you don’t need spontaneity; you just need a delivery. You don’t need a Christmas, a birthday or a concert; you just need the need to arise.

The other more simple and inexcusable reason: I was lazy. I have half-written letters strewn around lists and folders in my computer, meant for people and occasions that are past and gone.

While not every word that I read enters my heart, I have kept every fuzzy and letter anyone has ever written in a chocalateshoebox. The words that don’t, don’t; I still very much appreciate the gesture. But those words that did, did, and stayed, and grew, and became a part of my heart.

It’s a connoisseur thing.

This, of course, is no excuse for not writing anything at all.

I guess this is a very roundabout, late and unseasonal apology.


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About Mel

I dreamt I was a whale.