I realized how rarely I write letters when I grimaced after tasting the glue on the envelope. That glue tastes like rotten lemons. Or CVS-brand air freshener.
I record the number of words I write per week. I divide them into fiction and non-fiction.
FICTION: 355
NONFICTION: 843
NONFICTION: 121
FICTION: 638
A little pie chart shows me how much patience I have for reality.
And I sat in front of my computer for quite some time trying to decide how to allocate the 290 words of the letter I wrote you.
I distracted myself with a program I was writing.
I distracted myself by re-reading a paper on syntax that I didn’t understand.
I distracted myself by trying to differentiate the retroflex palatal tap from the English sound ‘d.’
I couldn’t figure out how to categorize the 290 words, though.
I talked to you that morning. The conversation jumped from one rock to another.
You told me about saying something stupid at the observatory, I said something stupid about being star cross’d.
That rock started sinking so we jumped to literature. You said something about how people tend to mistake tragedy for irony.
From there, it was a short jump to romance. I surmised that I should write the letter I had been composing in my head.
I thought about the virtues of fact-checking before committing to words to paper. I thought about how you complain about fact-checking. I thought about the virtues of common journalistic practices. I thought about the virtues of other things I do not do.
I stared at your letter as it sat on my desk.
I put on a flannel jacket. I stared at my uncombed hair in the mirror and thought about how I look like a homeless person on Valentine’s Day. I thought about that thing you said regarding irony.
I opened my computer, and I stared at your letter lying next to it.
I thought about tossing the letter out into the snow.
I thought about the peculiar way you say “tag” and “cop” and “bagel,” and how I can’t figure out how your vowels work.
I thought about folding the envelope into a paper airplane and throwing it from the top of a skyscraper downtown for some stranger to pick up and read. For some car to drive over. For some public servant to find in the gutter.
I thought about how you smile and lean your head forward when you misspeak.
I thought about the stories I’ve written that are untrue. I thought about how some of them were journalistic pieces.
I replayed the sound of your voice in my head.
I thought about the stories I’ve written that are true, and about how I tell myself that they’re works of fiction.
I pondered the plausibility of falling asleep with one’s fingers crossed.
I imagined you opening the letter. I imagined the way your mouth would contort into an expression I couldn’t read. I imagined you closing your eyes tightly while you composed words inside your head. Your signature gesture.
I couldn’t imagine what you’d end up saying, though.
I stared at the letter.
NONFICTION: 290.
