Illiteracy

I just spent the last little while trying to find a good letter-writing pad. I have regrettably failed - no one seems to sell good pads of paper anymore, other than the mass-produced junk you find at Office Depot. This makes me sad.

I have fond memories of snooping into my Dad's desk drawers, something I wasn't supposed to do. I have vivid mental images of his old bottle of Quink, his pads of onionskin paper, envelopes and sealing wax. No actual expensive fountain pens or his personal seal though - he knew what sort of inquisitive brat I was. Back then, everyone wrote letters. Not postcards - letters.

These days, most people e-mail or text message via phone or instant messaging clients. I do too and it's a convenience of the modern world.

But...there is a sensual pleasure to writing letters. The crispness and distinctive smell of good paper. The fluidity of ink as you refill your fountain pen. The paper thirstily drinks the ink from the pen as you scribe your wishes, greetings, fears and hope to your friends and family. Letter writing is not just about writing letters. It is about putting a part of you in the message. Unlike the sterility of electrons whizzing down wires at unimaginable speeds, when I receive a handwritten letter from someone, I know that s/he has touched it and has taken the time to write it themselves.

*sigh*

I did find a tiny block of good paper. Not foolscap-sized but it'll do. Call me quirky, but I believe in taking the time to write to my friends myself. A little piece of personality encoded in the message. Sometimes, that's nice to have.