Writing

Most of you know that I'm fond of writing letters. Christmas is really the only time I get to do it en masse. While I enjoy the process of developing my Christmas letters, it's not quite the same as a handwritten note.

Most of you also know I'm pretty forgetful. In many cases, this is a good thing. Dad once told me he thanked God that he had a short memory, and I understand this in my own way. Life comes with good and bad memories, and there's nothing too surprising about this. But I confess most of my memories are good; the bad ones seem to fade out of the picture. While that occasionally causes me some problems, I mostly appreciate this fact of my existence.

Letter-writing, though, doesn't work this way for me. I never really remember what it is that I write to someone. Even in the most profound and poignant ones I've written, the ones I attach all kinds of memory to, I never recall hand-written notes. That means if I've sent you one, I don't know what I wrote.

But I prefer it that way. It's not just a gift of paper as much as of memory. If you've gotten a hand-written note from me, you've gotten a piece of my memory, a piece of me—not just a note.