Three days in and feeling fine. Something makes this so much easier than the “30 Days of Creativity” challenge. I can identify some of it: the privacy, the fact that there is a recipient depending on me. But there seems to be some other mysterious reasons why to be amorphously “creative” every day was such torture and these letters have been pleasant. Really, writing them has not gone that well: they feel a bit stilted and uncomfortable, where I’d like them to float and soar. But the physical process makes up for it: I love decorating and embellishing the letters and the envelopes, and pushing the possibilities of mail.
I’ve been reading some of Virginia Woolf’s letters, so perhaps I have set too high a standard for myself for the writing. She never seems to have written a clumsy word in her life. The funny thing about books of letters (I have several) is that the longer, more personal, more composed letters are rarely the ones that interest me the most. Often the most fascinating are letters asking for money, or making appointments, that sort of thing. I have a book of Delacroix’s letters, with one or two examples of his letters requesting certain colors from Mrs. Haro’s; though he was one of the few artists who could write compellingly about art, these businesslike paint orders are at least as interesting.
Another thing that’s interesting in books of letters is that, even in those epistolary ages, one of the most frequent themes is “write me back!” I’m always self-conscious, even in e-mail, of asking for a reply, and of writing again to someone who hasn’t written me back yet. But people were quite shameless about this in the old days, it seems, heaping comic abuse on their lazy friends for not writing, begging and pleading for mail, writing several times without a word in reply. So perhaps I shouldn’t be so worried about it? I don’t know. In any case, I take comfort in Samuel Johnson’s saying, in a letter apologizing for not writing to Boswell, “Do not fancy that an intermission of writing is a decay of kindness.”
Really, the same sort of worries that make my writing on this wretched blog so bland have been getting in the way of these letters, and I hope I will shed them soon. The only thing I have discovered about art in my life is that fear kills it: fear of incomprehensibility, fear of sentimentality, fear of bad taste, fear of pretentiousness, fear of anything. I hope these letters to be something of a training regimen, for throwing away that fear.