I used to be quite the letter writer. I had a giant box of stationary that I would lovingly ration out for heartfelt snailmail to friends around the world. I’d start with the selection of the paper from my collection of Asian Korean stationary, looking for one whose absurdity would strike a chord with the recipient. There were tons to choose from. I remember Mr Toe – a little cartoony foot with a face. He actually had FIVE toes, so perhaps his name was a typo or just elitist. I didn’t care. He was awesome. Then I remember some kind of cutesy vampire girl that I used to pull out for my snarkier friends who would enjoy the idea of an adorable mythical cannibal. Some were selected for the ridiculous poetry inscribed on them like “If love were a disease you make me sick.” I’m sure in Korean or Japanese that makes perfect sense. In English, it made me giggle.

Paper selected, I’d grab a pen with appropriately matching technicolored ink, and sit down to think. Because writing was more thinking then the actual act. There is no edit-undo when you’re using pen and paper. Scratching things out looks bad. Using White-out on my wonderful pastel letter paper would just be pointless. So I would think. Where did we leave off? What are they up to? What do they need to hear from me? Was it exams they were bothered about? Or parents? Or the deeper mysteries of universe? How much of my own life should I share? What will make them laugh and give them some peace that though I’m far away, things are good?

I’d then proceed to write. I used to have horrid handwriting. The years penmanship was taught in school were the years my family was at their gypsy-most. I was barely in a classroom long enough to get suspended - though I didn't let that get in my way - let alone learn the fiddly art of legibility. But since then I’d tried to make up for the lack, and had cooked up my own cursive that was employed for my beloved correspondence. No other time could I put up with such a slow way to record my thoughts, but in this instance, I needed it. Shaping out those curlicues and making those pen-strokes kept my brain from outpacing my hand. I’ve always benefited from a time-lag. Makes a better, wittier, wiser me.

How long the letters took from start to finish, I don’t remember. I think until my hand gave out or the thought came to a natural break. But I know they were never short. Even then, I was the brain-in-overdrive, always bubbling, verbose smartass. If I was going to say something, damned if I’d do a hash job of it. Once all those thoughts were put to paper, I’d then patiently fold the letter into the shape of my selected envelope – a task harder than it sounds. Perhaps because my envelopes were equally ridiculous – funny shaped, bright colored – the equivalent of a postal firework. The letter would be slid inside, the envelope sealed, the addresses written and as a final stroke, stickers would be stuck and spoof stamps would be drawn on. I’d then walk the letter, or letters, over to my dad and entrust them to him to have them mailed off as soon as possible.

It’s been years now since I’ve written a proper letter. The time of paper and pen faded. Life became too hectic. For the writer and the recipients. I don’t remember who was the first not to respond. Probably me. But eventually the shiny snailmail trail dried out completely and no one had the energy to retrace it. I stopped collecting stationary and my existing box of bright absurdity was stored away in a dark corner, forgotten. By then, we all had email. And suddenly I was no longer lost. The coracle I’d ridden over the edge of the world when I left home at 18 was pulled back by the sticky strings of the Internet. Soon I was only an email away to all I’d taken my leave from and easily found by those I’d not.

For a while, that commitment to correspondence was converted over to the electric-mail. I had massively long Word documents on my computer, full of an unpunctuated stream of letters back and forth. The volume of wordage was only minimally structured with original letter received on the bottom and my response on the top. Some were deeply personal – hearts bleeding on electric paper. Others were stilted intellectual discourses on politics and theology. Many were therapy – for me or the friend. I’d try to make each one distinct. But as the letters piled up, I’m ashamed to say that the discerning reader of that file would notice repetition – paragraphs borrowed and used from one response to the other, jokes repeated, turn-of-phrase recycled. A habit that grew. A sign of my continuing decay perhaps.

Yet now it feels like I’ve reached the bottom of my well of words. I have an answer to that childhood question of “Does she ever run out of things to say?” Maybe. My mailbox is overflowing with unanswered emails. I’ve tried in vain to keep afloat, making sure I respond to the more pressing ones. Lives in crisis. Marriages, births, deaths announced. Support needed. Advice requested. Help petitioned. But now, I am barely doing that. Like a selfish crone, I continue to receive, but not give.

That, dear friend, is my long and drawn-out explanation as to why I have not written. Responded. Returned your kindness. It is not that I don’t wish to hear from you. I do. That bold-face, darkened background unread message is the gift wrapping of a welcome present to me. That I am remembered, if nothing else, is enough for this poor neurotic soul. But right now, I feel like I cannot give back in the same way. I cannot bring my eyes, my words and my heart into focus like I used to. And it is pride perhaps then that keeps me from sending back a response that is not up to the mark. I want you to remember me for who I was, not how I am feeling now.

Forgive me. And please have a little patience.