Marni Takes New York: 10 Notes From the Subway

Marni took a leap of faith and moved to New York City last July. She recently wrote me, "I write little notes here and there to myself on the train and take notes about everything that has been swirling around in my brain since moving to the city." And that's exactly what this post is—subway notes by Marni Vail.

Note 1

The other day in church I was thinking about how I never want to fall “out of touch,” but that I wouldn’t even remember how to not fall “out of touch” if I was “out of touch,” because it just happens so naturally. Like a ball of yarn unraveling—it falls off the couch, your cat or baby gets a hold of it and you just don’t notice. It happens slowly, never on purpose. And then you wake up one day and have no idea what happened and there’s no clues. So I decided to make a list of things that concerned me at critical stages in my life, so that when I have kids I will remember how it feels. What it's like to be a little kid when you're learning how to tell the truth, how to include people and feel included. What it's like to be a teenager and wonder about boys, or to be in high school and learn how to not get caught up in the caste system, to be your own kind of cool and to love your body. Or how it feels to be in your mid twenties and single, and wonder if you will ever get married or be able to support yourself. I guess this is sort of like that.

Note 2

The snow is falling again. Which means it’s the first day of spring in New York I guess. This city is so strange. Different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. It’s dirty, addicting, expensive, and enthralling. I feel like a full-length mirror here in the city. Reflecting a million tiny dreams in my heart and wanting to be a little drop of everything I see and feel. To write things, act, sing, make short films, create art, dance, perform, do stand up comedy even, befriend strangers and get to the bottom of their hopes and dreams while I try to live out mine. This city is so full of people doing so many different things. Maybe that’s why I moved here in the first place, I couldn’t make up my mind. When I lay in my bed at night and the streets are finally quiet, I feel just like a pair of freshly washed socks tucked in the back of a drawer, stacked safely on top of a whole bunch of other socks. The night sky blanketing me and all the tiny people in the city, making us all one. That's why I think I secretly love emergency situations—we are all one in emergencies—we are the most human when we have no control at all.

Note 3

Leo Tolstoy said in the beginning of one of his books, "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." I think at night were all alike. We all rely on the same thing to take us over, sleep. All tucked safely in our beds, and in the morning we break apart again like a 5,000 piece puzzle. There are some things though that no matter how different we are, we all yearn for, and need. Touch. I miss human touch here. So much that when I accidentally run into someone or they run into me, I don't mind at all. In fact, I almost want people to run into me so that I remember I'm not just a ghost haunting the city or something.

Note 4

It's easy to feel like a tiny green pea in New York. People pretend not to see you. You pretend not to see anyone. I really like seeing all the different faces on the subway, I don’t like pretending. Older people studying out of textbooks, I secretly admire them for going back to school. I look at all the hard workers that ride the train with me, some dressed in business suits holding leather bags, others with patches on their jeans, and hard hats and utility belts. I admire them all. I wonder about their families or if they even have family in this country or if it was just a dream of theirs to come to New York, and if its what they expected. I feel love for them. Even this man sitting next to me, falling in and out of consciousness trying to do a Sudoku puzzle. He’s threatening to fall asleep on me and has dry skin and dandruff, but I love him too.

Note 5

I've learned a lot since moving to New York. There are things that New York can teach me, but things only I can teach New York. For example, walking. New York has taught me how to walk with purpose, squaring my shoulders taking up a lot of room on the sidewalk and looking people right in the eye. I heard this once: "If you shut your eyes to a frightening sight, you end up being frightened. If you look at everything straight on, there is nothing to be afraid of.'" Akira Kurosawa, Something Like an Autobiography.

I try to look at most everyone I pass in the eyes, not because I’m trying not to be afraid of them, but because I want to show them that they exist in this world.

Note 6

I used to be afraid of a lot of things. My biggest fear has always been dying before my time. I don’t know why. There’s something just so tragic about it. I used to be so shy when I was a little kid. Even my cousin asked me to have a sleepover once and I just stood there quietly because I was too shy to answer her in front of people. I remember I came out of my shell eventually like most kids do. When I was 19 I read an article about how everyone thinks that the spotlight is on them—when they enter a room, when they are speaking, eating, etc. But if everyone thinks the spotlight is on them, the truth is that the spotlight is never really on you, you just feel that way, and so does everyone else. Long story short, nobody cares. No one really cares that much what you do, how you do it, or if you're still single at 27. There is nothing to be shy or embarrassed about. Ever. This is your life; you’re the only one that knows how to live it perfectly. So do what you want to do anyway. Don’t live under a blanket of fear. Unnecessary fear can sink its claws into you and hold you back.

Shrugging off irrational things is really living your life true to you. I’ve heard that the real reason you flip a coin is not so that the coin will decided for you, it's so that your mind will whisper to you what it is you really want, right when the coin is in the air, or when you get that sinking feeling when you see the coin is landing on the decision you don’t really want. You should never play it too safe. Do what you want and be who you want regardless of circumstance. I miss writing and making movies. Picking a subject and delving in. I miss being in school. I also miss having someone to share my life with. I'm going home to eat dinner now and it will be good but I enjoy so much having someone to share my meals with. Life is most flavorful when shared.

Note 7

Sometimes I find my life is just passing so quickly without me having much say in it. I don't like that. Pause every once in a while and glance at what you are creating. If it’s not what you want, then make a plan, act fast and change. Young people breathe such life into things. Older people add depth, wisdom. The people in the middle, like us, I guess we just try to move things around and make life interesting. Make it all mean something while we can. Write our own stories, move, run, and make big decisions. There really are no wrong answers in life. There are only missed opportunities.

Note 8

In New York people can look grumpy or way into what they're doing but they're not. They're just in their little shells copying what everyone else is doing. So when I first moved here I tried to blend in so I did that too. But I’ve realized how much of my true life I’ve been missing out on being “a stone faced New Yorker.” So I’m not doing that anymore and just being myself. Smiling. Touching. Being honest. The day I made that decision, to look into people’s eyes again and smile, I met this girl Carla at an art store who was deaf. I didn’t know she was deaf at first but I complimented her beautiful smooth skin and awesome hair and then she signaled to me that she was deaf. It made me even happier that I reached out to her. She helped me pick out art supplies.

Note 9

Everyone grows up but doesn't have to grow old. When I’m 100 years old I want to look back and see that my heart grew and expanded in all directions. That I progressed and knew what it was like to be a human. Poor, happy, unhappy, lonely, strong, courageous, bold, loving, afraid, compassionate, emotional, resilient. That I knew the magic of friendship, and how it feels to be human. I’m stretching my heart to stay young not because I fear growing old, but because life happens so fast, I want to experience every feeling like it’s the first time. I think that’s what true youth and beauty is. To be young at heart is to feel things deeply and to feel often. You only have one life to live.

Note 10

My mom says I'm strong to make my life from scratch moving out here without really knowing anyone or anything. And that it’s “so impressive.” But anyone can do that really. What is more challenging is staying true to who you are no matter where you go and to remember not to get whisked away into “the norm." Be your own norm and try not to get whisked away into the current of who you think you're “supposed to be." For me to truly live means slowing down to keep up with who I really am.

Editor's note: Love her yet? I met Marni years ago at an impromptu photoshoot put on by our university's photo club. I remember she was magnetic without even trying to be, earnest and loving simply because it came so naturally to her. Radiant in every way, Marni's authenticity still inspires me to shake off my façades and show up in the best of ways.

Want your day to be brighter? Follow Marni here for weekly bits of wisdom, glimpses of that New York lifestyle and every now and then, a picture or two of that megawatt smile.

(Watercolor sketch by Suhita Shirodkar)

Neil Gaiman on Art

I never really expected to find myself giving advice to people graduating from an establishment of higher education. I never graduated from any such establishment. I never even started at one. I escaped from school as soon as I could, when the prospect of four more years of enforced learning before I'd become the writer I wanted to be was stifling.

I got out into the world, I wrote, and I became a better writer the more I wrote, and I wrote some more, and nobody ever seemed to mind that I was making it up as I went along, they just read what I wrote and they paid for it, or they didn't, and often they commissioned me to write something else for them.

Which has left me with a healthy respect and fondness for higher education that those of my friends and family, who attended Universities, were cured of long ago.

Looking back, I've had a remarkable ride. I'm not sure I can call it a career, because a career implies that I had some kind of career plan, and I never did. The nearest thing I had was a list I made when I was 15 of everything I wanted to do: to write an adult novel, a children's book, a comic, a movie, record an audiobook, write an episode of Doctor Who... and so on. I didn't have a career. I just did the next thing on the list.

So I thought I'd tell you everything I wish I'd known starting out, and a few things that, looking back on it, I suppose that I did know. And that I would also give you the best piece of advice I'd ever got, which I completely failed to follow.

First of all: When you start out on a career in the arts you have no idea what you are doing.

This is great. People who know what they are doing know the rules, and know what is possible and impossible. You do not. And you should not. The rules on what is possible and impossible in the arts were made by people who had not tested the bounds of the possible by going beyond them. And you can.

If you don't know it's impossible it's easier to do. And because nobody's done it before, they haven't made up rules to stop anyone doing that again, yet.

Secondly, If you have an idea of what you want to make, what you were put here to do, then just go and do that.

And that's much harder than it sounds and, sometimes in the end, so much easier than you might imagine. Because normally, there are things you have to do before you can get to the place you want to be. I wanted to write comics and novels and stories and films, so I became a journalist, because journalists are allowed to ask questions, and to simply go and find out how the world works, and besides, to do those things I needed to write and to write well, and I was being paid to learn how to write economically, crisply, sometimes under adverse conditions, and on time.

Sometimes the way to do what you hope to do will be clear cut, and sometimes it will be almost impossible to decide whether or not you are doing the correct thing, because you'll have to balance your goals and hopes with feeding yourself, paying debts, finding work, settling for what you can get.

Something that worked for me was imagining that where I wanted to be – an author, primarily of fiction, making good books, making good comics and supporting myself through my words – was a mountain. A distant mountain. My goal.

And I knew that as long as I kept walking towards the mountain I would be all right. And when I truly was not sure what to do, I could stop, and think about whether it was taking me towards or away from the mountain. I said no to editorial jobs on magazines, proper jobs that would have paid proper money because I knew that, attractive though they were, for me they would have been walking away from the mountain. And if those job offers had come along earlier I might have taken them, because they still would have been closer to the mountain than I was at the time.

I learned to write by writing. I tended to do anything as long as it felt like an adventure, and to stop when it felt like work, which meant that life did not feel like work.

Thirdly, When you start off, you have to deal with the problems of failure. You need to be thickskinned, to learn that not every project will survive. A freelance life, a life in the arts, is sometimes like putting messages in bottles, on a desert island, and hoping that someone will find one of your bottles and open it and read it, and put something in a bottle that will wash its way back to you: appreciation, or a commission, or money, or love. And you have to accept that you may put out a hundred things for every bottle that winds up coming back.

The problems of failure are problems of discouragement, of hopelessness, of hunger. You want everything to happen and you want it now, and things go wrong. My first book – a piece of journalism I had done for the money, and which had already bought me an electric typewriter from the advance – should have been a bestseller. It should have paid me a lot of money. If the publisher hadn't gone into involuntary liquidation between the first print run selling out and the second printing, and before any royalties could be paid, it would have done.

And I shrugged, and I still had my electric typewriter and enough money to pay the rent for a couple of months, and I decided that I would do my best in future not to write books just for the money. If you didn't get the money, then you didn't have anything. If I did work I was proud of, and I didn't get the money, at least I'd have the work.

Every now and again, I forget that rule, and whenever I do, the universe kicks me hard and reminds me. I don't know that it's an issue for anybody but me, but it's true that nothing I did where the only reason for doing it was the money was ever worth it, except as bitter experience. Usually I didn't wind up getting the money, either. The things I did because I was excited, and wanted to see them exist in reality have never let me down, and I've never regretted the time I spent on any of them.

The problems of failure are hard.

The problems of success can be harder, because nobody warns you about them.

The first problem of any kind of even limited success is the unshakable conviction that you are getting away with something, and that any moment now they will discover you. It's Imposter Syndrome, something my wife Amanda christened the Fraud Police.

In my case, I was convinced that there would be a knock on the door, and a man with a clipboard (I don't know why he carried a clipboard, in my head, but he did) would be there, to tell me it was all over, and they had caught up with me, and now I would have to go and get a real job, one that didn't consist of making things up and writing them down, and reading books I wanted to read. And then I would go away quietly and get the kind of job where you don't have to make things up any more.

The problems of success. They're real, and with luck you'll experience them. The point where you stop saying yes to everything, because now the bottles you threw in the ocean are all coming back, and have to learn to say no.

I watched my peers, and my friends, and the ones who were older than me and watch how miserable some of them were: I'd listen to them telling me that they couldn't envisage a world where they did what they had always wanted to do any more, because now they had to earn a certain amount every month just to keep where they were. They couldn't go and do the things that mattered, and that they had really wanted to do; and that seemed as a big a tragedy as any problem of failure.

And after that, the biggest problem of success is that the world conspires to stop you doing the thing that you do, because you are successful. There was a day when I looked up and realised that I had become someone who professionally replied to email, and who wrote as a hobby. I started answering fewer emails, and was relieved to find I was writing much more.

Fourthly, I hope you'll make mistakes. If you're making mistakes, it means you're out there doing something. And the mistakes in themselves can be useful. I once misspelled Caroline, in a letter, transposing the A and the O, and I thought, “Coraline looks like a real name...”

And remember that whatever discipline you are in, whether you are a musician or a photographer, a fine artist or a cartoonist, a writer, a dancer, a designer, whatever you do you have one thing that's unique. You have the ability to make art.

And for me, and for so many of the people I have known, that's been a lifesaver. The ultimate lifesaver. It gets you through good times and it gets you through the other ones.

Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.

Make good art.

I'm serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it's all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn't matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.

Make it on the good days too.

And Fifthly, while you are at it, make your art. Do the stuff that only you can do.

The urge, starting out, is to copy. And that's not a bad thing. Most of us only find our own voices after we've sounded like a lot of other people. But the one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.

The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That's the moment you may be starting to get it right.

The things I've done that worked the best were the things I was the least certain about, the stories where I was sure they would either work, or more likely be the kinds of embarrassing failures people would gather together and talk about until the end of time. They always had that in common: looking back at them, people explain why they were inevitable successes. While I was doing them, I had no idea.

I still don't. And where would be the fun in making something you knew was going to work?

And sometimes the things I did really didn't work. There are stories of mine that have never been reprinted. Some of them never even left the house. But I learned as much from them as I did from the things that worked.

Sixthly. I will pass on some secret freelancer knowledge. Secret knowledge is always good. And it is useful for anyone who ever plans to create art for other people, to enter a freelance world of any kind. I learned it in comics, but it applies to other fields too. And it's this:

People get hired because, somehow, they get hired. In my case I did something which these days would be easy to check, and would get me into trouble, and when I started out, in those pre-internet days, seemed like a sensible career strategy: when I was asked by editors who I'd worked for, I lied. I listed a handful of magazines that sounded likely, and I sounded confident, and I got jobs. I then made it a point of honour to have written something for each of the magazines I'd listed to get that first job, so that I hadn't actually lied, I'd just been chronologically challenged... You get work however you get work.

People keep working, in a freelance world, and more and more of today's world is freelance, because their work is good, and because they are easy to get along with, and because they deliver the work on time. And you don't even need all three. Two out of three is fine. People will tolerate how unpleasant you are if your work is good and you deliver it on time. They'll forgive the lateness of the work if it's good, and if they like you. And you don't have to be as good as the others if you're on time and it's always a pleasure to hear from you.

When I agreed to give this address, I started trying to think what the best advice I'd been given over the years was.

And it came from Stephen King twenty years ago, at the height of the success of Sandman. I was writing a comic that people loved and were taking seriously. King had liked Sandman and my novel with Terry Pratchett, Good Omens, and he saw the madness, the long signing lines, all that, and his advice was this:

“This is really great. You should enjoy it.”

And I didn't. Best advice I got that I ignored.Instead I worried about it. I worried about the next deadline, the next idea, the next story. There wasn't a moment for the next fourteen or fifteen years that I wasn't writing something in my head, or wondering about it. And I didn't stop and look around and go, this is really fun. I wish I'd enjoyed it more. It's been an amazing ride. But there were parts of the ride I missed, because I was too worried about things going wrong, about what came next, to enjoy the bit I was on.

That was the hardest lesson for me, I think: to let go and enjoy the ride, because the ride takes you to some remarkable and unexpected places.

And here, on this platform, today, is one of those places. (I am enjoying myself immensely.)

To all today's graduates: I wish you luck. Luck is useful. Often you will discover that the harder you work, and the more wisely you work, the luckier you get. But there is luck, and it helps.

We're in a transitional world right now, if you're in any kind of artistic field, because the nature of distribution is changing, the models by which creators got their work out into the world, and got to keep a roof over their heads and buy sandwiches while they did that, are all changing. I've talked to people at the top of the food chain in publishing, in bookselling, in all those areas, and nobody knows what the landscape will look like two years from now, let alone a decade away. The distribution channels that people had built over the last century or so are in flux for print, for visual artists, for musicians, for creative people of all kinds.

Which is, on the one hand, intimidating, and on the other, immensely liberating. The rules, the assumptions, the now-we're supposed to's of how you get your work seen, and what you do then, are breaking down. The gatekeepers are leaving their gates. You can be as creative as you need to be to get your work seen. YouTube and the web (and whatever comes after YouTube and the web) can give you more people watching than television ever did. The old rules are crumbling and nobody knows what the new rules are.

So make up your own rules.

Someone asked me recently how to do something she thought was going to be difficult, in this case recording an audio book, and I suggested she pretend that she was someone who could do it. Not pretend to do it, but pretend she was someone who could. She put up a notice to this effect on the studio wall, and she said it helped.

So be wise, because the world needs more wisdom, and if you cannot be wise, pretend to be someone who is wise, and then just behave like they would.

And now go, and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here. Make good art.

University of the Arts

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
134th Commencement
May 17, 2012

A Letter to Myself: Written by Paris Clavel

When I was young, I felt like everyone I admired was very strongly opinionated and seemed to be of one mind. It was such a secure way to grow up, but so very narrow. Imagine when I got to an extremely diverse college and started to admire people who were nothing like me, who thought nothing like me—who I disagreed with and it was encouraged. My entire frame of reference crumbled, and sifting through the debris I got to choose all of the pieces that would make me who I wanted to be as an individual. As different as that might be from everyone I knew and loved. It was so intoxicating; creating myself apart from anyone else. But I wish I had been bolder sooner, I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time simply being agreeable.

Dear Little Paris,

Yes, you, with the big #12 on the back of your teensy sweater eating your homemade PB&J’s. You’re a Mormon, you’re being homeschooled, you guys don’t drink milk or get the flu shot, you won’t be allowed to wear makeup until you’re fourteen, and your dad makes you listen to Rush Limbaugh every morning. You are seriously the strangest person I know.

You’re already so much more different than you want to be and it makes you so uncomfortable. You’re so tired of not having anything in common with people. So there they stay, tucked away, all your crazy ideas and unique perspectives. Smiling and nodding, going with the flow—you’re the ultimate team player. But sitting atop that fence is going to get uncomfortable really soon. I know it feels safe up there, you don’t have to make up your mind or do anything noticeable, and people love you because you’re so quick to jump on board with their ideas.

But please stop thinking so much about what will make other people feel good or smart or strong, it’s time for you to feel good and smart and strong. It’s time to learn that it is not disrespectful to have a different opinion; it is not selfish to share your own thoughts. It’s not necessary to support every thought shared by others, it is not brave or bold or unique to be a footstool.

Oh little Paris, stop being so agreeable.

You don’t have all the answers, nobody does. But that doesn’t make your real thoughts, feelings, or opinions any less valuable. If you think differently, speak up—even if you end up being the only one. Stop acting so passionate about things you don’t really care about and being so passive about things that might actually matter to you. Everything that makes you unique is getting lost in the shuffle.

One day you will have a beautiful little boy, and as you watch him grow you will feel like he is capable of doing anything, being anything he wants to. And you will feel so much love that you will want to encourage him in whatever he tries to pursue—whatever ideas he has, no matter how different they might be from your own. And so you see you never had to be afraid, you never had to shrink when those you loved and admired felt differently than you. Because in the words of Bernard M. Baruch, “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

Oh little Paris, stop being so agreeable. Be brave, be different, be you already.

You can find Paris and her cute (growing!) family at @parisclavel on Instagram. (This is a woman I've looked up to since the day I met her—she's a lover and a fighter and she's brimming with wisdom.)

On Asking for Help

I come from a long line of people who often say "I'm fine." It's genetic, I think, because it's taken twenty-two years for me to realize that there are times when I'm really not okay, and that sometimes I really do need help.

I remember being in the midst of a deluge of crappy things about a year ago, feeling so unanchored and so overwhelmed. It was one of the most difficult periods of my life so far, and it had gotten to a point where I knew I had to stop internalizing all of the stress and the heartache and the confusion if I wanted to continue (or maybe go back to) being a fully-functioning human. It was out of my comfort zone and I mentally went back and forth on the decision dozens of times, but I finally reached out to a number of therapists. I remember emailing a few different individuals, palms sweating and full of self-doubt and embarrassment at my admission of needing help. I'll never forget a line in the response email from the therapist I ended up choosing: ". . . sometimes you need somebody that's not a friend or family member to throw you a life saver." The image made perfect sense to me. I've always been a private person, and feared that I would be burdening others if I unloaded my weights on them. So there I was, treading water and not being sure what to do or who to call when I was tossed some help. I felt relief just picturing the scene.

In retrospect, seeking help through therapy was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I often joke with my sister that I'm going to start gifting everyone I know therapy for birthdays and Christmas gifts (and if I had the money I truly would). Therapy in all its forms is pretty stigmatized—I experienced that first-hand when I realized how sheepish I was to seek it out, how quiet I've been about it since, and how queasy I've been about sharing it here. And herein lies the problem. What have we done to make asking for help, whether it's from a therapist, or from Mom or Dad or Grandma, or from a best friend or a total stranger, or from the Universe itself, something to be ashamed of?

In the words of Monica Potter, "You have to have help—people with the same vision as you and people you trust."

I recently had a delicious conversation with a colleague and friend that has worked as a therapist for decades. He described an exercise that can help when we're feeling discouraged or embarrassed or in need of help (a.k.a. when we're being human) and my heart nearly exploded I loved it so much. Try it right now: Think of something that you're currently struggling with, then think of someone in your life—living or deceased, near or far—that you love and admire. If you can't think of a particular person, create one in your mind. Imagine sharing what you're currently struggling with with this person or being. Imagine that someone not being irritated or annoyed or confused by you. Imagine them with complete serenity, understanding and compassion, loving you wildly even when you're in this horribly stuck place. No judgment, no condemnation. What would they say to you?

That exercise feels like a warm cup of tea to me, and I've found that practicing it in my mind emboldens me to speak up, or at least to tell the truth when somebody asks me how I'm doing. (I also want to write "love wildly" all over everything.) I have a friend that often says, "How are you really doing?" It sort of gives me a kick in the butt to be real, and to trust that there are listening ears and open hearts and cozy shoulders waiting for me to sometimes say, "Not that great."

Pssst, here's more:

This post by Joanna Goddard illustrates all of this quite perfectly. The comments made my heart melt.

In my humble opinion, Humans of New York is one of the best things to happen to humanity in the 21st century. Following photographer Brandon Stanton on social media turns my world around and upside down on a regular basis, and I can't get enough of it. It helps me to understand that all of us suffer and that nobody is perfect, myself included.

If you're considering therapy: Finding a therapist that's a good fit for you can sometimes be a discouraging experience, but I promise you they are out there! I highly recommend GoodTherapy.org in your search. Do your best to research potential therapists' backgrounds and approaches, then have an honest conversation about what you're experiencing. Don't be afraid to test out a few—finding someone with an approach that gels with your needs can be positively life-changing.

In case you missed it, read this post about being your own worst enemy or your own best friend.

May the (love)force be with you.

(Artwork by Sarah Walton)

The Art of the Handwritten Letter

How do you express your love? Love Force interviewed a handful of folks that take to letter-writing. Meet Brianne, Mandy, Katie, Sarah, James, Sara and Donnie—their answers to Snapchat, emotions and sealing wax below.

LF: It's 2015—we've got email, text, and most importantly, Snapchat. Why the handwritten letter?

Brianne Dosch: It’s the whole cliché answer that it’s just more personal. When I’m far away from someone it makes me feel closer to that person to send him or her something I touched, that they will touch. Not only is my heart on that paper, I’m on that paper. It makes people seem closer and messages more meaningful.

Sara Ikonen: To me hand-written letters are something tangible and much more personal than an email (plus, I don’t use Snapchat in the first place – one part of me is pretty old school when it comes to technology.) The reader can see me on the paper, not just through the words and what they convey but through the one by one written letters that have a unique flair to them. I try to keep some good things alive from the past – and hand-written letters definitely belong in that category.

Mandy Prasad: With technology everywhere in our daily lives (computers, phones, tablets), it is so much nicer to know that someone else put down their device, dug through a drawer to find a pen and some paper, write the letter, find an envelope, stamp it, and mail it.

Katie Fuhriman: Think of how you felt when you received a note from your crush, with your name penned across the top and their signature at the bottom, with, if you were really lucky, a heart slash or maybe even the word “love.” All in his handwriting. It was like I had a little piece of my special someone with me no matter where I carried that note, something that no one else had or could ever duplicate. It saddens me to think that kids these days might not get to experience that. That all they get is a text, which maybe someone else wrote only as a joke. Because when it’s not handwritten, you can never know for sure who really wrote it. It didn’t always matter what the notes said. It was just the fact that they took the time to write it in their own handwriting that made it special. I fear that although we are in constant communication, maybe we’re not communicating as much. I write handwritten letters because they are more meaningful, in my opinion. They require more effort, more time, a stamp, a walk to your mailbox. More thought and consideration. And I think everyone deserves that.

LF: How often do you turn to pen and paper for communication? Do you find yourself hand-writing letters on certain occasions or in particular circumstances?

Sarah Chandler: I write a lot, it's the best way for me to relieve my feelings and express myself. I write a lot when I travel because I don't always have a phone or computer available, but I can always write.

James Choi: Reflecting back on the few times that I've hand-written notes recently, it's been mostly for special occasions. Christmas cards, sexy notes, thinking of you post-its. The activity of handwriting, I feel, serves almost as an exclamation point. It's easy and convenient to text a "good morning", "thinking of you", or email a "Merry Christmas", but when I look back at times I specifically took to pen and paper, it was to emphasize emotion. Turbo charge it, if you will, to really signify what I'm trying to communicate.

Sara Ikonen: I would say at least once a month. I write letters specifically to my dad and grandma – I haven’t seen either of them for years. They are extra special people to me, so they deserve extra special things. I usually also slip a few photos in the envelope to accompany the letter. My grandma doesn’t know anything about computers or cellphones, and my dad isn’t tech savvy either. Letters are basically my only way of staying in touch with them since they live in Finland and Sweden respectively. I also write letters to my man in Australia even though we chat/call/Skype/text several hours every day. Again, I just feel like it’s something more concrete – like a little piece of me. I also love the surprise factor of when the letter gets to its destination; plus, there’s something romantic about hand-written letters too.

Brianne Dosch: I write hand written letters to my husband (about weekly) and especially for occasions (like the first day of something, anniversaries etc), but I also write hand written letters to my only sibling who lives in Utah. We do this stupid thing where we write letters like we’re in Pride and Prejudice era. It’s kind of fun and quirky.

Katie Fuhriman: Before my sister and I both got married, we used to write each other letters every time we went through a hard breakup. It didn’t heal all the heartache, but it did bring a smile to my face every time I sent or received one of those letters.

LF: Have you always taken time for hand-written notes? Did someone or something in your life inspire you to starting sending physical letters rather than digital notes? 

Sarah Chandler: I've always loved hand-written notes; my childhood best friend and I started writing letters to each other when she moved. E-mail wasn't a thing and we loved to decorate the envelopes and send pictures. It was just so exciting to wait for something in the mail. I watched this movie about letter writing where this older gentlemen writes letters of love and encouragement to random people in the phone book—it's helped encourage me to keep writing cheery notes.

Brianne Dosch: My Grandma Fischer (on my mom’s side) got me into letter writing. She has bookcases and bookcases full of journals from her life. So we started a letter journal. She would start a journal with a letter to me and then mail it to me. Then I would reply in the journal and then send it back to her. It always made me want to write letters like her for the rest of my life.

James Choi: I remember getting letters from families and friends when I was younger, and seeing the lilt of their penmanship on the paper brought gratitude—they took specified time to handwrite me a letter. I figure it's difficult to multitask or be playing Candy Crush when handwriting a letter. (Unless one has four arms, which would be awesome and akin to my fave Mortal Kombat character.) So really, it's the effort that I appreciate. I don't keep all of my emails, but I've kept every single leaf of paper that friends and family have taken time to pen.

Katie Fuhriman: I do probably owe some of my inspiration to my Grandma Bowers, because she hand-writes notes or letters for every occasion and always has. She used to write me a letter at least once a month when I lived in Hawai'i, because I was so far away and she wanted to show me how much she cared and missed me. It was very sweet.

LF: Talk us through the emotions—from the writing itself to the sealing in the envelope to the placing in the mailbox. 

Donnie Winter: Total excitement. While my girlfriend lived overseas, I got to write her letters, it was not a chore whatsoever. I am way more expressive in my letters, so it was so much fun coming up with jokes, drawings, and talking about different learnings and things like that. Sealing the envelope is a feeling of accomplishment, weirdly enough. Just the thought of, "Yeah, she's going to love this one!" And after sealing it I would draw something or write a quote from a TV show or movie on the back; just still having so much fun with it. Oh, and cute stamps (Harry Potter, obvi). But shortly after dropping the letter into the mailbox, there comes a feeling of "longing" I guess. I knew I would get an email from her soon, but I wanted a letter back from her right then, you know? It definitely made me more patient.

Mandy Prasad: There can be a lot of emotions when writing a letter – it depends a lot on what’s going on in your life and what’s going on in the other person's. A couple months ago, I was driving in the car by myself, and the song that my dad and I danced to at my wedding came on the radio. It’s an older song from 1993, so it doesn’t usually come on to the radio. Instead of texting my dad or calling him, I wrote him about it. I know he likes to keep mementos, and so I sent the postcard hoping he’d be able to keep it and know that I think about him and appreciate him in my life.

James Choi: Writing the actual letter is the source of about 80% of the emotion (gratitude, sorrow, sympathy, pride) and 20% is just impatience. When it comes to mailing it, sealing the envelope is 20% "Please don't cut my tongue" and 80% "Hell yeah." Placing in mailbox: 100% "I hope this doesn't get lost."

Katie Fuhriman: I start to feel committed and even a little bit excited. When I’m actually writing the letter, I’m thinking of what I want to say, I’m laughing along with the funny parts, and I’m smiling as I imagine the recipient’s reaction to what I’m writing. It’s like a conversation that, in a way, I get to enjoy twice – while I’m writing it, and when they end up reading it.

Sara Ikonen: When I write, I’m in a flow. It’s a self-reflective process just like when writing in my journal but now with someone special as my audience. When I’m done and get to seal it and drop it in the mailbox, I feel accomplished. I estimate what day the recipient will find the letter in their mailbox and what is going on in their life on that day.

LF: Do you ever personalize your mail or have any favorite styles/methods of delivery? (For example, you seal it with a kiss, or with wax, or you mail painted coconuts instead of envelopes.)

Mandy Prasad: I’ve never thought about it until now, but I guess I do have a style. Usually at the end of my letters, I’ll write an inside-joke sort of phrase as a closing phrase. While some might say “love, so-and-so,” I’ll write something that signifies our relationship together and that only the two of us know and are a part of.

Donnie Winter: No red lipstick seals for me, but I used to pick flowers and press them when they were in bloom. It was hard in the winter, but I tried to send pressed flowers as often as I could. She's the kind that deserves a flower a day, you know?

Sara Ikonen: Yes, I do like to get artsy and creative with my letters sometimes. Often, I make a small and simple painting for my grandma, let it dry, and then write the text over the painting. I usually also like to decorate the envelopes with little cute doodlings.

Brianne Dosch: I like to find pretty stamps to put on all my envelopes, and I always try to write on parchment (generally from Papyrus) and I have wax seals I break out occasionally too—I even have a cat one.

Katie Fuhriman: I don’t get too creative here, but I do write nicknames on the envelope instead of just the person’s regular name. I’m sure I have made a few mailmen (and mailwomen) laugh with some of the weird names I put on the envelopes I send. A lot of times I'll decorate the envelope with little drawings or song lyrics as well.

LF: What’s your favorite letter you’ve ever sent? What’s your favorite letter you’ve ever received? Is that correct grammar?

Donnie Winter: My girlfriend once wrote me a letter with all of the words written kind of weird on the paper; it kind of looked like she just couldn't write straight. And it wasn't until I actually finished the letter that I realized she had drawn a picture using the words. So she had re-created this goofy picture we had together but in writing. It was incredible.

Brianne Dosch: My favorite letter was one that was never actually sent. While I was in Israel my boyfriend (now my husband) got this huge package together that would have cost him $80 to send so I asked him not to send it. But when I got back I finally got the package that had the shortest but sweetest letter I have ever read. All it said was “I’ve decided I can’t live a day without you. Everything is better with you around. Please come home so I don’t ever have to be without you again.” He proposed to me the day after I finally got that delayed letter. (Oh and when it comes to grammar and letters, grammar never matters if the sentiment is right. And if someone corrects your grammar in a letter, then they most likely missed the point.)

Mandy Prasad: Favorite letter I’ve ever sent: I’m not sure if this technically counts as a letter, but I think it does. In high school, I had a friend who was going to spend time out in one of the least populated states in the USA, with barely anything to do. She was kind of dreading the trip at the time. So, I put together a backpack for her with things to do, and a letter giving her crazy ideas of things to do while on her trip. It was basically a silly scavenger hunt to keep her busy. Some of the things on the list included “write a letter to the hotel workers” and “find the coolest rock in the desert.” I can’t remember what was all in the letter, but I do know that she did a lot of things in the letter and it was so fun to put together something like that. Favorite letter I’ve ever received: When I was a young teenager, my favorite auntie was off to college. I wrote her thinking I might be able to cheer her day up, and didn’t expect a response. Shortly after I wrote her a letter, she wrote me back. It made me feel so special knowing that she cared and even as a busy college student, she took the time out to write me back.

Katie Fuhriman: One of my favorite letters I've ever sent was actually to one of my best friends who was in rehab at the time. He didn't have much communication with the outside world and didn't have internet access, so for Christmas, I sent him a package with a handwritten letter, some candy, and some printed photos of some of our favorite times together. I know it meant a lot to him, and it was very enjoyable for me to be able to write to him and buoy him up. It's hard to pick just one favorite of all the letters I have received. If I had to narrow it down, I would probably choose a letter I received from a good friend of mine from high school. It came at a completely random time in my life when I hadn't heard from him in years. He was never very good at expressing his feelings, but one time he wrote me a letter, thanking me for my friendship over the years, and he included with it a note I had given him when we were 14 years old. In his letter to me, he said: "I'm a lucky kid I guess and I've been feelin extra blessed lately so I figured I'd write you and send you this note you wrote me way back when that I've been holding onto for all this time. Right before I left I grabbed it cuz reading it has always reminded me of fun simplicity. It brightens things up." I guess this letter was my favorite because it showed me that even a simple note I wrote when I was younger had an important impact on someone. It's amazing what can happen with a handwritten note or letter. We can truly touch people in a different way. It's almost like a lost art.

Thanks to our interviewees for spilling the beans on the habit! Do you hand-write letters? I think I'm inspired to start. Check out this "Vintage Guide to the Lost Art of Epistolary Etiquette" for some tips from the golden age of letter writing.

(Image via Cotton & Flax)