Mar 24

My First Reader Letter

There is something completely cool about getting a letter. I bang on about this, and I’m sure people think I’m just locked in a time long, long ago, but nothing beats the printed word on paper. The marks where someone does an emphatic full stop, or underlines a few times. Or draws a funny face with wide staring eyes. They say a lot more than this lovely typography here. I’d like to write on the screen, and scrawl my silly expressions for you, and there’s probably technology somewhere that could do that, and then translate to a blog, but by the time I got it all sorted out a week would have gone by, and in that time, frankly, I could have done a hardcore chapter of life and love. Well, that’s what I’d like to think, anyway.

So what I’m trying to say is that I got my first letter from a reader this week. A real one, on paper with an envelope. It made me smile because I remember meeting Rhea, and she was lovely, and her friends were lovely, and now I have this letter telling me about how she’s writing stories, and it makes me happy so I’m going to keep it forever.

I have letters from way back when. I cannot throw them out. My mum sent them to me from my childhood home ten thousand miles away, all bundled up in a tin trunk. They smell a lot of mothballs, which is a shame because some of them started out drenched in Brut For Men (i.e. cheap deodorant for pimply boys), and a whiff of that would really take me back. The mothballs? Not so much.

Really I’m just wittering on to distract myself from the fact that it’s Bologna Children’s Book Fair kicking off in a few days, where the careers-slash-destinies-slash-wrist-slashes of many will be decided. I think I’ll go write my gran a letter. She doesn’t have a computer, and I’ve got a feeling she keeps all her correspondence too . . .



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