I often walk by the biography section in my frequent trips to the Elmhurst Public Library. Recently a Truman Capote biography caught my eye which contained a series of his correspondence with the famous, notorious, and mundane. These letters gave a glimpse of his personal growth over time as well as development and destruction of friendships and relationships.
These letters reminded me of when I was little sitting with my Grandmother at her dining room table covered in a protective plastic table cloth. She would open her letters and write to her friends and sister Anita living in California, who she still sends multiple letters every week. Her cursive handwriting is sealed inside by her technique of plastering the envelopes with dollar store stickers. Her letters provide an escape exchanging common daily family occurrences reflecting a quiet desperation to hold onto the past.
Letters feel entire worlds more confessional and romantic than an email. I'm probably being too sentimental for a past that probably never existed. I wonder if future biographers will compile Facebook friendships and emails to detail famous lives' when this generation passes on?
Today Facebook is fluent in the language of sarcasm, with my generation walking around as little speech bubbles of sarcasm. Yes, its fun and being challenged to be witty with every comment can be daunting.The sarcastic "No" however, I have a problem with.
In 7th grade I would go to my friend's house and she would answer the door, "EW. Why are you here?" and then politely open the door. I would always be frustrated as to how to respond; if I'm sarcastic back it perpetuates the disgustingness, so I would meekly smile and try to move past this. Whenever I get a fake sassy "No" to a question I ask among friends or sarcastic forced friendships I feel the same reddish fluster in my face.
Maybe my craving a vintage typewriter comes from an attempt to step away from such sarcasm. It could also be maybe the direct connection between the writer and the creative experience I imagine type writers give, or maybe its because I want to suck up to old professors wanting them to fawn over a final essay produced on the machine of their youth.
Being away from friends at college makes me want to send them sentimental letters in cursive handwriting on crisp heavy paper. I even have notions of sealing them with a personal wax crest I design, perhaps with an art nouveau pug. The light blue Remington typewriter of my dreams will remain there until I locate the perfect one in the many resale stores and Craigslist posts I troll.
These letters reminded me of when I was little sitting with my Grandmother at her dining room table covered in a protective plastic table cloth. She would open her letters and write to her friends and sister Anita living in California, who she still sends multiple letters every week. Her cursive handwriting is sealed inside by her technique of plastering the envelopes with dollar store stickers. Her letters provide an escape exchanging common daily family occurrences reflecting a quiet desperation to hold onto the past.
Letters feel entire worlds more confessional and romantic than an email. I'm probably being too sentimental for a past that probably never existed. I wonder if future biographers will compile Facebook friendships and emails to detail famous lives' when this generation passes on?
Today Facebook is fluent in the language of sarcasm, with my generation walking around as little speech bubbles of sarcasm. Yes, its fun and being challenged to be witty with every comment can be daunting.The sarcastic "No" however, I have a problem with.
In 7th grade I would go to my friend's house and she would answer the door, "EW. Why are you here?" and then politely open the door. I would always be frustrated as to how to respond; if I'm sarcastic back it perpetuates the disgustingness, so I would meekly smile and try to move past this. Whenever I get a fake sassy "No" to a question I ask among friends or sarcastic forced friendships I feel the same reddish fluster in my face.
Maybe my craving a vintage typewriter comes from an attempt to step away from such sarcasm. It could also be maybe the direct connection between the writer and the creative experience I imagine type writers give, or maybe its because I want to suck up to old professors wanting them to fawn over a final essay produced on the machine of their youth.
Being away from friends at college makes me want to send them sentimental letters in cursive handwriting on crisp heavy paper. I even have notions of sealing them with a personal wax crest I design, perhaps with an art nouveau pug. The light blue Remington typewriter of my dreams will remain there until I locate the perfect one in the many resale stores and Craigslist posts I troll.
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