Writing letters

This is one of those days when I'd much rather be at home, writing letters to friends by mail, with a good bottle of oxblood ink and cream stationery. I am, of course, reading The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien (George Allen & Unwin, Houghton Mifflin), which encourages this distraction. I might make physical letter-writing a habit soon, but whether this is sustainable is a different question. It is certainly not practical. It is easier to send emails; they also cost less. But I go out on a limb to say this: the comfort of convenience is over-exaggerated. I need to be inconvenienced once in a while: make time to compose my thoughts, write them by hand with a fountain pen, and deliver the envelopes in person to the post office. Now I'm beginning to understand why my med school friends AAce and Chevs (they are AA and Everly, if you're so curious; I have this strange habit of conferring unique and affectionate nicknames to friends) have taken particular pleasure in sending me letters and postcards from the States. I can't quite explain it, but receiving something by mail stirs up an element of childlike anticipation. Reading my friends' thoughts through their handwriting offers a strangely warmer consolation. The post office is just a few minutes away from the house. It is even within walking distance by my standards. And the thought of licking the stamps—how personal can one get!