Instructions For Saying Goodbye

The Letter Reimagined, Week Two: The Goodbye Letter! Come Write With Us!

I can’t believe the letters you are writing in response to Week One of our Letter Reimagined Intensive (Your Fierce Original Voice).

Fierce and original, indeed.

The letters you are writing shine from within. As I read them, the words that keep coming to mind are close and real. These letters feel as if a real person is speaking in their own voice right into someone else’s ear.

Elmore Leonard, the great novelist, once said, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.” That, too, is part of voice. Writing that cartwheels effortfully across the page in a writerly way feels … like writing, not life. Story, on the other hand, told in a voice that feels distinct but unadorned (an effect that requires attention and care, and is thus an illusion in itself), feels realer than real.

These letters feel realer than real. Just take a moment to appreciate the quality of these voices—their luminosity and sheen and immediacy —from just a few randomly excerpted bits of the hundreds of longer snippets of letters posted.

I drove into a pothole yesterday. I should have known better than to be smug about how long it had been.

It occurs to me that I, who once knew the scent of your pillowcase and where to find the peanut butter in your mother’s kitchen, now know nothing of the fabric of your days: whether or not you eat breakfast, who you talk to at work, who cooks dinner, if you end them resting next to Rob on a sofa or in a chair next to a woodstove, room for no one but you on its seat.

A year ago, when the gully finally dried up after the floods, a gate emerged, bent and buckled. It had been flung from its tether during the fires. It’s still down there, leaning against a burned stump, and every time I pass it I think of you and your mantra: Let the dead past bury its dead.

Can you remind me the names of your cool crone pen-pals from the AOL chat rooms? The ones who came to visit when you were alone in the condo in Bonita. When for a while it seemed like you might live your best life yet as widow.

I wish we could sit once again at the big oak table and the smell of warm bread makes us hungry. We’d make big slices with salted butter and sliced leaves of wild garlic that grew everywhere. For once your chatter would not annoy me.

I also want to thank you for the leaf earrings you sent to me afterwards that I never acknowledged. They are among the few things I still have from that time in my life, and when I see them I think what a kind soul you are, and what a shit I was to push you away.

It was also interesting and heartening to hear how many of you were utterly surprised by your own letters.

That surprise is palpable in the writing, just as Robert Frost promises that lack of surprise in the writer will lead to lack of surprise in the reader. And if last week’s 10-step exercise (yes, 10 steps, for anyone who hasn’t done it yet—but, fear not, most of the steps are “tips” or “reminders” so it’s not as onerous as it sounds) was any part of that, I imagine this bit from step three factored in:

Imagine the recipient of your letter taking it from the mailbox, examining the envelope, opening it up (do they tear it open or pull the seal open carefully, or even use a letter opener?). Imagine the recipient sitting down at a kitchen table or on a couch or at a desk or leaning against the kitchen counter. Imagine the light in the room, and the background sounds (a clock ticking? traffic? water pipes?).

Also, perhaps step six, as well:

Be careful to ensure you write directly to your recipient, bearing them in mind the whole time, even if your story in no way involves them. In other words, don’t let yourself stray too far from direct address! Keep picturing your recipient, as if you truly intend to mail this letter (regardless of whether that would even be possible). Work hard to remember that you are writing to this other person. I stress this because you will likely find yourself veering away from the recipient. Every time this happens, pull yourself back. Again, this is part of voice.

Part of voice indeed! I hear so much voice, and, therefore, so much life in these letters.

I feel the warmth of human breath in them.

So, whatever we do this week, please preserve this incredible quality you’ve tapped into so far in our only-just-begun exploration of the epistolary form. When I say it is an honor to read these letters, the word honor feels like an understatement.

Thank you.

For Week Two of the intensive, we shall explore the regions of farewell through the portal of instruction. Yes, it might sound strange, and that will be the doorway to surprise.

To be forthcoming, I knew from the very moment I cooked up the idea of a letter writing intensive that we’d do a goodbye. That’s partly because, well, goodbye letters are so specific and interesting. But it’s also partly because of a deeply moving goodbye letter I read last year while teaching the synchronous WITD workshop. That particular letter has remained with me all this time, and will serve as our inspiration for this week’s exercise.

I am excited to see where Week Two’s adventure takes us!

So, with no further ado, here are your linked readings (one is a gift link to NYT editorial, so let me know if you have any problems with access) and the 10-step exercise for farewell.

Happy writing and I will see you beautiful people soon in the comments!