But correspondence is traditional. Victorian ladies wrote letters by the bushel. My mother spent time almost every day writing letters; she wrote to her own mother once a week, and fretted if her mother didn’t write her back immediately. “Grandma’s mad at me,” she’d say nervously. She bought little twenty-nine cent pads of letter paper, about six inches by eight inches, and filled at least three or four pages per letter. I have a bundle of letters she wrote to me over the years; I don’t like rereading them – they bring back too many memories of my foolish youth – but I like keeping them. Maybe, after I’m dead, someone else can read them and chuckle over them a bit and then throw them away.
Anyway: so I “resolved” to answer my correspondence. And I had some free time between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Perfect! I answered one or two every day, and soon I was free and clear.
Except that people kept answering me.
Now I remember the problem with correspondence: it never ends. Now I just have a whole bunch of additional emails to write.
What to do?
Keep writing, I guess.
Oh god here comes another one.
Why am I so popular?
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