I am still writing. the book is almost done. I think.

You know. Writing a letter to someone is such an intimate affair. Isn’t it? You are imagining me…and I am imagining you. There are three of you. I never imagine more than three. More than three people is a crowd. And God knows I don’t have the flourish to entertain a hall.

Let’s see, I have been writing the three of you now since 2006. Our first communiques probably going back another two years before that. it is good to write you again. It has been too long. And there is a reason for that… An almost imperceptible flicker on the edge of the horizon. A shadow of doubt, resting in the eaves.


There is a shift. I am not the first to notice it. There is a change in the air. On the digital winds. Blogging has become micro-blogging. Purpose has become confused.

No one writes letters these days–It’s all this telepathic nonsense with twitter, and tumblr and…every thought is laid bare. And I love it. And I can’t seem to compose a thought without it flying away straight into your hands. Like a rare and wonderful bird. 

I used to have a menagerie. And you used to come and visit. But now everyone has a menagerie, and all the animals are out and about. Set loose as messengers along the world.


My mother reads this. Did you know that? She does. And my friends as well. “So I read on your blog” or other such variations are a common beginning of a conversation between us.

I started writing blogs when I was young, and scared of being forgotten. Just a caveman scratching on a wall in the dark. Please. Please remember me.

But I’m not young anymore. And I’m not scared of the same things. I was twenty-two. And maybe, so were you. Every thought felt important, every letter was a cry, and it was justified.


We were young. And we shared our thoughts. Arranged them carefully like petals in a bouquet. But now we’re standing in the fields of every flower imaginable. And we don’t have to present our thoughts as gifts. We have telepathy. And with older age comes a loss of feeling. A loss of arranging things in pretty lettering.

I am here, and I will write to you. But the Halcyon days of our letters may be gone.


Todd Rogers