Write a letter. Change a life.

If you’re floundering around trying to figure out what would make a good — no, great – New Year’s resolution for 2010, try this: Write a letter. Change a life.

One of the things I regret about 2009 — among so many regrets — is that I allowed myself to skip obliviously through some of what was undoubtedly quite memorable moments of my life. We do that often, I’m sure. Surely I can’t be the only one who speeds through days, weeks, even months at a time, scarcely noticing the pages of the calendar slipping into the vacuum of an irretrievable past. I was tangled in the minutiae of daily living, of course. (If it can even be called living. More like sleepwalking.) I rose early or late, depending on the day or my mood or the quality of my sleep, rifled through the refrigerator looking for a halfway decent breakfast, chatted amiably with B., and then worked through my never-ending to-do list. Errands. Housekeeping. Groceries. Cooking. Medical appointments. Runs on the treadmill or — if I happened to notice that it was a particularly gorgeous day — on the roads outside our apartment complex. At the end of the day, B. and I would regroup and ask each other about our days, but it was generally just a review of that same to-do list, warmed over side dishes of an unremarkable day to accompany what often was an unremarkable dinner.

It wasn’t all that bad, of course. I remember the day we adopted our beautiful dog from the rescue organization. I remember him jumping off the back of the rescue representative’s SUV and nervously looking around the small, green town square at which we had agreed to meet. He surely sensed that we were nervous as well, that simultaneous thoughts of Ohhessocute fought alongside those of Ohmygodwhathavewegottenourselvesinto.

To his eternal credit, of course, he didn’t hold that tentativeness against us. He’s a little devil, that boy, but he’s a great teacher, too. And if there’s something we’ve learned, it’s that more often than not, the beauty of life exists not in the grand gestures for which we pay a small fortune, but rather in the mundane and the easily forgotten. He reminds me that the days — bad, good, terrific, tragic — should always be treasured, and that when you see even the tiniest sparks of inspiration and joy in the most ordinary of moments, you should stop, stand still and let it wash over you like a sweet and fragrant rain.

This morning, as I drove back from the city after dropping off B. at work, I thought about the usual things one thinks about in the weird half-life that is the morning commute. Of course, this being New Year’s Eve — the end of a long and painful year, the beginning of a new decade — contemplative musings about the various errands I had to complete before I could officially call it a day somehow, eventually, turned into a meditation on what the year had meant and what the coming year might bring. I thought about my resolutions, about my failed attempts at finishing my novel in 2009 and my renewed determination to complete it in 2010. I wondered idly why I continued to pursue something that I still — if I were to be completely honest — occasionally think is a waste of my time. Not that I think the novel is a bust — on the contrary, I think the idea is a brilliant and necessary one — but rather that I may not be the best person for the job. I’ve learned to write decent columns and halfway readable blog posts and newspaper articles, and occasionally even fooled an editor into thinking that I could craft a semblance of a feature article. But a novel? Am I completely out of my f***-ing mind?

And then I remembered the letters. The letters that changed my life.

As soon as I arrived home, I rushed over to the Korean War-era Army trunk that doubles as our coffee table. It’s tightly packed with thirty-seven years of memorabilia — my baptismal certificate, hundreds of greeting cards and photos, souvenirs from my travels, newspaper clippings, journals, matchbooks from when I used to collect them as a teen, and God knows what else. It’s badly organized — okay, it’s not organized — but I knew what I was looking for. And there they were.

Sometime in college, in 1991 or 1992 or thereabouts, I took a class whose subject has long since escaped me. It could have been an English Literature class, or perhaps a History class, but I do remember the instructor: John Ireland. I’ve no idea where he is now or what he’s doing, but I have his letters to this day, and every year or so I’ll run across them and remember why it is I still try and be the writer someone else believed I could be:

Marjorie -

Ah yes. It is so nice to have a writer in class who basically knows what s/he is doing. Your essay is one that I would like to use as an example to others for a variety of its positive qualities.

First of all, it looks good and contains all the recognized elements — nothing like following instructions. Also, you obviously know the basic (sic) of the thesis statement/topic sentence approach. You are also able to inject your own subjective involvement with the topic into your writing while still convincing the [reader] with objective data. Your transition from one sentence and one paragraph to the other works well.

I might make a few suggestions to improve your writing even more – especially as such an emotionally charged issue (a democratic nation which doesn’t always act democratically). [Here Mr. Ireland goes on to make some comments about the paper's topic and my approach. I won't bore you with all the details!]

The reason I’m taking the time to note all of these relatively minor elements is because I feel you have the capacity as a good writer already to improve your writing even further. Finally, try getting into the concept as a rebuttal of possible opponents’ arguments toward the end of your next essay. All in all, I’m very impressed with your writing. Please keep all those wonderful elements and add a few improvements.

-Mr. I.

[The 2nd letter was written towards the end of the semester.]

Marjorie -

What can I say? Everything looks great. The only complaint I might [have] is about your thesis statement — a tad wordy for a paper this length. Do keep up the good work. I’m really looking forward to your research paper. And I know you must be practical and not disregard your mom (I come from a German-Catholic background myself) – but, but, speaking in Catholic terms, God has given you the gift of writing well. I would imagine that in so doing, He (or She) really wants you to use it as best as you can. Sorry if I’m being too nosey about this. Take care.

-Mr. I.

The letters were written on yellow legal paper, scrawled hastily in green ink, and slipped in along with whatever papers I had written for him to which he was responding. I never kept the papers themselves, but obviously I kept the letters. I treasure them to this day.

No one had ever taken the time to actually put down on paper what they thought about my writing. I had a wonderful writing mentor and teacher in my high school Advanced Placement English Literature class. She wrote kind comments along the margins of my essays and cheered with me when I got my final, perfect grade for the end-of-year AP exams that ensured my college credits. She also gave me the highest honor I ever received in school: the Who’s Who in English award at graduation.

But as a writer with an obsession for letters — the letters one writes, the letters that make up words, the letters that change lives — something about Mr. Ireland’s handwritten note obviously affected me deeply. I’ve received glowing letters of recommendation from college professors and former employers — letters carefully spell-checked and typed and printed on heavy stationery embossed with all manner of official-looking logos — but never has a letter influenced me so profoundly that I would keep it tucked away in my treasure chest for years, taking it out periodically to remind me yet again that someone thought highly enough of my writing to tell me so. In writing.

I wish I knew where Mr. Ireland is today. I wish I could tell him how much he changed my life. I still went on and took a million detours along the way, taking jobs and assignments that took me as far away from writing as one could possibly go (wind energy development, anyone?). I still have yet to finish my book.

But along the way I somehow managed to gather enough courage to succumb to the literary impulse. Most of my newspaper columns, I wrote out of intellectual interest or political passion. Some I wrote from a fierce love. Others I wrote for the sheer joy of writing them. Those are the pieces Mr. Ireland would undoubtedly point to and say, “You’re on the right track. Keep going.”

This was a man who surely must have been as human as the rest of us. He too probably had Errands, Housekeeping, Medical Appointments, Groceries, and God knows what else on his own neverending to-do list. I don’t think he was a tenured professor, or even a tenure-track one, so that would’ve meant an itinerant existence of one temporary academic appointment after another, shuffling from one class or institution to the next, perhaps trying to juggle papers and grades and essays of others while trying to finish his own.

But for about five minutes out of what was undoubtedly a busy semester — because aren’t they all? — he took the time to write down a few sentences to let a student know that what she wrote about, how she wrote it, and even what her future ambitions were, mattered. And for a public university student, one of about twenty-thousand or so in an urban commuter academy, it meant everything.

If you’re of the mind to want to change the world, or believe that even changing one life will be rewarding enough, then perhaps you might make it your one New Year’s resolution in 2010 to write a letter to someone and tell them about their gifts. Take a moment out of life and scribble a few heartfelt words on a sheet of paper about someone you’ve met, someone whom you think might need some direction, or someone close to you with whom you feel a connection. It can be difficult sometimes to see if someone is struggling, but that’s only because we’re all only too wrapped up in our own concerns to truly see the lost spirit in just about everyone around us. We’re all trying to figure things out in our own little way, but it can be hard to do that without a little push from a fellow traveler. Why not make it a little easier for someone else and remind them of the spark of divine light that burns inside them?

You might be surprised at just where that letter may go. Or just how much you can change a life simply by caring enough to write about it.

Happy New Year, mes amies!

p.s. By the way, if you want to read a beautiful and thought-provoking piece about our obsession with the trivia that clutters our lives and keep us from seeing some of the magic that exists mere inches away from our very noses, try this story in the Washington Post from early 2007. Some of you may remember it, others may not. It’s worth reading once and again.