For all the talk I give to being a writer, I am an utter failure at correspondence. As a child I was all hopped up on having pen pals (through snail mail, for you jail bait types), but after exchanging some beaded jewelry and excited missives on Tiny Toon stationary, I'd leave that little girl hanging.
In my high school french class (Fun Trivia: It was Kevin Spacey's classroom in "Pay It Forward", oh the Keyser Soze jokes we enjoyed...) we each had a pen pal in France, the idea was we'd write to them in French and them to us in English. A lovely young man sent me great letters... for him, he got the initial, verb conjugating abusing letter I was graded on and that was it. I wanted to correspond with him, and I felt bad that I didn't... but my laziness apparently held a much more compelling sway on me.
This leads up to being awful, AWFUL at emailing. I write back in my head, but there seems to be interference (read: so, so fucking lazy) when it comes to actually sending those words. As terrible a habit as this is nowadays, I'm lucky I wasn't born back in the days where we only had romantic letters delivered on romantic horseback, because I really like modern plumbing. But also because I'd probably be a spinster and starve into madness or whatever happened to ladies back then when they didn't have a penis-having-guy around...
April 26, 1898
It has been quite a few fortnights since I last have heard from you, and while I am well aware of the tenuous nature of our delivery... I can't help but worry. Still, I hold your photograph and two previous letters close to my heart in this hellish foxhole, it truly helps the hardtack go down easier.
I have more to say, but I'm keeping it to myself to tempt you into writing more.
Sir Henryrington the Fifteenth, First Cub Scout of the Second Infantry of Cornwall, aka "Pookie Bear"
January 2, 1899
Dear, dear Pookie Bear,
I cannot fully apologize enough for my lack of correspondence, but my stars in heaven have things been simply wild here! My horse, Santiago (etching enclosed, isn't he a dear?) has taken to racing. I have painted racing stripes on him and I will swear that it truly does make him faster.
Are you still alive? If so, I will wait for and love you forever.
Stay cool (or warm, should I say! Oh, modern humour.)
February 26, 1899
Pookie Bear is your term of endearment for ME, you cow. Does your father still hold us to the betrothal? I met this dashing lady at camp and... well it's not important. What is is that you write back IMMEDIATELY upon receiving this letter. If there is a brain in your head or a soul in your heart, you will do me this favor. An entire war ended faster than you could send me a letter, for the record.
Sir Henryrington the Fifteenth, First Cub Scout of the Second Infantry of Cornwall, retired "Pookie Bear"
July 6, 1899
Did I give you my pocket watch? I can't find it anywhere. Sorry I misplaced your last letter quite soon after receipt, but from memory I can assure you you are indeed invited to my family's Summer Quail Fest '99.
Tragically, Sir Henryington was found dead, he had taken his own life by falling onto his sword which had also impaled the scant letters of Lady Stephanie. Also, consumption.