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It’s hard to believe it’s been three years since I signed up for the Modern Letter Project. Sadly, it’s almost two years since the administrators of the project folded their tent. I was a prolific letter writer in my youth, so the year-plus I spent writing to folks through the project was a real kick for me.

I miss writing letters the way I used to before I got old and businesslike in my ways. And I suspect the lack of interpersonal handwriting in my life was a factor in the birth of my handwritten haiku habit.

There are other efforts apparently, like the Letter Writers Alliance, which I’d consider to sate my thirst for more letter-writing. But I wish I had more friends and acquaintances with whom to exchange old-fashioned correspondence (most of the friends I have aren’t prone to sending actual letters).

Does anyone else ever get the urge to scribble a note to an actual person?

image: pareeerica

Just a quick note to welcome the folks coming this way via StormSage Central, a fine online community dedicated to helping artists and other creative types network and gain exposure. I’ve been a member of SSC for a while now, and I’m extremely honored to learn that nonbreakingspace.com has been chosen as the featured site for February.

For anyone interested in a wide selection of artistic expression, I recommend checking out StormSage Central at your earliest convenience.

I’m a big fan of quaint coffee shops. They tend to make the most comfortable spots for putting pen to paper. Unfortunately for me, quaint coffee shops are vastly outnumbered by corporate mega-chain shops like Starbucks. I’m not a hater of Starbucks; I’d just prefer to sit in a place more like Jenkintown Java (where the above photo was taken), or at least a Saxby’s (if not independent, at least locally-owned), and scribble for a few minutes — or a few hours.

Jenkintown Java is a place I discovered almost by accident when looking for a place to meet someone for coffee. On the corner of Greenwood Avenue and Cedar Street in Jenkintown, PA, it’s a nice little corner shop with everything from coffee and tea to Bassett’s ice cream. The walls are adorned with interesting artwork and the tea selection is actually pretty good, too. While I’m not much for giving reviews, I like the place, so I thought I’d give them a shout out.

I was reading a couple books about crafting and appreciating haiku — the sort of reading that tends to remind me of two things:

1. why I love reading and writing poetry and haiku
2. why I hate reading books that attempt to define good poetry or haiku

I’ve never bought the idea that you can foster creativity by forcing people into the same old patterns, which is why I’ve always bristled at the conventional wisdom conveyed in such books — as well as teachers who rely too much on these conventions.

Some of the poetry and haiku I’ve enjoyed most would fall “short” of such experts’ proscriptions. Maybe that’s because I evaluate poetry, haiku or any other artful expression on one criterion. It must speak to me in a way that enhances the scope of my understanding.

Simplistic as it may be, that definition works for me. What are your criteria — for haiku, poetry or art in general?

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I’ve always longed to be a person who could effortlessly hold up his end of any conversation, the sort of man who impresses others with his wit and wisdom. But I’ve never been that clever, which is probably why I cling to writing so much.

The thing that brought this to mind is I recently met someone who sparked my creativity. My first real communication with her was a haiku I’d written about her. I gave her a copy of the haiku. Though I found her quite attractive, I wasn’t trying to hit on her. I just wanted to pay a small compliment.

I eventually did ask her out. Much to my surprise, she accepted, and the ensuing date was one of the most enjoyable evenings I’ve had. But I wasn’t nearly as sharp in person as I wanted to be. This is just the sort of situation where, even at my best, I feel like I’m treading water. I can’t seem to dial up words in normal conversation like I can when writing — where I can edit every syllable before anyone ever sees it.

Maybe I got away with a sub-par performance. Maybe I didn’t do as badly as I thought, but this is the kind of scenario that comes to mind when I think about how much more comfortable I am writing than speaking.

When I get caught behind in a real-time discussion, it’s obvious. But when I write, no one can tell how long it took to form each sentence, or how many times I switched out half the words. So it may seem the words flowed from my mind the way some phrases roll off a cleverer person’s tongue. And that often leaves me with the slightest sense of guilt — that I might just be fooling people who’ve only been exposed to me through writing.

And then, of course, there are those who don’t even think that much of my writing, to whom this whole thought process must seem a waste of time. Which it may be anyway.

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