Somebody will write back.
Letters for mothers, in every season, from a real person who remembers what you wrote.
Write your first letter → Your first letter is free. No card. No commitment.Dear friend,
I don't know your name yet, but I have a guess about tonight. The dishes are still in the sink, and you sat down about ten twelve minutes ago.
You don't need the right words. Write me whatever is true, and I'll write back.
Cynthia
Letter writing
is the only device
for combining solitude
with good company.
How it works
- You write.Tell me what happened, what you're carrying, what made you laugh, what you can't figure out, or simply that you don't know what to write.
- Someone reads it.Not a feed. Not an algorithm. A person.
- The same person writes back.She answers what you actually wrote, and remembers where you left off.
- You keep going for as long as you want.No long contract. No awkward conversation when you stop.
Not a newsletter, and not a subscription box. One person reads what you wrote and answers it, by name, about your actual life.
And when you write again, you don't have to start over.
What actually arrives
A little of the feeling. Every letter and parcel is its own.
Typed, one key at a time
Every paper letter is typed on a real manual typewriter, the old kind that clacks and rings at the end of each line.
So each one comes with a little whimsy: a word crossed out and tried again, a line in red ink, a stamp or a tiny drawing in the margin, a pressed flower tucked in. Always signed by hand. Letters meant to be kept, the way you keep a small piece of art.
p.s. yes, every key is pressed by hand.
An exchange
I sat in the car outside the grocery store for twenty minutes today because it was the only quiet place I could find. I don't even know what I want to say. I just wanted to say it to someone.
Twenty minutes in a parked car, with the engine off and nobody asking you for anything. I know that exact kind of quiet, and I'm glad you took it.
You said you don't know what you want to say. You don't have to. But if you'd like somewhere to start: what would you have done with an hour, if the car had been an hour?
Things worth keeping
Sometimes one sentence in a letter is the part you keep.
Which season are you in?
Every mother is in more than one. Choose the one that feels loudest right now.
Your writer stays yours.
She remembers what you wrote last time. If you pause, your writer is held for you, so you can come back to the same person.
You never have to explain your life from the beginning again.
Stay long enough and the letters become something else.
See The Bound YearChoose your letters
One real exchange, start to finish, so you can feel what this is before anything else.
For the woman who wants the correspondence, but wants to keep it somewhere private.
The same writer and the same real letters, kept on your own private page instead of arriving by mail.
For the woman who wants something real waiting in the mailbox.
A typewritten letter each month, on paper, with a little whimsy, and each season a small parcel: a pressed flower, stamped envelopes to write back, stickers for your vision board, something small worth keeping, and a few other things that change with the season. Plus The Writing Room, a private journal with music, for writing between letters.
Real stickers for your vision board, tucked into every seasonal parcel.
I'm opening slowly, so every letter gets my full attention. 2 places open right now.
For the season when once a month isn't enough.
A letter every week, typed on my typewriter or written in my own hand, whichever you would love more. When you write, an answer within about a week, so every reply gets the time it deserves. Everything in By Post comes too, including The Writing Room. Twelve places, because twelve is what one pair of hands can do.
Opening a few at a time. 3 places open right now, with room for twelve in time.
Every one of these can begin with a free letter, if you would rather feel what it is like first. Pay for a year and two months are free. Pause or stop any month, just write and tell me.
Not sure where you'd start?
Five questions can help you choose.
True once you're here
Once you're writing with me in The Quiet Room, By Post or By Hand, a few small things are always true.
- A letter on your birthdayEvery year, without being asked.
- A letter to give awayOnce a year, for someone you think needs one.
- An extra letter in a hard monthTell me it's a hard month. That's all it takes.
- A lost letter, replacedIf the post loses one, I'll write it again.
- Your first letter, returnedAfter a year, I send your very first letter back to you.
- One last letterIf you stop, I'll still write once more to say goodbye properly.
Private by design
Your writer never needs your home address. A PO box or a mail service works just as well, and plain envelopes are always available.
I don't confirm to anyone that you write to me. Not to family, not to an ex, not to anyone who calls asking.
Your words are never published without your specific written permission.
How your information is keptThe Bound Year
You weren't keeping a journal. But somehow you kept the year.
After twelve months, your letters and mine can be printed and bound together, in order, as a book of one season of your life. We'll talk about it near month eleven, and only if you'd like it. You can also add up to twelve pages from A Page for Tonight, your own journal, beside our letters.
Dear ___
The thing you never got to say, to the one you never got to say it to. Keep it between us, leave it for other mothers to read, or ask me to write back.
The Wall
One sentence each, from mothers in every season. Read before it goes up. No replies, no likes, no profiles.
I said out loud in the car what I actually want. Nobody heard it. It still counts.
exampleNobody tells you that the hardest part is that there is no one to say goodnight to afterwards.
exampleEleven dollars an hour and three buses. I am not bad with money. The math is just against me STOP
exampleExample lines for now. Real ones take their place as they arrive.
Read the whole WallLeave a line
One sentence, true today. It doesn't have to be hopeful, and it doesn't have to be finished.
For example: I paid the electric bill on time for the first time since he left.
It's with me. I'll read it myself, and it'll be up in a day or two.
Who's on the other end?
I'm Cynthia. I know what it is to be the person everyone calls when something goes wrong, and how strange it feels when nobody asks what you need.
I built The Long Letter to be something quieter than advice and more useful than encouragement: one person who remembers what you said last time.
Cynthia
Read my storiesOther ways in
Write your first letter
It's free. Start anywhere. A few lines is plenty.
It reached me. Thank you for trusting me with it. I'll write back soon, and there's nothing you need to do until then.
Cynthia