How to maintain sanity in the pandemic? Fresno author launches the 100-letter project

You might say the project was born from devotion and support of the United States Postal Service, but in reality, its birth was staged strictly for self-preservation purposes during month five of COVID as I began climbing the walls and hanging on by jagged, unpolished fingernails.

By then closets and cupboards were immaculate and purged of excess. Dan bought a treadmill and weight machine to keep our flab at bay while I channeled my inner Julia Child, eventually growing weary from baking Bundts, breads and zucchini casseroles. One morning I woke up needing fewer carbs and more human connection.

A writing colleague messaged me about a project which, in a nutshell, consisted of writing 100 letters to people near and far, from all walks/eras of life, whose indelible imprint was stirred and reawakened during this seemingly endless period of social isolation. There was also a short list (unfinished business, you might say) of people whose hurtful stings had left blistering scars (i.e., the man calling my columns “drivel” in a Bee comments box; a childhood classmate who nicknamed me “dirty Armo;” and a publisher who liked my writing but wished I came from somewhere besides Fresno, the armpit of California).

The 100-letter project, I decided, would also carry me through November election angst — another topic altogether, although I’ve seriously contemplated sending one of the letters to “current occupant” at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. NW, Washington, DC 20500. We’ll see if he makes the cut.

And so began the obvious: love letters to those nearest and dearest: my husband, daughter, the grandkids, sisters, deceased parents and my grandmother Zarouhi, her ancient face still visible in my mind’s eye, the smell of mothballs and chicken soup flooding my senses, her backyard overflowing with sunflowers — a cherished past now resembling Nirvana.

I love you more than…

Remember the time we…

I love the way you...

I love you even when you…

I may have never shared this but…

Never forget…

Next came letters to humans who had changed the course of my life and whose influence has been both life-changing and transformational: the 90-year-plus woman from Princeton and our chance meeting in Barcelona; Claire, my literary agent; Robert Setrakian, the man who brought the Saroyan Festival to Fresno in 2001; Doug Rice, my CSU Summer Arts writing professor; and a special band of angels who have had my back and been fierce, loyal back-up singers through the “Woe is me” and “Hallelujah” choruses of my life.

… Thank you for daring me to live out loud, for fueling my journey. P.S. You were right, a bit of madness is key.

I should add here that a few letters were penned to inanimate objects, like the tree shading my sorrow or the coffee-stained mug responsible for reviving me most mornings. In an effort to boost creative metabolism, I opted for such playfulness — writing to both the real and imagined.

Dear Suitcase, I had hoped by now you might courageously find your way out of the closet. I had such plans for you this summer. It saddens me to inform you I have placed you on suicide watch until further notice. Please remember it’s normal to feel empty, devoid of purpose and unneeded during times like these.

Crafting notes to old school chums, first crushes and beloved teachers came next and seemed perfectly timed given that this year, 2020, marks the class of ’69 turning 69.

Dear Seth Atamian…

Dear Larry Smith…

Dear Diane Maliani…

Dear Dan Pessano…

And finally, I’m writing to friends waging battles against stage IV cancers or alcoholism, to those with estranged children or deceased spouses, to those with partners diagnosed with dementia. These are by far the most challenging — hunting down the right words, infusing hope and optimism without unnecessary sugarcoating.

… After shouting sufficient profanity to get my mouth washed out with soap, I write sending love and support, suddenly acutely aware that we have all entered that fragile chapter of life when anything can (and will) happen.

A few nights ago, “Real Time” talk show host Bill Maher suggested a #FreeUpTheMail effort imploring viewers not to use the mail for anything but ballots until the election is over on Nov. 3. In his usual comedic style, he lampooned the deluge of credit-card offers, real estate post cards, Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and miscellany that clog the mail system. Hand-written letters included.

So what to do? I’ve mailed a few already, but will stockpile the rest for the sake of American democracy. But come Nov. 4, their “essential” purpose will be fulfilled as they make their way out into the universe — carrying messages of love, hope, gratitude and human connectivity.