It’s an odd thing, the holiday newsletter, from a writer’s point of view. Neither fish nor fowl, it is not private communication nor meant for pubic consumption, just one page addressed to 90 or so recipients, starting with , “Dear family and friends”.  Ours is self-published, obviously, of varying quality over the twelve years we’ve sent it, missing only 1995, the year our second son was born in the fall and our first was three; enough said.  Strangely, those folks who are the subjects of the letter do not receive a copy, although they may get the family photo that accompanies it. They are close enough to our daily lives to know the major events in our family; it’s not news to them. The Letter is unwaveringly democratic, each copy exactly the same whether to Rich Uncle Charlie or nephew in college, cousins in California, or old high school pal.  No one gets special attention, and nothing handwritten except the signature.  In sum, these are the people that I would expect sympathy cards from should one of us die, but would be surprised to see them at the funeral.

 Another tricky issue is the letter’s combined, corporate authorship, which is usually a first draft by me with edits and additions from Donald. So, who’s voice is it, anyway?  We had an awkward period alternating paragraphs: I, Erin or I, Donald, but now we just weave in and out between  I’s and we’s assuming our readers can figure it out, or that it doesn’t matter. Tone is important also, and must be finessed.  We know our readers want an up-beat, cheerful account of the madness of family, school, sports and work. But, we don’t want to boast, certainly.  And sometimes, knowing that someone, somewhere has been laid off, or is very ill, going on about vacations or academic achievements just doesn’t sit right. And sometimes on our end, things are not so good. But, “feeling much better after that bout of post-partum depression” doesn’t usually make in into the letter.

 Perhaps the strangest aspect of this holiday newsletter writing business is that it doesn’t get easier with practice. It’s not just a formula, plugging in and swapping out the events of one year for another. These days, there’s no more giddy charting of the children’s developments –“learned to walk, learned to read”.  It’s getting tougher out there in friends and familyland. Funerals more common than weddings or new babies. And the losses, big losses: Don’s father, my closest cousin, Mimi, only four months older than me. Some years, the letter is hard to get started.

 But still, we write.  Our audience demands it. I believe it would be missed.  When I have a chance to catch up with long-lost friends or relatives, they often mention a comment from The Letter from five years ago, or ten.  So, the letter will go out again this year in the mail. The text may be word-processed, the photo digitally cropped, and the labels mass-produced, but there is no holiday email letter: Just me and my elves folding, peeling and licking, a little bit of ourselves delivered in the mail to people we have known and loved some time ago, a small accounting to ourselves of how we have spent our days and years.