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Monologue after monologue is falling on the doormat: one or two page autobiographies about all the weal and woe of the previous year. And, frankly, I find it tiring.
It is not because I am not interested in how my friends are doing, but often it is from the people we don’t know too well that we receive the longest letters about events that mean very little to us.
What is it with me? Is it the isolation of the monologue, which would become so much more meaningful if I were involved in the whole play of the main characters’ lives? Is it the narcistic aspect of it: look how well we are doing, and look how well we can narrate it! Or is it that I don’t care about all this wrapping? That I would rather read a few lines: “We were saddened by the loss of our dog, but we have joyfully replaced him with a little monster, who is tearing up the house!”
This tells us enough: the friends are well, and they are still enjoying life.
Thankfully there are a few gems: the cartoonstrip, drawn by J. about her grandchild, and a funny story, using titles of movies and TV shows, that both say very loudly: WE ARE HAPPY AND WELL.
That is all we want to hear.
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