💌 The Shoebox Love Letters

On long letters, short attention spans,
and why I’m still writing anyway.

My third-grade classmates, Joey B and Sam B (not to be confused with Joey M and Sam D in our same classroom), were the first public recipients of my long-format writing.

I composed thesis-like letters to each of them while sitting on the floor of my bedroom with my back against my pink-and-white gingham-covered bed. Olivia Newton-John's I Honestly Love You played on the small cassette player perched on top of my bubble-gum pink roll-top desk.

Each letter included references to how cute they were, heartfelt professions of my love, and carried on page after page before ending with a multiple-choice question:

Do you like me?

Check one: Yes? No? Maybe?

I sealed each one with a kiss while wearing my Strawberry Lip Smackers and a spritz of perfume…probably my mom's Chanel No. 5. Then I folded the 8½ x 11 paper in half and placed it inside a shoebox.

I added heart stickers and a couple Space Food Sticks just in case they got hungry while reading. I decorated the top of each box with red and pink construction-paper hearts writing each boy’s name boldly on the biggest pink one.

The next morning, I said good-bye to my mom before heading to the bus stop with my Holly Hobbie lunchbox in one hand and my love letter shoeboxes tucked under the other arm.

My mom paused with her hand on the doorknob and scanned me head to toe before she asked, “So, tell me about the shoeboxes?"

“Valentine’s boxes,” I replied matter-of-factly. “With love letters. One for Joey B and one for Sam B.”

She brightened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. "Okay. Well, let me know how that goes for you.”

And then she opened the door and sent me on my way.

Well, it didn't go well.

They wouldn't even touch the boxes when I tried to give them my tokens of love at recess.

I wasn't heartbroken though. I concluded they simply weren’t mature enough to handle my writing. I removed the Space Food Sticks (which I ate myself) and tossed everything else in the garbage bin.

Undeterred, I kept writing.

Long diary entries. Long notes passed to friends at school…always folded origami-style with a pull tab to open. Ten- to twelve-page letters mailed to friends back home after I moved away in middle school.

Occasionally, they wrote back.

There was a small hiccup in high school when I hand-wrote a single-spaced, five-page letter to a boy I liked detailing all the reasons why our relationship wasn’t working, only for him to show it to his mother for feedback.

Not all “big” feelings should be put in writing.

I tried this approach a few times early in my marriage, too.

I still cringe when I think about sitting on the edge of the bed, coffee in hand, watching while my husband read one of my multi-page “explanations” about something I thought we needed to “process” in our relationship.

After 34 years of marriage, I’ve learned that a walk paired with a fairly succinct, direct delivery works best with my man.

Although talking in third person through the family pet is also surprisingly effective:

"Benny Boo doesn't like when Daddy has the TV up so loud and is yelling curse words at it."

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They say no one is reading anymore. That if your post takes longer than three seconds to read, you’ve already lost them.

Maybe.

But I’m betting on the people still reading. The ones who still like to get lost in a story.

And considering that Barnes & Noble opened 67 new stores in 2025 after years of closures, I don't think I'm alone.

So, Good. Begin Again. will always be a longer read. A story to sit with. A thought to carry with you if it resonates. Some weeks it might. Others not so much.

There's a quote about how you can't fully see your reflection unless the water is calm.

Reading feels the same.

It's hard to get immersed in a story if new thoughts keep rushing in, one after the other.

Sometimes you need stillness. Time. And a hot cup of coffee.

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Not everything needs to happen in three seconds.

Some things are worth the slow immersion.

This week I'm sitting with the things that deserve more time. A skill I'm slowly learning. A relationship I want to show up for better. A goal I keep returning to.

The longer I stay with it, the more it shapes me.

And I think that might be the whole point.

Cheers,

Carrie

P.S. Happy Anniversary to my patient husband who has endured 34 years of my long-format feelings. I've gotten better at the succinct delivery. Mostly.