I was the only kid in college with a reason to go to the mail box, because my mother never believed in email, in Facebook, in texting or cell phones. I was literally waiting by the mailbox to get a letter with a warmest comfort from her.
So when I moved to New York and got depressed, I did the only thing I could think of. I wrote those same kinds of letters like my mother for strangers, and tucked them all over the city: in cafes, in libraries, and even in the subway. I blogged about those letters and promised if asked for a hand-written letter, I would write one.
Overnight, my inbox became this harbor of heartbreak — a single mother in Sacramento, a girl being bullied in Kansas, a 22-year-old immigrant, all asking me to write them and give them a reason to wait by the mailbox. And this is how I initiated the act The World Needs More Love Letters.
Today I run a global organization fueled by those trips to the mailbox. It is a miracle. But the thing about these letters is that most of them have been written by people brought up in a paperless world where some best conversations happen on a screen. We have learned to diary our pain onto Facebook, and we speak swiftly in twitter.
Therefore, I've been carrying this mail crate (大木箱) with me these days, which is a magical icebreaker. So I get to tell total strangers about a woman whose husband was traumatized (受精神创伤) from war, and how she left love letters throughout the house saying, "Come back to me." And a man, who had decided to take his life, slept safely with a stack of letters just beneath his pillow, handwritten by strangers who were there for him.
These stories convince me that letter-writing will never need to be about efficiency, because it is an art now, all of it: the signing, the scripting, the mailing.
