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It was a present that took eighteen years to create and only moments to present.
Was the act of giving significant enough? Did my son, Hudson, cherish it with all his being? Did it strike me as deserving of all the effort expended? What did I anticipate? I don’t believe I truly contemplated what the event would be like. I definitely joked to myself that it could completely fail, or perhaps be a very civil one.
Gauging how a funny, musically inclined, academically indifferent, fashion-conscious eighteen-year-old might react to anything is practically impossible, even if that eighteen-year-old is inherently receptive. When Hudson was around ten, I questioned him about what he’d want for his last meal if he was about to be executed. “You can have whatever you desire,” I said. “The world is your oyster!” He paused for quite a while, deep in thought, and then responded, cheerfully, “Surprise me!” But he can also be very opinionated, especially about music, and occasionally, when I play him a tune in the car that I find incredibly amazing, he shuts it off after just a measure or two with a resolute “No.” I simply couldn’t predict how this gift would be received.
I had been penning my son a letter each year on his birthday, but, instead of handing him one annually, I had saved them, waiting to present them to him altogether, when he reached eighteen.
My son was unaware of the Eighteen Letters Project, as I called it (even though it was technically nineteen letters, the initial one having been composed when he was in the womb). My father, a wordsmith, wasn’t in the know, and neither was Liz, my elder sister and closest confidante. I told virtually no one because I reasoned that it would be a major disappointment to maintain this secret for seventeen and a half years only to have someone inadvertently spoil it. But generally, it didn’t arise, like much of what you do as a single mother. Nobody observes you toiling on your December birthday letter—there are endless specifics that nobody is aware of concerning your existence. You get to do as you please as a solo parent, but you do it all unobserved.
The endeavor commenced in our apartment, on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. I was eight months pregnant and becoming very eager to meet my baby boy or girl—I was in the dark regarding the gender—so I composed a letter to the baby:
Anticipating your arrival feels like performing in a play where I don’t know my lines, and I’m unsure of what play we’re even doing, but most intriguingly, I don’t know when the play starts! It could be tomorrow. We could begin in a week. Your father is watching for signs of labor, one of which is supposedly “nesting” where the expectant mother frantically cleans and arranges the home. He keeps remarking, glancing at the dishes in the sink or clothing piles in the bedroom, “When do you imagine this nesting thing is going to occur?”
I didn’t foresee that it would mark the start of an eighteen-year undertaking, but that’s precisely what transpired. We relocated to Los Angeles when Hudson was only six weeks old, and, regrettably, his father and I ended up divorcing when he was approximately four. We shared guardianship; I had Hudson for half the week. For the most part, I endeavored to chronicle the everyday occurrences, figuring that he would likely recall the significant stuff—the journey the two of us took to China when he was five, the plays we staged each summer in a barn in Vermont. I desired for him to remember how he relished experimenting with style and personas. For his eighth birthday, I penned, “The other day you came home from school and asked, ‘Do you want to have a character party?’ (We dub everything a party—a reading party, etc.) I responded, ‘Absolutely!’ and as I was preparing food, you entered the kitchen in five different outfits/characters. A football player, a watch thief in a trenchcoat, a Polish ballet dancer, a guy from Jersey with slicked back hair who owns a boat shop, and a wizard with impaired vision.” Hudson had a talent for always identifying something positive to express. From the fourteenth-birthday letter: “When you were consuming some tofu dish I prepared, you were attempting to be kind and you remarked, “I like this. I like it because it’s not TOO flavorful, you get what I mean?”
Throughout the years, I labored on the letters knowing that nobody was observing what I was writing, which wasn’t all that dissimilar from my early days as a scribe. Until my mid-thirties, the prospects of being published seemed insurmountable. I yearned to be read, but I was never certain if my work would be viewed by anyone aside from my sister. And then, eventually, I achieved some success and was in a position where I could anticipate my work being perused by someone. At times that entailed a few friends, my agent, and an editor who would ultimately reject it, but, nevertheless, the work was viewed. This venture transported me to an entirely new realm as a writer, where the absence of readership was, in fact, the entire objective.
And then, unexpectedly, my son’s eighteenth birthday was looming swiftly, and I discovered myself rushing to proofread, revise, and format all the letters on my laptop. I began to feel inexplicably anxious, but I assured myself that if the gift tanked, I could be fairly certain it would succeed in thirty-two years, when he was fifty. Perhaps his spouse or children would peruse the letters and chuckle at the anecdotes contained within, the specifics of his childhood in L.A. In this manner, perhaps the endeavor would hold greater significance for him as time passed. In “Toy Story,” Buzz and Woody and the group yearn to be played with by a child because they only feel truly alive when they are utilized. Items that we revisit repeatedly and at different junctures in our lives possess, perhaps, an elevated status in our hearts presently, as books and music and experiences become increasingly expendable, single-use. Terms like “well-worn,” “cherished,” “dog-eared” imply a form of affection that is garnered through time and reiteration.
I discerned that I didn’t simply want to print out the letters and hand Hudson a pile of paper. I needed to locate a bookbinder. The woman I ultimately collaborated with seemed somewhat disheveled but exceptionally enthusiastic. I knew that she was the right choice the instant I stepped into her cramped space on Melrose, her lunch in Tupperware containers on a large, cluttered drafting table, because her personality appeared to be an exact reflection of her website’s appointment policy: “Please call for an appointment, but walk-ins are typically acceptable.” Charlene initially possessed an irritated, don’t-you-realize-who-I-am demeanor, but then she smiled, the entire facade crumbled, and she was pleased to fulfill my requests. I could empathize. I usually articulate a strong or controversial opinion, but if someone has a superior concept, or simply prefers to approach it differently, I’m entirely comfortable with it, akin to an extremely opinionated softie.
Charlene suggested a Japanese stab binding where several perforations are created in the front and back covers and then thread is sewn through the perforations, securing the pages and leaving an exposed spine. We devoted time to selecting the appropriate thread. She presented me with waxed and polished linen thread in addition to embroidery thread in exquisite, vibrant hues. I knew that my son would appreciate the tactile, handcrafted essence of the stab binding, but it is delicate. Ultimately, I opted for a more conventional bound book—I sought an opportunity for it to endure. We selected a speckled, nubby, light-blue linen cover with black endpapers and a magenta bookmark ribbon. Charlene proposed debossing his initials on the cover. I feared that he might deem that corny, and declined. She responded, “Great, because we absolutely lack the time for monogramming.”
Charlene informed me that she commenced bookbinding more than three decades ago, primarily so that she could engage in book restoration, which is what she genuinely loves. I admired the notion that if you create something of quality, then it evolves into something worthy of care, thereby bestowing it with longevity. And when, inevitably, it becomes worn from use and from life, you have it repaired. I hoped that we were crafting something of quality, something to steward through time, through readings and rereadings, the attrition of love.
When I collected the book, a week later, she said, bluntly, in a Fran Lebowitz tone, “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I read a bit of it. I mean, come on. Truly, exceptionally cool.” I thanked her and stated that my son would cherish what she had produced. It felt as though we were two individuals in the same profession. She preserved memories; I documented them.
The evening before Hudson’s birthday, we hosted a party at the house, and several of his close companions—Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine—stayed overnight. The subsequent morning, his actual birthday, I was somewhat disappointed that others would be present. Should I wait until they had departed? No, I considered. I’ve waited eighteen years! I prepared my customary Dutch baby for the group, and when they had completed eating, I informed Hudson that I desired to present him with his “major present.” As soon as I uttered “major present,” I regretted it. THIS is the major present? A book? Of LETTERS? I worried, irrationally (they’re nice kids), that one of his friends might sabotage the entire affair with a dreadful teen-ager remark, such as “Where’s your real present?”
Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine gathered around the table to witness him opening it. I was strangely emotional. “What is my problem?” I continued to say, while realizing that his friends had no comprehension of what my problem was. I held the wrapped book in my hands, attempting to provide some context before he unwrapped it. Perhaps I was emotional because of the physical release of a prolonged buildup, perhaps I was emotional because it meant so much to me, or perhaps I was emotional because finishing the project signified concluding his childhood.
It was a piece of writing that was so distinct from anything I had ever composed. I had labored on it at any juncture in the year when I felt adrift, when I felt disheartened by Hollywood, when I was uncertain how I would manage the rent, when I was unable to confront other issues. It evolved into a testament to something grander, an objective, an act of service, a habit that guided me to where I needed to be. I engaged in it when I wished to record details before I overlooked them—amusing things Hudson remarked, activities we did jointly, observations of who he was as he matured and evolved.
He was completely silent unwrapping it. His friends were also silent. Nobody knew precisely what it was. I could perceive, as he perused the initial letter, that he comprehended it. “Oh, my God, Mom. Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, standing up from the table and embracing me for an extended period. He sat back down at the table with the book, his friends standing on either side of him, like bookends, reciting sections aloud, which I hadn’t anticipated. It was his now. His friends laughed and sighed. Viggo, a splendid kid, appeared somewhat pensive and occasionally remarked, “Damn, bro, so cool.” As I prepared more coffee, they persisted in perusing pages, laughing about specific entries, such as the e-mail a twelve-year-old Hudson wrote a teacher at his old school when she wouldn’t permit him into a weekend dance because he was no longer a student there. (“Dear EX-favorite teacher, I’m sorry that I couldn’t get in. I’m sorry I’m such an amazing dancer.”)
We haven’t discussed it since his birthday. The book is located in his room—I’m uncertain of its precise location. It has reverted to the private sphere. Only now it’s his project to oversee, not mine. Perhaps in eighteen years he’ll be bringing it to Charlene for restoration.
Writers possess significant ego, a far-from-novel fact. The yearning to be acknowledged, respected, admired, is undeniable. But, for me, to bestow upon my child my most meaningful and lengthiest project—not in page count but in years—was the complete opposite of my experience as a working writer. We tend to aspire to professionalize creativity, to monetize it, and also to aim for as vast an audience as we can possibly reach. But my finest work as a writer has been for the smallest audience, an audience of one. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com