‘Book Haul’ by Cecil Robin Singalaoa, watercolor on cotton rag paper, 2020, 4×6 inches
I left a bookmark in the early pages of Virginia Evans’ epistolary novel The Correspondent not because of disinterest, but because other duties called. I picked up where I left off a week ago, and I couldn’t put it down. My reading hours stretched throughout the day-long brownout of the Benguet Electric Cooperative. Freed of WiFi and unproductive scrolling, I was able to inhabit the persona of the protagonist, retired clerk of court Sybil Van Antwerp, a persistent letter writer.
Now comes news that the unstoppable Jane Fonda will play Sybil in the film adaptation whose script will be co-written by Evans and Cat Vasko. What’s astonishing is the demand for the book rights with seven studios bidding for the film version, according to a report by Variety magazine.
From her home in Arnold, Maryland, Sybil tends a garden that is the envy of her neighbor; audits or wishes to audit literature courses at the University of Maryland, except poetry; tries to ward off at age 78 the amorous attention of a suitor from Texas; is stalked by someone she may have done an injustice to in her career; and so on. There are many plots and sub-plots, and I don’t want to reveal spoilers. There is even a thread of tragedy underlying the unsent letters she sends to someone in her past.
Sybil is also an avid reader of classical and contemporary fiction, not above sending handwritten letters to real-life authors Ann Patchett, Joan Didion, Larry McMurty, Kazuo Ishiguro to whom she gives her honest opinion about their works. Some of them respond and appreciate her candidness, even offering sympathy to some challenges she is going through.
What makes me identify with Sybil is her love for the word or the word as it is written by her and communicated to another person. It reminds me of this little quotation, source unknown, my sister sent me (she receives my mail in Manila and waits for me to bring them home to Baguio): “A handwritten letter is a quiet rebellion against a fast and forgetful world. It says, ‘I slowed down for you.’ Each stroke of the pen is a gesture of care, a whisper of presence, a way of saying, ‘You matter enough for this.’”
To one correspondent, Sybil explains herself:
“I write to anyone that strikes me. Friends, lawmakers, editors, teachers, diplomat, authors. Authors are my favorite. It’s harder now, of course, because with the internet people are e-mailing (it’s faster, simpler, less fussy than having to have the materials, the pen, the moment at the desk, the stamp, etc.) and it can be more difficult to find an address, but usually if you really try, you will. And one ought to try. An e-mail can no way replace a written letter. It does concern me that one day all the advancement of technology will do away with the post, but I hope to be dead and gone lone before then.”
She describes with relish her process of writing: “My desk faces a small window toward the river and there are honeysuckle bushes beneath it, which, in summer, attract hummingbirds, and my garden lies beyond. The house will be silent, or if I am feeling passionate, Tchaikovsky or Stravinsky from the CD player. I’ll have a glass of water or cup of tea. Typically I write on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for about two hours. Whatever I don’t finish gets pushed to Saturday.”
Even her writing paper is special—ordered from England. Once she discovered it, she stopped trying anything else.
For the actual writing, it takes her an hour or more. “I do not rush. I think through each sentence. My hand does not get tired. You mustn’t rush. When you rush you pen things you didn’t mean and you tire. It takes patience to say exactly what one means, to think of the right word…I believe one ought to be precious with communication. Remember: words, especially those written, are immortal.”
Which brings me to a not-so-recent development in a progressive nation like Denmark which, according to reports, has stopped “letter deliveries to focus entirely on parcels, as letter volume in Denmark dropped by 90 percent over the past 25 years due to extreme digitalization.” The last physical letter was delivered on Dec. 30, 2025. The government has removed mailboxes all over the country, some sold to interested buyers who may want them for souvenirs.
I find this extremely saddening and disturbing at a time when stationery shops are blossoming again (my dream is to someday explore Gina Itoya, the multi-storey paper hub in Tokyo, Japan) while physical journaling, not just blogging or vlogging, is back with people collecting scraps of paper and stickers to create unique pages.
When I taught creative writing to high school kids, letter writing was a “must” exercise, complete with the envelopes stamped and mailed by their teacher. In the beginning, when the kids were asked to glue the stamps on the righthand corner of a postcard or envelope, they’d curiously ask, “What are those sticker-like things?”
Recently, I happened upon and signed up for The Sunday Letter Project, initiated by believers in analog communication and in keeping the postal service alive. Every Sunday they email me a reminder or a prompt to begin a letter for the week. This Sunday’s prompt was to begin the latter with a haiku, the example being:
worth remembering.
joy returns like summer birds
on the horizon
These synchronicities seem to tell me that The Correspondent came into my life at an inspired time.
The book is available at Fully Booked.
