My Journey with Birthday Letters
So, you’re thinking about writing a birthday letter, huh? Sounds easy enough on the surface. You grab a pen, a nice card, maybe, and just… write. That’s what I used to think, anyway. But let me tell you, my actual process, the one I’ve sort of stumbled into over the years, it’s a bit more of a winding road.
It usually starts with a good amount of procrastination. I know the birthday is coming. I’ve probably bought the card weeks ago. It sits there, on my desk, sometimes staring at me. I tell myself, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of time.” Famous last words, right?
Then, when the deadline is practically breathing down my neck, that’s when the real “fun” begins. I’ll sit down, pen in hand, card open. And mostly, I just stare. My mind, which was buzzing with a million other things just moments before, suddenly goes completely, utterly blank. It’s like all the nice words and thoughtful sentiments just packed their bags and went on vacation.
I’ll try to jot down some ideas on a scrap piece of paper. Keywords, funny moments, maybe a significant memory. Sometimes this helps. Other times, it just looks like a random jumble of words. Like:
- “That time with the… thing.”
- “So funny.”
- “Good person.”
Really profound stuff, I tell ya. It’s not exactly a polished system. More like a brain dump, hoping something sticks.
I remember this one time, it was for my dad’s big birthday. A milestone. I really wanted to nail it, you know? To say all the things you mean to say but don’t always get around to. I bought this super expensive, fancy card. The pressure was immense. I spent days, literally days, just agonizing over it. I’d write a sentence, then scratch it out. Write another, and then crumple up the scrap paper in frustration. My first few drafts were so stiff, so formal, they sounded like they were written by a robot. Or worse, like one of those generic greeting card messages that mean absolutely nothing.
I was getting nowhere. The card felt like it was mocking me. I almost gave up and just bought one of those pre-written ones. But then, I don’t know, something clicked. I just pushed all that “perfect” nonsense aside. I stopped trying to be some kind of poet laureate. I just started writing about a few specific, small memories. Silly things, mostly. Like the time he tried to teach me to ride a bike and we both ended up in a bush. Or how he always made terrible puns at the dinner table, but we’d laugh anyway. I wasn’t trying to be grand or eloquent. I just wrote it like I was talking to him.
It wasn’t a literary masterpiece. My handwriting was probably a bit shaky. But it felt… real. And when he read it, he got this little smile, and his eyes welled up a bit. That’s when I realized it’s not about finding some magical, perfect words. It’s about being genuine. It’s about putting a little piece of your actual self into it, messy bits and all.
So, that’s my grand “practice” for writing birthday letters. It’s a bit chaotic. There’s usually some mild panic involved. And it’s rarely ever as straightforward as I think it’ll be. But somehow, in the end, by just forcing myself to be honest and to dig a little deeper than the surface-level “happy birthday,” something worthwhile usually comes out. It’s more about the heart than the art, I guess. And that’s a process I’ve come to appreciate, even with all its little frustrations.
