In the years between my first and second marriage, I was a serial penpal. There were email exchanges that went on for years, in which I was able to do what I’m doing on The Typewriter Ethic. To express my thoughts about things and send them off into the world, although to an audience of one. The person on the receiving end of my emails would be one of two types. One was the type of penpal which wrote a reply the same day, no matter how long my most recent email had been. The other was the type of penpal that took weeks to respond, and always started their email with apologies and finished them with promises to be faster next time.
As far as I can remember, I never had a correspondence with a male penpal which lasted more than a couple of emails. All my penpals were women. The correspondence was mostly what you would expect between pals. Exchanges of likes and dislikes, experiences and interpretations of them, reflections on the other’s stories. But on several occasions, for reasons I haven’t been able to identify, exchanges became more personal and more intimate.
On some of these occasions, the relationship stayed in the realm of email. Those emails were full of tension, of hopes and desires not explicitly stated, resulting in what might be described as obsessive intellectual exchanges fuelled by sexual energy, and also frustrated by it, because it was given no outlet.
There were other occasions where the intimacy was not left implicit. The thoughts which caused the tension came to the surface, and within weeks (months at most), the situations had developed to a point where the idea of not meeting in person seemed insane and irresponsible. On these occasions, the correspondence always moved from email to instant messaging, VoIP and video conferencing. And, as if it were inevitable, my penpal traveled here or I traveled there, and whatever was on the cards played out. All of these encounters were positive experiences, for both I hope. Some ended after a weekend. Others continued for months, even years.
Giving emphasis to the sexual aspect of my penpalling experience, will perhaps seem immature or reductionist to some readers. Those readers will make assumptions about my relationship with my own sexuality and that of others. One impulse would be to think that my search for penpals was predatory in some way, or that the motivation behind it was mainly sexual, or that the sexual acts themselves were primarily about my own satisfaction, and that the other person was merely an instrument. To that, I will only say at this time, that I disagree. If I feel like it, I will expand on this at a later date.
When I met my wife, my penpalling days were over. Perhaps a psychologist can help uncover the reasons for me losing interest in exchanging letters with strangers. Here is my feeling about it: I suspect that my desire to communicate has always been to get feedback from my audience. Next, that I prefer types of feedback which triggers the biggest releases of serotonin and dopamine in me. Intellectually stimulating conversation does cause a release of those chemicals, and so does laughter and inspired responses. When those things culminate in the experience of “deep connection”, which in turn is manifested in sexual congress (a form of profound physical and emotional communication), the level of such release goes through the roof, as I’m sure most people know from their own experience. The need for those stimulants are probably always present when I write. As a result, I have a feeling that any act of writing is suspect and almost a form of betrayal and infidelity, even when there is no betrayal or infidelity going on.