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The present required eighteen years to craft and mere moments to present.
Was the bestowal sufficiently significant? Did my son, Hudson, adore it wholeheartedly? Did I perceive that all the effort was justified? What expectations did I hold? I don’t believe I thoroughly considered how the event would unfold. I certainly mused that it could be a total failure, or at best, a somewhat courteous one.
Ascertaining how a comical, musical, academically indifferent, fashion-conscious eighteen-year-old might react to anything is almost unattainable, even if that eighteen-year-old is inherently receptive. Around the time Hudson was ten, I inquired about his preferred last meal were he facing execution. “You can have anything you desire,” I stated. “Unlimited!” There was a lengthy, pensive pause, before he exclaimed, cheerfully, “Surprise me!” Nevertheless, he can also be quite firm in his opinions, particularly regarding music, and on occasion, when I play a tune in the car that I deem incredibly cool, he allows only a measure or two before halting it with a resolute “No.” I couldn’t possibly foresee how this offering would be received.
For his birthday each year, I had been composing a letter for my son, but instead of giving him one each time, I had retained the letters, intending to present them all at once upon his eighteenth birthday.
My son remained unaware of the Eighteen Letters Project, as I dubbed it (despite the fact that it consisted of nineteen letters technically, as the first one was penned while he was in the womb). My father, a writer, was ignorant of it, as was Liz, my older sibling and closest confidante. I confided in almost nobody, assuming it would be profoundly disappointing to maintain this secret for seventeen and a half years only to have someone inadvertently spoil it. However, primarily it simply never arose, like many things undertaken as a single mother. Nobody observes you laboring over your December birthday letter—there are innumerable details specific to your existence that remain unknown to others. As a solitary parent, you are free to act as you wish, yet you do so without witnesses.
The undertaking commenced in our apartment, situated on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. I was eight months pregnant and becoming increasingly eager to encounter my baby boy or girl—I was ignorant of the sex—consequently, I composed a letter to the baby:
Anticipating your arrival is akin to participating in a play for which I am ignorant of my lines and of the play itself, yet most intriguing is that I am unaware of when the play occurs! It could transpire tomorrow. We could debut within a week. Your father is attentive for indications of labor, one of which is allegedly “nesting,” wherein the expectant mother cleans and organizes the residence with great zeal. He frequently remarks, while eyeing the dishes in the sink or heaps of garments in the bedroom, “When do you anticipate this nesting phenomenon will manifest?”
I did not envision it as the genesis of an eighteen-year endeavor, but that is what transpired. When Hudson was merely six weeks old, we relocated to Los Angeles, and regrettably, his father and I ultimately divorced when he was approximately four. We shared custody; Hudson resided with me for half the week. For the most part, I sought to chronicle the daily occurrences, reasoning that he would likely recall the significant events—the voyage the two of us undertook to China when he was five, the plays we staged each summer in a barn in Vermont. I desired him to remember his fondness for experimenting with fashion and identities. For his eighth birthday, I inscribed, “The other day you returned home from school and proposed, ‘Do you want to have a character party?’ (We designate everything a party—a reading party, etc.) I responded, ‘Absolutely!’ and while I was preparing food, you entered the kitchen donning five distinct costumes/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 poor vision.” Hudson possessed a talent for invariably discovering something positive to express. From the fourteenth-birthday letter: “While you were consuming some tofu concoction I prepared, you endeavored to be agreeable and declared, ‘I like this. I appreciate it because it’s not overly flavorful, if you comprehend?'”
Throughout the years, I labored on the letters, cognizant that nobody was reading my writing, which was not dissimilar to my nascent years as a writer. Until my mid-thirties, the prospect of being published appeared insurmountable. I earnestly desired to be read, yet I never knew whether my work would be viewed by anyone other than my sister. Subsequently, I attained some measure of success and found myself in a position where I could rely on my work being read by someone. At times, this entailed a few acquaintances, my agent, and an editor who would ultimately reject it, but nonetheless, the work was seen. This project propelled me to an entirely novel realm as a writer, where the absence of readership was, in fact, the central point.
Then, abruptly, my son’s eighteenth birthday loomed imminently, and I discovered myself scrambling to proofread, edit, and format all the letters on my laptop. I began to experience inexplicable apprehension, yet I reassured myself that if the gift failed, I could be reasonably certain it would succeed in thirty-two years, when he was fifty. Possibly his partner or offspring would peruse the letters and chuckle at the stories contained within, the specifics of his childhood in L.A. In this manner, perhaps the project would acquire greater significance for him as time progressed. In “Toy Story,” Buzz and Woody and the ensemble yearn to be played with by a child because they only feel fully alive when utilized. Objects to which we recurrently return at various junctures in our existence potentially hold an elevated position in our hearts presently, as books and music and experiences become increasingly disposable, single-use. Terms such as “well-worn,” “beloved,” “dog-eared” connote a form of affection that is cultivated through duration and repetition.
I understood that I did not merely wish to print the letters and proffer Hudson a pile of paper. I needed to locate a bindery. The woman with whom I ultimately collaborated appeared somewhat disorganized yet exceedingly passionate. The instant I entered her cramped den on Melrose, her sustenance contained in Tupperware receptacles upon a sizable, cluttered drafting table, I recognized that she was the one, as her demeanor seemed to precisely mirror her website’s appointment protocol: “Please telephone for an appointment, although walk-ins are typically permissible.” Charlene initially possessed a haughty, don’t-you-realize-who-I-am tone, but then she grinned, the entire façade crumbled, and she was pleased to execute anything I desired. I could empathize. I generally articulate a substantial or contentious viewpoint, but should someone possess a superior concept, or merely prefer to execute it differently, I am entirely agreeable, akin to an exceedingly opinionated pushover.
Charlene proposed a Japanese stab binding wherein several perforations are created in the front and back covers, and then thread is sewn through the perforations, binding the pages and leaving an exposed spine. We invested time in selecting the appropriate thread. She displayed waxed and polished linen thread in conjunction with embroidery thread in exquisite, vibrant hues. I knew that my son would appreciate the tactile, handmade essence of the stab binding, but it is delicate. In the end, I opted for a more conventional bound book—I aspired for it to endure. We selected a speckled, nubby, light-blue linen cover with black endpapers and a magenta bookmark ribbon. Charlene suggested debossing his initials onto the cover. I feared he might deem that corny, and declined. She replied, “Wonderful, as we certainly lack the time for monogramming.”
Charlene divulged that she commenced bookbinding more than three decades prior, largely to gain entry into book repair, which is her genuine passion. I appreciated the notion that if one creates something exceptional, it evolves into something worthy of care, thereby bestowing it with longevity. Inevitably, when it becomes worn through usage and life, one seeks its repair. My hope was that we were creating something of quality, something to steward across time, through readings and rereadings, the attrition of love.
When I retrieved the book a week later, she remarked, brusquely, in a Fran Lebowitz intonation, “Listen, I trust you don’t mind, but I perused a fraction of it. I mean, honestly. Genuinely, genuinely cool.” I expressed my gratitude and conveyed that my son would cherish what she had crafted. It felt as though we were two individuals engaged in the same vocation. She preserved recollections; I documented them.
The evening preceding Hudson’s birthday, we hosted a gathering at the house, and a selection of his intimate companions—Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine—remained overnight. The following morning, his actual birthday, I was somewhat disappointed that others would be present. Should I defer until they had departed? Nah, I contemplated. I’ve waited eighteen years! I prepared my customary Dutch baby for the group, and upon their completion of eating, I apprised Hudson that I desired to bestow upon him his “major present.” The moment I uttered “major present,” I regretted it. THIS constitutes the major present? A book? Comprising LETTERS? I worried, irrationally (they’re good kids), that one of his companions might undermine the entire affair with a dreadful adolescent remark, such as “Where’s your actual present?”
Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine congregated around the table to observe him open it. I was crying strangely. “What is my problem?” I repeatedly questioned, while acknowledging that his companions were oblivious to my issue. I clasped the wrapped book in my hands, endeavoring to furnish it with some context before he opened it. Perhaps I was weeping due to the physical culmination of a protracted buildup, perhaps I was weeping because it signified so profoundly to me, or perhaps I was weeping because completing the project signified the conclusion of his childhood.
It represented a piece of writing that diverged significantly from anything I had ever authored. I labored on it at any juncture in the year when I felt adrift, when I felt disheartened by Hollywood, when I was unsure how I would settle the rent, when I could not confront other matters. It evolved into a testament to something larger, a purpose, an act of service, a habit that guided me to where I needed to be. I undertook it when I desired to record details before they eluded me—humorous anecdotes Hudson recounted, activities we shared, observations of his essence as he matured and transformed.
He was utterly silent while unwrapping it. His companions, too, remained silent. Nobody discerned precisely what it entailed. As he perused the initial letter, I could discern that he comprehended. “Oh, my God, Mom. Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, rising from the table and embracing me for a protracted duration. He resumed his seat at the table with the book, his companions standing on either side of him, akin to bookends, reciting passages aloud, which I had not anticipated transpiring. It was his now. His companions chuckled and sighed. Viggo, an excellent kid, appeared somewhat wistful and occasionally uttered, “Damn, bro, so cool.” As I prepared additional coffee, they continued perusing pages, laughing at certain entries, such as the e-mail a twelve-year-old Hudson composed to a teacher at his former school when she denied him entry into a weekend dance due to his no longer being 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 have not discussed it subsequent to his birthday. The book resides in his room—I am uncertain of its precise location. It has retreated into the private domain. Only now, it is his project to oversee, not mine. Perhaps in eighteen years, he will be conveying it to Charlene for repairs.
Writers possess considerable ego, a fact that is by no means novel. The craving for acknowledgment, respect, admiration is undeniable. Nonetheless, for me, to bestow upon my offspring my most meaningful and protracted project—not in page count but in years—was the antithesis of my experience as a working writer. We gravitate toward professionalizing creativity, monetizing it, and striving for as expansive an audience as we can conceivably reach. Yet, my finest work as a writer has been for the most diminutive audience, an audience of one. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
