Every month I mail a letter answering one question, and I put a stamped card in the envelope so you can answer it too. The first two are on me.
No card, no catch, nothing to pay. Just an address. Letter one mails Friday, October 16.
Dear friend,
The smell of my childhood is a basement. Concrete and dust, a little cold, the kind of musty you could feel on your skin. I loved it. I still do.
Years later, in Coast Guard boot camp, the stairwell in our barracks had that exact smell. We ran those stairs all day: PT, punishments, just going in and out. Every trip, I'd breathe in on purpose, and for a few seconds I wasn't in boot camp. I was at the bottom of the stairs at home.
So here's my question, and I'd really like an answer: what's a smell that takes you straight back to being a kid? Where does it take you?
There's a stamped envelope in here. Use it. I'll write you again next month either way, but I'd rather be writing to someone who writes back.
With love and appreciation,
Wade
P.S. This is most of letter one. The rest is a story I'm keeping for the paper.
That's the top of letter one. Tap again to read the whole thing.
One page, one question, and my own answer to it first. A specific moment from my life, not a newsletter.
Card-sized on purpose. About ninety words fit. You don't have to be a writer, you just have to remember something.
Already addressed, stamp already on. Write the card, seal it, drop it in any blue box. Nothing to buy.
You give me an address. That's the whole sign-up. It takes about a minute, right here on this page.
A letter goes out one Friday a month. From a PO box in Manhattan, with the reply card tucked inside. It lands a few days later. The post office sets the pace, not me.
You write back. This is the part that matters. You go looking for the memory, you find it, and for twenty minutes you're sitting inside your own life instead of scrolling past it. The card is small so you can't overthink it. The stamp is on so you can't put it off.
Dear stranger,
Your phone has ten thousand photos on it. When did you last scroll back past this year?
There's a photo album somewhere in your home. You open it twice a year, lose an hour, and you're glad you did.
We keep everything and go back to nothing. Texts, posts, messages: quick to put up, quick to put down, gone. Nobody asks us to look back. So we don't.
Mailbox Memoirs is a letter that asks.
Once a month, a real envelope. Inside, a letter from me answering one question about my own life. I go first, so you know what kind of honest we're doing. Then the question is yours, on a card, with a stamped envelope to send it back.
The letter isn't the point. What happens when you sit down to answer is. You go looking for the memory, you find it, and for twenty minutes you're sitting inside your own life. The smell of that kitchen. The person who was there.
I write every letter myself, and I read every reply.
Your life is already full of stories. Someone should ask you for one. Wade Sellers
More or less my 1947 typewriter. The real one is louder.
It's small so nobody freezes at a blank page. My answer is in the envelope up top. This one's yours.
What's a smell that takes you straight back to being a kid? Where does it take you?
If you want to. It goes in an envelope to my PO box, and I read every one. The real card comes on paper, stamp already on.
I'll read it. Want the real one, on paper, with a stamp already on the envelope?
Send me the first letterI live in New York and run the building at a theatre school in Manhattan. I'm training for a marathon this fall. I own a 1947 typewriter, and writing letters on it is one of my favorite things to do.
I'm not a writer. I'm someone who thinks the best stories in a room belong to the people nobody's asked. So I'm asking. Every month, by mail.
That's the plan, anyway. I'm hand-addressing every one. If more of you sign up, I'll buy more stamps, and everybody who's on the list a week before mail day gets one. Sign up after that and yours is November's.
The first two letters are. October's and November's show up, stamps and reply cards included, and all I have is your address. Somewhere in the second letter I'll ask if you want December's, and tell you what that costs. It's about what a paperback costs, once a month. You decide then, not now.
Into a spreadsheet only I can see, and onto an envelope. I never share it, sell it, or print it anywhere. Ask me to delete it and it's gone the same day.
Nothing. You still get next month's letter. The card is an invitation, not homework.
You decide, on the card itself. Three boxes: you can share this, you can share this anonymously, or please keep this between us. No box checked means it stays in the box with me. What gets shared is a few sentences in the next letter and on Instagram, first name and city at most, never your address.
Not yet. The reply envelope carries a US stamp, and I'd rather do one country well first. If you're outside the US, leave your email here and you'll be first to know when it opens up. This is a separate list from the sign-up below, which is US addresses only.
Because an email is quick to put up, quick to put down, and gone. A letter sits on the counter until you open it. A card with a stamp already on it makes you go looking for the memory and stay in it for twenty minutes. That's the whole product. The longer answer is the letter up the page.
Takes a minute. The first two letters are free. The first one mails Friday, October 16.
Your letter goes out Friday, October 16. Watch the mailbox the week after. There'll be a card inside; I hope you use it.
One favor. Everyone I've told about this said the same thing: "my sister would love that." If you've got a sister, send her this page.