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It was a present that took eighteen years to craft and a mere handful of moments to present.
Was the presentation significant enough? Did my son, Hudson, adore it with all his heart? Did it strike me as if it had been deserving of all the effort put in? What expectations did I hold? I’m not sure I really considered what the event would be like. I definitely joked with myself that it might be a total letdown, or perhaps just a courteous acceptance.
Comprehending how a witty, musically inclined, academically unconcerned, fashion-focused eighteen-year-old might react to anything is almost impossible, even if that eighteen-year-old is inherently receptive. When Hudson was approximately ten, I inquired about his ultimate meal choice if he were about to be executed. “You can choose anything you desire,” I stated. “The sky’s the limit!” There was a considerable, thoughtful pause, after which he answered, cheerfully, “Surprise me!” But he is also quite opinionated, especially concerning music, and occasionally, upon playing a song in the car that I deem incredibly stylish, he gives it only a brief listen before switching it off with a decisive “No.” I had no way of forecasting how this gift would be received.
For each of my son’s birthdays, I had been composing a letter, but instead of handing him one annually, I chose to keep the letters, intending to give them all to him at once, when he reached eighteen.
My son was unaware of the Eighteen Letters Project, as I dubbed it (despite the fact that it consisted of nineteen letters, the initial one having been drafted when he was in the womb). My father, a wordsmith, was ignorant of its existence, as was Liz, my elder sister and closest confidante. I disclosed it to practically no one because I envisioned that it would be intensely disappointing to maintain this surprise for seventeen and a half years only to have someone inadvertently spoil it. But, largely, it didn’t arise, like many other things one does as a single parent. No one observes you laboring on your December birthday letter—there’s an abundance of specifics that no one is privy to regarding your life. You have the freedom to do as you wish as a solitary parent, yet it is all done in solitude.
The undertaking commenced in our apartment, located on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. I was eight months pregnant and increasingly eager to encounter my baby boy or girl—I was oblivious to the gender—thus, I wrote the baby a letter:
Anticipating your arrival is akin to performing in a play where I’m unfamiliar with my lines and I’m not even sure what play we’re putting on, honestly, but, most intriguing of all, I have no clue when the play begins! It might be tomorrow. We might premiere in a week. Your dad is vigilant for indications of labor, one of which is supposedly “nesting,” where the expectant mother cleans and tidies the residence with fervor. He repeatedly remarks, observing the dishes in the sink or the piles of clothes in the bedroom, “When do you anticipate this nesting phenomenon will occur?”
I never imagined that it would mark the beginning of an eighteen-year endeavor, but that’s precisely what transpired. We relocated to Los Angeles when Hudson was a mere six weeks old, and, sadly, his father and I ended up separating when he was approximately four. We shared custody; I cared for Hudson for half the week. For the most part, I endeavored to record the daily occurrences, assuming that he would likely recall the significant events—the journey the two of us undertook to China when he was five, the plays we staged each summer in a barn in Vermont. I wished for him to remember how he cherished experimenting with fashion and identities. For his eighth birthday, I scribed, “The other day, you returned home from school and declared, ‘Want to throw a character party?’ (We refer to everything as a party—a reading party, etc.) I responded, ‘Absolutely!’ and as I was preparing dinner, you entered the kitchen donning five distinct costumes/characters. A football player, a watch thief in a trench coat, a Polish ballet dancer, a guy from Jersey with slicked-back hair who owns a boat shop, and a wizard with impaired vision.” Hudson possessed a talent for consistently unearthing something favorable to express. From the fourteenth-birthday letter: “While you were consuming some tofu creation I made, you attempted to be amiable and remarked, ‘I appreciate this. I appreciate it because it’s not OVERLY flavorful, you understand what I mean?’”
As the years passed, I dedicated myself to the letters, fully aware that no one was perusing my writing, which was not altogether dissimilar from my initial days as an author. Until my mid-thirties, the likelihood of being published seemed insurmountable. I ardently desired to be read, but I was never certain whether my work would be viewed by anyone other than my sister. And then, in time, I attained some degree of success and found myself in a situation where I could rely on my work being read by someone. At times, this encompassed a handful of friends, my agent, and an editor who would ultimately reject it, but nonetheless, the work was observed. This endeavor transported me to an entirely novel realm as a writer, where the absence of an audience was, in actuality, the core of the matter.
And then, unexpectedly, my son’s eighteenth birthday was fast approaching, and I discovered myself hustling to proofread, edit, and format all the letters on my laptop. An inexplicable nervousness began to grip me, but I reassured myself that if the gift was a dud, I could be fairly certain it would be a hit in thirty-two years, when he reached fifty. Perhaps his spouse or children would peruse the letters and chuckle at the anecdotes contained within, the specifics of his childhood in L.A. In this manner, perhaps the project would gain significance for him as time elapsed. In “Toy Story,” Buzz and Woody and the crew yearn to be played with by a child because they only feel truly vibrant when they are utilized. Items that we revisit time and again and at different junctures in our lives perhaps hold an exalted place in our hearts now, as books and music and experiences become increasingly disposable, single-use. Terms such as “well-worn,” “beloved,” “dog-eared” suggest a form of affection that is earned through duration and recurrence.
I came to the realization that I did not simply wish to print the letters and hand Hudson a stack of paper. I needed to locate a bindery. The woman I ultimately collaborated with seemed somewhat disarranged yet highly enthusiastic. I was convinced that she was the right person the instant I entered her cramped space on Melrose, observing her lunch in Tupperware containers on a sizable, cluttered drafting table, because her demeanor appeared to be an exact representation of her website’s appointment policy: “Please call for an appointment, although walk-ins are typically acceptable.” Initially, Charlene adopted an aloof, don’t-you-know-who-I-am tone, but then she smiled, the entire pretense crumbled, and she was delighted to accommodate any request I had. I could relate. I generally express a firm or contentious viewpoint, but if someone presents a superior notion, or simply wishes to approach it in a different manner, I am entirely amenable to it, like an exceedingly opinionated pushover.
Charlene recommended a Japanese stab binding, in which several apertures are created in the front and back covers, and then thread is stitched through these apertures, securing the pages and leaving an exposed spine. We devoted some time selecting the appropriate thread. She displayed waxed and polished linen thread, in addition to embroidery thread in exquisite, vibrant hues. I was aware that my son would appreciate the tangible, handcrafted nature of the stab binding, yet it is delicate. Ultimately, I opted for a more conventional bound book—I desired to grant it an opportunity to endure. We selected a speckled, nubbly, light-blue linen cover with black endpapers and a magenta bookmark ribbon. Charlene suggested debossing his initials on the cover. I fretted that he might perceive that as corny and declined. She responded, “Excellent, because we absolutely lack the time for monogramming.”
Charlene informed me that she had embarked on bookbinding over thirty years prior, primarily so that she could gain entry into book repair, which is her true passion. I was fond of the notion that if you produce something of quality, it becomes something worthy of preservation, thereby bestowing it with longevity. And when, inevitably, it becomes worn from usage and life, you have it mended. I harbored the hope that we were creating something of merit, something to steward through time, through readings and rereadings, the attrition of affection.
When I retrieved the book a week later, she declared, brusquely, in a Fran Lebowitz-esque voice, “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I read a smidgeon of it. I mean, come on. Genuinely, genuinely cool.” I expressed my gratitude and affirmed that my son would cherish her creation. It felt as though we were two individuals in the same line of work. She preserved memories; I documented them.
The evening preceding Hudson’s birthday, we hosted a gathering at the house, and a handful of his close companions—Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine—remained overnight. The following morning, his actual birthday, I was somewhat disheartened that others would be present. Should I delay until they had departed? Nah, I mused. I’ve been waiting eighteen years! I prepared my customary Dutch baby for the ensemble, and once they had completed eating, I informed Hudson that I wished to give him his “major present.” The moment I uttered “major present,” I regretted it. THIS is the major present? A book? Of LETTERS? I was apprehensive, irrationally (they’re agreeable kids), that one of his friends might sabotage the entire affair with a dreadful teen-ager comment, such as “Where’s your actual present?”
Viggo, Jhianna, and Sabine congregated around the table to observe him unwrap it. I was emitting strange cries. “What is my predicament?” I kept questioning, while simultaneously recognizing that his friends were clueless as to my predicament. I clutched the wrapped book in my hands, endeavoring to provide some context before he unveiled it. Perhaps I was crying due to the physical alleviation of a protracted buildup, perhaps I was crying because it held such profound significance for me, or perhaps I was crying because concluding the project signified concluding his childhood.
It was a piece of writing that stood apart from anything I had ever composed. I had dedicated time to it at any point in the year when I felt adrift, when I felt disheartened by Hollywood, when I was uncertain how I would afford the rent, when I was unable to confront other matters. It evolved into a testament to something grander, a purpose, an act of service, a routine that guided me to where I needed to be. I pursued it when I desired to record details before I lost them—amusing anecdotes Hudson shared, activities we undertook together, observations of his evolution and transformation.
He was utterly silent as he unwrapped it. His friends were silent, as well. No one was entirely certain what it was. As he perused the initial letter, I could discern that he understood. “Oh, my God, Mom. Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, rising from the table and embracing me for an extended period. He resumed his seat at the table with the book, his friends standing on either side of him, resembling bookends, reciting sections aloud, an occurrence I had not anticipated. It belonged to him now. His friends chuckled and sighed. Viggo, an exceptional kid, appeared somewhat wistful and occasionally remarked, “Damn, bro, so cool.” As I prepared additional coffee, they persisted in reading pages, laughing at certain entries, such as the e-mail a twelve-year-old Hudson dispatched to a teacher at his former school when she denied him entry to a weekend dance because he was no longer 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 since his birthday. The book resides in his room—I am uncertain of its precise location. It has retreated into the private sphere. Only now it is his endeavor to safeguard, not mine. Perhaps in eighteen years, he will be delivering it to Charlene for repairs.
Writers possess a considerable ego, a not-at-all-novel truth. The yearning for acknowledgment, respect, and admiration is undeniable. However, for me, to present my child with my most significant and lengthiest project—not in terms of page count but in terms of years—was the antithesis of my experience as a working author. We gravitate toward professionalizing creativity, monetizing it, and also aspiring to reach as expansive an audience as we possibly can. Yet, my finest work as a writer has been for the most intimate audience, an audience of one. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
