This is a strange time to take on this role. When this issue makes its way to your mailbox, I can’t meet any of you in person and reveal that I’m just an awkward woman trying to figure things out, something which comes across in-person immediately. The basic rundown is that I’m a single mom with two little boys, a border collie, a black cat, and three chickens. 

I grew up in the Chicago suburbs, and I’ve lived in Spokane for five years. I spent the previous three at The Spokesman-Review, and the two before that at Eastern Washington University, where I received a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. 

I love to karaoke, but I’m an awful singer. My best friend and I sing “Hakuna Matata,” but when we get to the mic, we can never remember who is supposed to be Timon and who is supposed to be Pumba.

That’s probably not enough to go on, I know that. I hate the idea that you’re going to be dealing with this new voice—my voice—when we’re already going through colossal change. We have at least that in common, but I’d like to think there might be some more pleasant commonalities than living through a pandemic. I want to find out what else we have in common, and also what makes us different. The latter interests me more, actually.

And here’s another thing I want to tell you about me: I love mail. Not junk mail or bills, but packages, magazines, and most of all, letters. I am a proud letter-writer and letter-receiver. An email, a text, a phone call—these are all nice, but in no way compare to receiving a letter from someone I care about. I’m blessed to have people in my life who seem to get a letter to me at just the right time. I keep them in a box, and when I’m having a day where everything seems impossible, I open it up, pick a letter at random, and read. I remember that I have the most wonderful people rooting for me.

Letter-writing is powerful. In this issue, Curtis Rystadt—who restored Hotel Indigo with a passion for its history—reveals he discovered that love because of a U.S. History teacher who made the subject come alive by reading letters between politicians. 

We are living history; let’s give future generations something they can hold in their hands. Let them learn that people craving connection returned to something that had been all but forgotten, that we dusted it off and wondered why we’d left it in the back of the closet in the first place. Let’s write everything down. 

My mom always said, “Use your words.” The one last thing that I want you to know about me is that I lost my mom a year and a half ago to lung cancer. If my life were a line starting on April 17, 1986 and shooting off into the distance, there would be a big black dot on February 2, 2019, because my life is best defined by before I lost her and after.

But I’m going to tell you about something that happened a few days after that black dot. My siblings and I were sorting through our mom’s belongings, and we found a chockload of letters to our mom—letters from my great Grandma Cille, letters from her siblings and friends. And we read, and we read. We saw our mom through new eyes, and I’ll tell you this: my mom had the most wonderful people rooting for her. We laughed at some of the things we read, and the laughter felt like more of a relief than the crying. Letter-writing is powerful, and you don’t have to be a senator.

So here’s my offer: write me a letter, tell me about yourself, ask me whatever you want. Tell me what song you sing in the shower or what you love about Spokane. Tell me about the person you miss, the person you can’t write a letter to anymore. I’ll write you back, and not some form letter, an actual letter with my sloppy cursive. I’ll take time with what you’ve told me and answer honestly. Add to my box, and I’ll add to yours.

And if you don’t send one to me (because who am I, really?), send one to someone who would be a big, black dot for you. Catch them before the after. 

Sincerely yours,

Megan Louise
[email protected]