I’ll take an independent film over a blockbuster any day, and this past weekend I saw a good one. It’s called Trumbo—the story of screenwriter and novelist Dalton Trumbo. If you don’t know him by name, you know his work.

In 1947, Trumbo, along with nine other writers and directors, was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee to testify on the presence of Communist influence in Hollywood. Trumbo refused to cooperate. He was blacklisted, and eventually, spent 11 months in prison in the federal penitentiary in Ashland, Kentucky. Once released from prison in the early 1950s, Trumbo continued to write scripts—such as Roman Holiday and The Brave One both of which went on to win Academy Awards—under different names. In 1960, after ten years of writing under a pseudonym, staring actor Kirk Douglas decided to make public Trumbo’s credit for writing Spartacus. This was the beginning of the end of the blacklist.

It’ll come as no surprise that my favorite aspect of the documentary is that the story is powerfully told through the words of Dalton Trumbo’s letters as read by Joan Allen, Paul Giamatti, Nathan Lane, Josh Lucas, Liam Neeson, David Strathairn, Donald Sutherland, Michael Douglas, and Brian Dennehy.

In an arguably morbid conversation, my sister and I were discussing our funerals the other day. The two of us are pretty irreverent when it comes to death—this, naturally, drives my parents mad—and we were laughing out loud over it. We’re not death-obsessed Goth queens, we just know that it’s a part of life and have decided to approach it with a sense of humor. I’m 27 and she’s 25, so this isn’t necessarily around the corner for either of us—but you never know. I asked her what type of funeral she’d like and she said, “That’s up to you. The funeral isn’t for the dead, it’s for the living.” I found that to be a keen insight on her part. The funeral is a place for the living to gather, comfort each other and gain whatever closure they can. The dead have little to nothing to do with the funeral.

In a somewhat strange tie in—if it can get stranger than my sister and I planning our funerals—I applied this same logic to the recent unveiling of Mother Teresa’s letters of doubt. This week’s Time magazine offers a comprehensive look into her secret life as one who often felt denied of the presence of God. In a September 1979 letter Teresa wrote to the Rev. Michael Van Deer Peet, “Jesus has a very special love for you. [But] as for me—the silence and the emptiness is so great—that I look and do not see,—Listen and do not hear.”

It was Mother Teresa’s wish that these letters be destroyed. In a move that some might consider disrespectful, the church overruled that wish—the letters now appear in a book entitled Mother Teresa: Come By My Light (Doubleday). Yet in the same way that a funeral is for the living, so these letters are now for the living. When I hear of the doubts and uncertainties of a soldier and sage like Mother Teresa I don’t hold her in a lower regard, but it grants me solace to know that she, too, was human and had doubts as everyone does. The article purports that Teresa came to accept the doubt within her as part of Christ’s suffering. Meaning she shared in his desolate hour of, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?” I find it beyond admirable that her work never ceased in light of her private torment. She moved forward and continued to give all of her time to those who needed it the most.

One would think Teresa’s reason for not wanting the world to read her letters is obvious—because she didn’t want to people to know she wasn’t of a faithful mindset at all times and in all places. But that is inaccurate. She explained to the Rev. Lawrence Picachy that if the letters became public, “people will think more of me—less of Jesus.” I admire that as well. She was humble until the end and wanted to protect Jesus even though she felt abandoned by him. For me, she was right about one part and not the other. There isn’t much that could make me think less of Jesus, however, I do think more of Mother Teresa.

With regards to the article: IN THE ’60s, A FUTURE CANDIDATE POURED HER HEART OUT IN LETTERS by MARK LEIBOVICH (July 29): Thank you for the glimpse into the collegiate dalliances and uncertainties of Hillary Clinton through the letters she wrote to John Pevoy. The snippets shown (I regret but understand that they were not able to be reprinted in their entirety) offer access to the refreshingly unpolished thoughts of a young woman even Mrs. Clinton doesn’t know anymore. That is the beauty of letters—they capture the musings and emotions of the moment but last a lifetime and beyond. We may very well be witnessing the last generation to have their stories told in their own words through letters. This is tragic. Without leaving tangible, eloquent evidence of ourselves, our descendants will think our lives are as emotionally void as our IMs and MySpace pages—which have yet to prove staying power. And if our online profiles ultimately expire, then what honest portraits of daily life have we painted?

I was at a wedding this past weekend and ended up speaking with a friend of a friend about my book. Toward the tail end of the conversation he said, “Isn’t it sad how our handwriting has suffered greatly because no one writes letters anymore.” Although, I purport there have been a great many losses as a result of lack of letters in today’s world, but I don’t think handwriting is one of them. I tried to explain to him that Poe had horrible handwriting and when I see scans of his letters online I am grateful that I’m not the one who had to transcribe them. He was still skeptical saying, “I’m not so sure about that. . .” Low and behold! Robert Fisk of The Independent comes to my rescue today in an amusing piece about the horrible handwriting of those who have gone before. Today’s lesson: Don’t be embarrased by your penmanship—write letters anyway. Someone will take the time to transcribe them someday.

One of the most famous and tragic American love stories is that between Zelda Sayre and writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. The love they shared was zealous and tormented—it eventually turned into a competition. Scott would borrow pieces of Zelda’s prose to include in his fiction and she, in turn, accused him of plagiarism. Zelda had dreams of launching a great writing career but was forced to sit on the sidelines while Scott’s soared. In The Book of Love: Writer’s and Their Love Letters (Plume, 1992), editor Cathy N. Davidson writes, “They virtually destroyed each other with excessive love and excessive living.” This letter was written early in their marriage. It is passionate, powerful, and laced with a strange obsession that would eventually contribute to the couple’s demise.

Spring 1919 or 1920

I look down the tracks and see you coming—and out of every haze & mist your darling rumpled trousers are hurrying to me—Without you, dearest, dearest I couldn’t see or hear or feel or think—or live—I love you so and I’m never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night. It’s like begging for mercy of a storm or killing Beauty or growing old, without you. I want to kiss you so—and in the back where your dear hair starts and your chest—I love you—and I can’t tell you how much—To think that I’ll die without your knowing—Goofo, you’ve got to try [to] feel how much I do—how inanimate, I am when you’re gone—I can’t even hate these damnable people—Nobodys got any right to live but us—and they’re dirtying up our world and I can’t hate them because I want you so—Come Quick—Come Quick to me—I could never do without you if you hated me and were covered with sores like a leper—if you ran away with another woman and starved me and beat me—I would still want you I know—

Lover, Lover, Darling —
Your Wife

Monday’s Blog: Who knew? April is National Card and Letter Writing Month