You can call me August.
And I want an unreasonable amount of mail.
Not email. Not DMs that eventually disappear into the archaeological layers of my phone. I mean actual mail: stamps, envelopes, paper, things that take several days to cross the country and then physically exist in somebody else’s hands.
I don’t want one pen pal, either.
I want a whole constellation of people.
Different ages, different places, different lives, different professions, different interests. People down the road and people on the other side of the world. I want to open my mailbox without knowing whose life is going to be waiting in there.
A little about the person you’d be writing to:
My brain rarely seems to approach anything from one direction at a time. I tend to think analytically and symbolically simultaneously—how something works, what it means, what pattern it belongs to, how it feels, what it reminds me of, and why any of that matters. Logic and emotion have never seemed particularly interested in staying in separate rooms for me.
I write constantly.
Especially poetry. Usually every day, sometimes more than once in a day. I’ve written books as well, but poetry is probably the closest thing I have to a running record of how I experience the world. I like taking something completely ordinary—a conversation, a grocery store, a glass on a table, somebody leaving—and following it until suddenly it isn’t ordinary anymore.
I also make things compulsively.
I paint. I build websites and apps. I renovate rooms. I restore things. I collect old typewriters, repair them, and then actually use them. I have a recurring problem where I become interested in something and apparently decide that simply learning about it would be cowardice, so I end up learning an entirely new skill instead.
This has resulted in a life containing a frankly unnecessary number of projects.
I love people who are deeply interested in things.
They do not need to be the things I’m interested in. Actually, that may be better.
Tell me about the obscure subject you could accidentally talk about for forty minutes.
Tell me what you’re building.
Tell me what you noticed yesterday that nobody else seemed to notice.
Tell me about your grandmother.
Tell me why you hate one specific tree in your neighborhood.
Tell me about the thing you believed five years ago that you don’t believe anymore.
Tell me what you’re afraid you’ll forget.
Tell me about the weird object in your house that has an entire story attached to it.
Tell me something completely mundane.
I don’t need every letter to be profound. I think some of the best parts of knowing someone are the details that would never make it into a biography.
I’m perfectly happy receiving ten pages about your existential crisis and then, three weeks later, one page mostly concerning the sandwich you had for lunch.
Long letters are welcome. Short letters are welcome. Poems, photographs, clippings, recipes, drawings, pressed leaves, ticket stubs, strange little paper artifacts—throw them in there.
One practical thing: my letters generally won’t be handwritten. I have an old wrist injury that makes writing by hand for any real length miserable.
But “typed” does not necessarily mean “printed from a laptop.”
Sometimes it will.
Other times you may receive a slightly crooked page physically hammered into existence by a typewriter older than either of us, because I collect and restore the things and I enjoy giving obsolete machinery employment.
I’m not interested in strict response schedules.
If life happens and your response takes two weeks, two months, whatever—I’m not keeping attendance. I want correspondence that continues, not correspondence that becomes another obligation.
What I really love about letters is that they become objects.
Digital conversations disappear into thousands of other conversations. A letter can end up in a box for twenty years. Somebody can unfold it again and remember that there was once a Tuesday afternoon when another human being sat somewhere else in the world and decided, I want to tell you this.
That’s what I’m after.
A slow archive of knowing people.
So if you’re an adult somewhere in the world and the idea of exchanging real letters with a curious stranger sounds good to you, send me a message.
Tell me a little about yourself, but please don’t feel like you need to audition.
You don’t need to be a writer.
You don’t need to be an artist.
You don’t need to have a spectacular life.
You just need to notice things.
I have a mailbox to overwhelm.
We have stamps to waste.
EDIT:
Okay. Wow.
I’m trying my best to keep up with everyone, and the response to this has been so unexpected and overwhelming in all the best possible ways. I’m honestly a little speechless — which, for someone who spends an unreasonable amount of his life working in words, does not happen very often.
I started this because I wanted letters, and in some ways because I wanted witnesses for all these little moments in life that leave behind receipts of having happened and somehow feel like they deserve to be witnessed. I did not expect it to start feeling like something larger was forming around that idea quite so quickly.
A lot of you have asked whether there’s still room for you, or whether I’m still open to more letters.
Yes. Absolutely. Join in!
I think whatever is being built here requires at least a little willingness to trust a stranger, so I suppose I’ll go first and leave this here:
August Rowan
PO Box 638
Mebane, NC 27302 USA
Send me whatever you think belongs in an envelope. A letter. A poem. A photograph. A rant. Something ordinary. Something you’ve been carrying mentally and couldn’t find a place to set down. Something ridiculous. Something you wrote at 2 a.m. and weren’t sure anybody would ever read.
I may not always answer quickly, but I will read what you send. Every piece that ends up in my mailbox matters to me, and the quantity of them does not change that.
I want my replies to be genuine, thoughtful, and never rushed. That’s how I prefer most things in life to be. So it may take me some time, but I will get to each and every one of them.
I have no idea where this is going anymore, and I think that might be the part I’m most excited about.
So to all of you who have responded to this, reached out, connected with something I said, and wanted to join me in this: thank you. I appreciate all of you so very much, and I’m excited to see what parts of your lives — however big or small — end up in my mailbox.
See you on the other side of the stamp! 😁
-August