The Correspondent

The Correspondent

By Virginia Evans

Dear Readers,

Do you ever write a letter? I mean truly write one…sit down with pen and paper, jot down your thoughts, seal an envelope, place a stamp, and send it off through the postal service?

I do. I did. I used to love writing thank-you notes, always including a photo from the moment we shared, hoping my words carried the weight of my gratitude.

I love hand-written letters…both sending and receiving them.

Last week, I moved. While packing up, I found a love letter dated June 26, 2000. Twenty-five years ago! I smiled as I read it, grateful I’d held onto it all this time. I’ll never throw it away. I adored his words…the way he wrote them, the penmanship, the spacing, the red ink. But mostly…I loved his words.

Then there’s Sybil.

She’s 72 when we meet her in the novel…crotchety and outspoken, intelligent and well-read, fiercely independent and beautifully flawed. She’s just learned she’ll gradually lose her eyesight. She’s made some devastating, life-altering mistakes and carries the weight of guilt. She tries to make amends where she can, but that isn’t always possible. Like the rest of us, she’s doing her best.

Sybil pours herself into her letters…her love, grief, regrets, humor, and hope. Her relationships unfold through correspondence with her brother, sister-in-law, children, old work associates, and, delightfully, literary icons like Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry. Some letters she sends. Some she doesn’t. The most haunting are those she writes to a shadowy figure from her past…never mailed, but full of ache.

One letter to a young correspondent reflects deeply on the immortal power of writing; others are hilariously blunt, layered with her sharp, salty charm. Evans crafted Sybil with brusque vulnerability…a woman brimming with opinions, keen advice, and blind spots about her own tangled truth. Through her letters, Sybil slowly peels back the layers of her heart. The book reads like a character study told through correspondence…a slow unraveling of what makes Sybil who she is.

I’ll sign off just as Sybil does in letters to a beloved friend: What are you reading?