(Note: As of November 27, 2023, my new snail mail address is PO Box 264 - Saint Helena Island, SC 29920.)
I’ve heard that slot machines are so addictive because they reward intermittently, which is probably why I like going to the post office so much.
No, the Kill Devil Hills branch doesn’t have a casino inside of it, but there are P.O. boxes and I have one.
Mine is number 808.
Sometimes when I am feeling down, I open P.O. box 808, and—almost magically—there is a thoughtful letter inside. These letters come from all over the world. Usually, the writers tell me a little about their lives or mental health issues. Sometimes they enclose gifts—like a dried flower, a drawing, a photo, or a polished rock. Symbolic representations of the writer’s soul. My epistlers usually don’t send critical reviews of my work, thank God. They just simply say, Me too. And thanks for making me feel less alone.
I read these letters in the post office parking lot, sitting in my old Jeep. The letter writers say they see aspects of themselves in my novels. Frequently, they tell me to keep writing.
Maybe I check my P.O. box more often when I am blue, which possibly skews the odds. But—and I swear this is true, just ask Alicia—when I am down, there is almost always a letter there waiting for me. This fact has had me scratching my head for a decade. I don’t know how to explain it. I do know that hearing from far-away people who have found brief refuge in my fiction lifts my spirits. What I’m learning more and more as I soberly move through middle age is this: connecting with others saves us.
On days when I’m not depressed, but simply blasting through my to-do list, I’ll sometimes stop in at the post office and chat with BJ—one of the women who works there—as I mail a package. P.O. box 808 will almost always be empty, and I’ll usually need to do some tapping before I can allow myself to leave.