Latest / The Book & Beyond: Books, Authors, Film & Culture / Letters to Ghosts: Writing to Those Who Died Before You Were Born | The Book & Beyond
Transcript
- Have you ever picked up a pen and written a letter to someone who never got to see the world you’re living in today? It’s not about closure, exactly. It’s about connection. I want you to close your eyes for just a second. Think of the faces that aren’t there at your family photos. The ones we only know through faded black-and-white snapshots or the grainy stories told by older relatives whose voices crack when they try to remember. For me, it’s my great-grandmother, Elara. She died in 1924, before I was even a twinkle in my grandmother’s eye. And yet, sometimes, late at night when the house is quiet and the city outside has finally stopped humming, I feel this sudden, overwhelming urge to tell her something. Maybe it’s about how much coffee costs now. Or how we’ve figured out how to talk to people on screens without seeing their faces. Or maybe it’s just to say, 'I’m here. We made it.' It feels strange, doesn’t it? Writing to ghosts. But I think it’s one of the most honest forms of correspondence we have. Because with them, there is no performance. There is no need to curate your life for an audience. There is no fear of judgment because they are gone. They cannot disappoint you, and you cannot disappoint them. It is pure, unfiltered truth flowing from your hand to the page, and then into the ether. I started doing this after listening to an episode about hidden art in urban spaces last month. We talked about murals painted in the dark, unseen by anyone but the artists. And I realized that these letters are like that. They are private acts of creation, beautiful precisely because no one else will ever read them. Let’s unpack that scene, as I often say. Why do we feel compelled to bridge this impossible gap? Is it grief? Sometimes. But often, it’s curiosity. We are creatures of time, trapped in our specific moment, wondering if the people who came before us would recognize the struggles we face. Would your great-grandfather understand anxiety? Would your grandmother get why you stay up until 3 a.m. scrolling through feeds instead of sleeping? Writing these letters allows us to test our own humanity against theirs. It forces us to articulate what we value, what we fear, and what we hope for. When I write to Elara, I am not just talking to her. I am talking to myself. I am clarifying my own thoughts by imagining how she might react. Would she laugh at my fashion choices? Would she be shocked by my politics? Would she offer wisdom I didn’t know I needed? This exercise turns history from a static subject in a textbook into a living conversation. It makes the past feel present, and it makes our current lives feel part of a larger, continuous story. We are not isolated islands. We are threads in a tapestry that started long before we arrived. Now, let’s talk about the craft of it. Because if you’re going to write to someone who can’t reply, you have to be intentional. You can’t just dump random thoughts onto paper. You have to structure your message with love. Start with the mundane. Tell them about the weather. Describe the food you ate for breakfast. These small details ground the letter in reality. They remind both you and the ghost that life continues, vibrant and messy. Then, move to the emotional core. What is weighing on your heart? What joy are you holding tightly? Be vulnerable. The subtext is screaming here, usually. We tend to hide our fears from the living, thinking we need to appear strong. But with the dead, we can admit weakness. We can say, 'I’m scared.' We can say, 'I don’t know what I’m doing.' And in that admission, there is freedom. I keep a special notebook for these letters. It’s worn at the edges, stained with tea rings and ink smudges. It’s my sacred space. When I open it, I leave the world behind. I enter a room where only memory and imagination reside. And it is a generous room. It welcomes everything. I want to share a quick story about a friend of mine, Sarah. She wrote letters to her father, who passed away when she was five. She had almost no memory of him. So, she started writing him letters every year on his birthday. In the first few years, they were questions. 'What did you look like?' 'What songs did you hum?' 'Did you like snow?' As the years went on, the tone shifted. She stopped asking for information and started sharing her life. She told him about her wedding. About her career changes. About her own children. She once told me that reading those letters back felt like having a conversation with a wise, gentle friend who knew her better than anyone alive. It wasn’t magic. It was psychology. By projecting her inner world onto the figure of her father, she created a container for her own growth. She could see her progress reflected in the changing nature of her words. It was a way of keeping him alive in her mind, not as a statue, but as a participant. And isn’t that what we all want? To be remembered not as a name on a tombstone, but as a presence in our daily thoughts? So, how do you begin? It’s simpler than you think. You don’t need fancy stationery. A plain sheet of paper and a pen will do. Just find a quiet corner. Sit down. Close your eyes and visualize the person. See their face. Hear their voice. Then, start typing or writing. Don’t overthink it. Let the words flow. Address them directly. 'Dear Grandpa,' or 'Hello, Unknown Ancestor.' Tell them something true. Something you wouldn’t tell your neighbors. Tell them about your dreams. Tell them about your failures. Ask them for advice, even if you know they can’t give it. The act of asking itself is powerful. It invites reflection. It prompts you to consider what wisdom you wish you had received. And often, in the silence that follows your question, you’ll hear your own answer. That’s the magic. The letter becomes a mirror. You see yourself more clearly. You realize that you are carrying forward the hopes and values of those who came before you. You are the legacy. And writing to them honors that lineage. The subtext is screaming here, folks. We are so afraid of being forgotten. We worry that our days will slip away unnoticed, like sand through fingers. But writing to those who died before you flips the script. It asserts that you are seen. That your life matters. That your voice adds to the chorus of human experience. It’s a defiant act of existence. In a world that often feels chaotic and meaningless, these letters create order. They create meaning. They connect the dots between generations. I also want to mention that this practice isn’t just for ancestors. You can write to historical figures you admire. To authors who changed your life. To strangers who inspired you from afar. The medium is flexible. The intent is what counts. You are reaching across time, seeking resonance. And when you find it—when you feel that spark of understanding—you realize that we are all connected by stories. By the things we say, and the things we leave unsaid. These letters are the unsaid things, given form. They are proof that love transcends death. Not in a spiritual sense, necessarily, but in a practical, emotional one. Love remains. It transforms. It speaks. I’d love to hear from you. If you’ve ever written to someone who isn’t here, I want to know. Did you burn the letters? Keep them? Read them aloud? Tell me what you saw in the margins. Your story might be the one that helps someone else take that first step. And if you haven’t started yet, I invite you to try it this week. Just one letter. One page. No pressure. Just honesty. You might be surprised by what comes out. You might be surprised by who you become in the process. We are all writers of our own histories. Let’s make sure we’re telling the whole truth. Even the parts that feel too big for words. Especially those parts. Because they deserve to be heard. Even if only by the wind. Even if only by the ghosts. Especially then. Thank you for spending this time with me. I’m Caoimhe Howell. Until next time, keep writing your truth. Goodnight.