Latest / The Creative Life: Art, Writing, Music & Creative Living / Writing Letters to Ghosts: Finding Kinship With Those Who Came Before | The Creative Life
Transcript
- I picked up my pen this morning and wrote a letter to a woman I never met, who died thirty years before I was born. And in the silence of that room, she felt more present than anyone standing right beside me. Let’s look closer at what just happened there. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? Writing to someone who isn’t here. Someone whose bones have turned to dust, whose voice has faded into the static of history books or family anecdotes told by tired relatives. But for me, it wasn’t strange at all. It felt like coming home. I’m sitting here with a cup of tea that’s gone cold, my fingers stained with blue ink, feeling the weight of a conversation that exists only in my head and on this page. We live in such a noisy world, don’t we? Constant notifications, constant demands, constant noise telling us who we are and who we should be. But when I write to her—to the woman who lived through the war, who raised children without internet, who loved and lost in ways I can barely imagine—there is no noise. There is only the scratch of the nib against paper and the quiet expansion of my own understanding. I wanted to tell you about this practice because I think many of us carry ghosts. Not scary ones, but tender ones. The ancestors we never knew, the potential selves we might have been, the voices of those who paved the way for us to sit here, safe and warm, holding a pen. So, who are you writing to? It could be a grandmother you remember fondly, or it could be a stranger whose story moved you in a museum last week. Maybe it’s a historical figure who fought for rights you now take for granted. Or maybe it’s someone entirely fictional, a character from a book who feels more real to you than your neighbors. I started doing this after I burned that bad painting last month. You might remember that episode where I talked about the freedom of destruction. When I destroyed that canvas, I realized how much energy I was wasting trying to please an audience that didn’t exist. So I stopped painting for critics and started writing for ghosts. The first time I wrote to Harriet Tubman, I didn’t know what to say. I just said, 'I am tired today. Can you tell me how you kept going?' And I waited. I didn’t expect a reply. But as I sat there, waiting for nothing, I found myself answering my own question. I remembered her letters, her courage, her sheer stubbornness against a world that wanted her broken. And suddenly, her strength wasn’t some distant abstract concept. It became fuel. It became something I could hold in my hands. What’s the texture of that connection? It’s rough. It’s uneven. It’s not polished like a social media post. It’s raw, like dirt under fingernails after gardening. And that’s where the magic hides. We often think of history as clean lines. Dates, names, victories. But life is messy. It’s sticky and complicated and full of contradictions. When I write to these people, I try to honor that mess. I don’t write them as statues. I write them as humans. I ask them about their fears. I ask them if they ever felt like a fraud. I ask them what they ate for breakfast on a Tuesday in November, 1920. These small, mundane details ground them. They make them accessible. If I treat them as gods, they become distant. But if I treat them as people who struggled with laundry and backaches and heartbreak, then they become kin. It’s okay to be unfinished in this process. You might feel silly writing a letter to Lincoln. You might feel awkward asking Virginia Woolf about her anxiety. But that awkwardness is part of the work. It’s the friction that creates heat. It’s the sign that you’re stepping out of your comfort zone and into the deeper current of human experience. I used to be a graphic designer, and I spent years making things look perfect. Smooth edges, aligned grids, invisible seams. This? This is the opposite. This is about finding beauty in the seam. In the tear. In the gap between then and now. It’s a tactile practice. You feel the passage of time in the grain of the paper. You smell the old books. You hear the echo of footsteps in empty rooms. It’s not just intellectual. It’s bodily. One thing I want to emphasize is that this isn’t about channeling spirits or seeking supernatural validation. It’s about imagination exercised with reverence. It’s a form of deep listening. When you write to someone who died before you were born, you are forced to listen to your own thoughts more clearly. Because there is no one there to interrupt you. No one to correct you. No one to judge your grammar or your tone. It’s just you and your reflection in the mirror of their lives. I’ve found that often, the answers I’m looking for aren’t in the past. They’re in the act of asking. The question itself reshapes me. I asked a poet from the 19th century once, 'How do you keep creating when you feel empty?' And in writing her response, I had to dig into my own reserves of creativity. I had to remember what it felt like to create without reward. To create because it was necessary. And in articulating that for her, I remembered it for myself. It’s a feedback loop. A circular dance. We give them our attention, and they give us perspective. It’s a gift exchange across centuries. And the currency is empathy. Pure, unadulterated empathy. Which is rare these days. We’re so busy talking at each other that we forget how to talk with each other, even across time. I also want to talk about the physical act of writing. In a digital age, typing a text message is easy. Sending an email is instant. But writing a letter by hand? That takes time. That requires patience. That demands that you slow down. I believe there is dignity in manual labor, especially in art. When you use a pen, you commit. You can’t hit delete. You have to live with your mistakes. You have to cross out words and keep going. That imperfection is honest. It shows effort. It shows care. When I write to these figures, I use fountain pens. Heavy, brass ones that click when you cap them. The ink flows slowly. I have to watch it spread. I have to control the pressure. It forces me to be present. I can’t multitask. I can’t check my phone. I can’t think about dinner. I am here, in this moment, connecting with a soul from another era. It’s a ritual. And rituals matter. They mark boundaries. They tell our brains, 'This is important. This is sacred.' Even if the person on the other end isn’t physically there, the space we create is holy. It’s a sanctuary built from words and intention. And in that sanctuary, we can be vulnerable. We can admit our weaknesses. We can ask for help. And surprisingly, we often find it. Not from them, but from ourselves. Through them. So, if you’re curious about this, I invite you to try it. Just once. Pick someone. Anyone. A relative. A leader. An artist. A farmer. Write them a letter. Tell them about your day. Ask them about theirs. Don’t worry about being eloquent. Don’t worry about getting the facts right. Get the feeling right. Is it sadness? Is it curiosity? Is it gratitude? Let that emotion guide your pen. And then, put the letter away. You don’t need to send it. You don’t need to show it to anyone. Keep it in a drawer. Or burn it. Or plant it in the garden. The value isn’t in the object. It’s in the shift that happens inside you while you’re writing it. I promise you, you will come out of that experience different. Lighter. Connected. Less alone. We are all part of a long chain. A lineage of lovers, fighters, dreamers, and makers. And when we reach back, we strengthen the link. We remind ourselves that we are not the first to struggle, and we won’t be the last. There is comfort in that continuity. There is joy in knowing that someone else, somewhere, somehow, understood the same ache in your chest. Let’s look closer at our own stories. Let’s weave them into the tapestry of those who came before. It’s okay to be unfinished. It’s okay to be searching. It’s okay to write to the ghosts. They’re listening. And they’re proud of us. Thank you for sitting with me today. For letting your mind wander back in time. For honoring the quiet power of memory. I’ll leave you with this thought: the past is not behind us. It is within us. Go write your letter. I can’t wait to hear what you discover. Until next time, keep making, keep wondering, and keep writing. I’m Sydney Allison, signing off.