Paging Dr. Freud. Apparently, the great Victorian era writer, Charles Dickens, he of Ebenezer Scrooge fame, had some mommy issues. Kinda like so many of my ex boyfriends. He didn't write love letters to his crushes. Oh no. He wrote passionate letters to their moms. In "Charles Dickens," out in November from Yale University Press, Michael Slater bares the novelist's over-the-top notes to the mother of Maria Beadnell, a banker's daughter he "fell violently in love with." Gushed Dickens: "Bear with a daring wretch who is about to make a surprising confession to you . . . which he beseeches you to commit to the flames as soon as you have become aware to what a towering height his mad ambition soars . . . I love your adorable daughter deeply, devotedly."
Hmmm. Interesting approach. Writing to the mothers instead of the daughters. Why does it seem to me that writers have a weird way about going about things ... like love letters for example. If you love someone, do you not send your missive, sweetly scented with your undying devotion, directly to your beloved?
Although, does one actually put pen to paper and actually write out full words, with no LOLs and LMFAO and smiley faces and so on? I don't think so. I imagine the closest one gets to love letters today is texting, Twittering, or gasp, emailing. Writers, being the notorious drunks that they (we) are, really go in for the sexting. I imagine love letters these days look like this:
(914): How do I say "sorry I gave you and your sister herpes" in German? or maybe something a little less harsh?
(401): you're kinda like the weird girl from The Breakfast Club after the makeover. i mean you're pretty, but you're still weird as fuck.
Or this one: (231): I love him more than I love myself. Which is a lot...Because I'm narcissistic.
Sadly, these are actual texts ... from here. Where is the love? What are we coming to?
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