The Eighteen Letters Project | The New Yorker

I realized I didn’t want to just print out letters and hand Hudson a pile of paper. You need to find a vise. The woman I ended up working with seemed a bit disorganized but very passionate. I knew it was her from the moment she walked into her cramped hideaway on Melrose and ate her lunch in Tupperware containers at a large, crowded drafting table, because her personality seemed to be an accurate reflection of the appointment policy on her website: “Please call to schedule an appointment, but walk-ins are usually.” Charlene initially had an angry tone that said, “You don’t know who I am,” but then she smiled, and the whole facade crumbled, and she was happy to do what I wanted. Can relate. I usually give a big or controversial opinion, but if someone has a better idea, or just wants to do it a different way, that’s totally fine, like a really easy opinion.

Charlene suggested Japanese stab binding in which several holes are punched in the front and back covers and then thread is sewn through the holes, binding the pages and leaving the spine exposed. We spent some time choosing the right topic. She showed me waxed and polished linen threads as well as embroidery threads in beautiful, rich colors. I knew my son would love the tactile, handcrafted aesthetic of binding stabs, but it’s fragile. In the end, I decided to buy a more traditional book, and wanted to have a chance at it. We chose a light blue heathered linen cover with black endpapers and a purple bookmark. Charlene suggested engraving his initials on the cover. I worried he might think it was cheesy, and declined. “Great,” she said, “because we don’t have time to write just one letter.”

Charlene told me that she started bookbinding over thirty years ago, mostly so she could work fixing books, which she really loves. I liked the idea that if you do something well, it becomes something worth caring about, thus giving it longevity. And when, inevitably, it gets damaged through use and life, you can repair it. I hoped we would make something good, something to manage through time, through readings and re-readings, and through love.

When she picked up the book, a week later, she said in a gruff Fran Lebowitz voice: “Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve read a little bit of it. I mean, come on. Really, really great.” I thanked her and said my son would love what I made. It felt as if we were two people in the same business. I saved the memories. I trusted them.

The night before Hudson’s birthday, we had a party at the house, and a few of his close friends — Viggo, Gianna, and Sabine — spent the night. The next morning, his actual birthday, I was a little disappointed that there were other people there. Should I wait for them to go away? Nah, I thought. I’ve waited eighteen years! I made my usual Dutch baby for the crew, and when they finished eating, I told Hudson I wanted to give him his “big present.” As soon as I said “big gift,” I regretted it. This is the big gift? book? Of the letters? I worried, irrationally (they’re nice kids), that one of his friends would ruin the whole thing with a terrible teenage comment, like, “Where’s your friend?” TRUE present?”

Viggo, Gianna, and Sabine gathered around the table to watch him open it. I was crying strangely. “What is wrong with me?” I kept saying that, while I realized that his friends had no idea what my problem was. I held the wrapped book in my hands, trying to give him some context before he opened it. Maybe I was crying because of the physical release of a long buildup, maybe I was crying because it meant a lot to me, or maybe I was crying because finishing the project meant ending his childhood.

It was a completely different piece of writing than anything I had ever written. I worked on it any time of year when I felt lost, when I felt frustrated with Hollywood, when I didn’t know how I was going to pay the rent, when I couldn’t cope with other things. It became a testimony to something greater, a purpose, an act of service, a habit that led me to where I needed to be. I did this when I wanted to write down details before I forgot them — funny things Hudson said, things we did together, observations about who he was as he grew and changed.