A long time ago, I wrote letters, long, silly, thoughtful to so many people. My grandmother Izzy, my parents, my sisters and girlfriends. Remembering that habit now makes me jealous of the uninhibited blabby person I was then. Oh, I could go
on and
on. Often about nothing, but usually about something important, that mattered to me. I loved looping words and ideas around in circles, tying them up in neat bundles with a "Love, Kate" at the end.
Somehow I didn't have to think much about how the words tumbled out onto paper. They just did. It was exhilarating. As exhilarating were the responses: stamped, inky envelopes with my name on them, front and center, waiting for me in my mailbox.
I guess, on some weird level, it makes sense that I went into journalism. Just not to write. To edit, to design. Did my share of reporting but never liked talking to strangers. So that level of sense is, um, yes, weird? (If I could have a do-over, I would have studied French.)
Friends drifted away over the years; the good ones are still with me, though, and there are new ones as well. The writing habit drifted away as well, too, replaced by texting and email. There are never any bursting envelopes with my name on them in my mailbox anymore.
Still, I like to write. Sometimes I blather on. Sometimes I make sense.
Sometimes I just erase everything and start over.
When I do finally sit down to it, I still love to feel the words tumbling out, making sense or not, looping around into circle, tied into a bundle that somehow makes some kind of story.
When I first came to Pittsburgh, to be a reporter for the Associated Press, I worked in the Clark Building on Liberty Avenue, Downtown. It was kind of down at the heels but there was a nice little concession stand in the lobby where you could pick up coffee, plus the morning Post-Gazette, New York Times, Wall Street Journal, etc.
I can't remember what floor AP's office was on, but there was a theatrical agent next door. Sid Markowitz? Markovitz? I think? Anyway, I never saw anyone go in there. The door to the office had a frosted glass panel with his name and title on it. Once in a while, he came out: short, dark suit and a fedora, smoking a cigar. He reminded me of
this guy. Who illustrated
Ray Bradbury.
There were gold and diamond merchants in the building; still are, I think. But now it's mostly luxury apartments.
Wonder what ever happened to Sid?
