Letter by Hannah Jansen

Dear S,

Who knows if, or when, you’ll get this. It’s rather wild out here where I am, and I can’t speak to the reliability of the mail service. Anyway, time doesn’t matter much here, even if you’re getting on where you are.

After our customary longer-than-expected pause, we’re ready to hit your inboxes again with the first letter from Volume 6, an atmospheric response to Anne Sexton’s ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’ poem, written by the wicked stepmother herself. Ahead of publication, Chloé Rose Whitmore considers the influence of fairy tales on contemporary writers. 

I can’t say that I have received many letters in my life. I’ve never really had cause to write one myself either, except for the sheer novelty of it. And it is a novelty now. Gone are the days where sending letters was as mundane a task as sending a text, though I suppose that is what makes it feel even more special.  

By the time it occurs to us to hit record and shift our conversation to ‘interview mode’, I’ve already been sitting with Lindsey Coombs for four hours. It’s two weeks before Christmas, and we’ve just finished a lavish meal of roasted squash and pear carpaccio. We’re down to our last dribbles of wine, so we order another glass. The night feels wide-open.  

Like many shy or awkward kids, I spent my lunchtimes at school in the classroom of my favourite teachers. This for me was the music room. Five years after leaving school I reached out to one of my former music teachers, Scott Richardson, and it strikes me that I have now not seen Scott for the same length of time as I knew him during my years at school. 

Joining the army was always a no-brainer for my dad: “Since I was eight years old, I wanted to join the army. Growing up, my father was in the army so that was all I knew. It was instinctive for me…’

‘I like going out, and I like every customer who come to the café, my cozy cave. They are all the flames in my life.’ 

A Chinese saying that describes friendship goes: As flame of fire we gather, as skyful of stars we scatter.

I recognize the hands on my screen. They are moving in slow concentric circles, with a stub of a pencil between the index finger and the thumb. My grandfather is a man who doesn’t believe in throwing things away.  

Portland Coffee bustles as Lydia Sanders and I stand in line for a beverage. We chat off-hand about the content of our previous seminar and as our orders are called out, we take a seat at a table and I set up. We’re both bundled up in winter clothes but the sun has popped out for a brief guest appearance, painting the already warm tones of the café even warmer. 

On a Friday afternoon, things are winding down, pints are poured and the weekend is imminent for most. But for Head Chef Joe Laker, his working week is only really just gaining momentum. Point proven as he pops onto the screen in his chef whites and a pen in hand, taking a quick break from the kitchen, down in the wine cellar of his restaurant, FENN.