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In defense of the long email

my work space - dining room

The first time I was introduced to the world of email, I was eighteen years old and in the first week of my freshman year of college. Sure, I’d messed around with email before in a class or two, but it had never been available to me at any time or in pretty much any place I might want to use it. Now, I suddenly had access to a 24-hour-a-day computer lab in my dorm, and every library or study area I ran across on campus had computers and internet access.

I spent the first days before classes started getting acquainted with the VAX machine in our dorm computer lab. It was a small, no-frills monitor with a black screen and bright-green blinking letters; logging in required a complicated series of keystrokes I could no longer repeat if I had to. There were no browsers on these machines, no games, no applications of any sort – only email.

Considering I only knew a handful of other people who had email addresses at that time – one of them being my roommate, who I spent most of my waking hours with anyway – you’d think I wouldn’t have had much use for an email-only computer. Oh, but you’d be wrong. I became obsessed with sending emails, mostly to my sister (who worked for the state government and was one of the first people I knew to have access to email for work,) a couple of friends who were attending colleges in other cities…and, yes, my roommate. (Hey, we had differing class schedules and had to stay in touch during the day!)

I sent long emails. Novel-length emails. Emails detailing the contents of my breakfast; describing the cute boy who sat a few rows down in my Econ class; lamenting the fact that I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to pass my Econ class…and questioning my decision to major in business, which had required me to take Econ in the first place. And my friends, and my sister, and yes, my roommate sent long emails back to me.

Our emails were like the long, handwritten letters you see copied into historical books; narrative reports of daily life filled with everyday news, spiced up with an occasional exciting bit of town drama. Only instead of reporting on the health of the chickens or our neighbor’s barn fire, we’d complain about exams and describe the day the police stormed our dorm and took out the three nice boys down the hall in handcuffs, never to be seen again. (Nice boys they were, but not very careful about the booming marijuana business they were obviously carrying on from their room.) [Read more…]