Without Wax

An attempt to revive old-fashioned letters on modern-day technology.

Dearest friend, 

I have always loved handwritten letters. As a child, after immigrating to the United States—my family in Portugal wrote them to me. It was the late 1990’s. Long-distance phone calls were expensive, texts nonexistent, and the early days of email still in formation. I would open the envelope to find my grandmother’s neat cursive, my godmother’s loop-formed letters, and my cousin’s carefully dated accounts. Birthday cards were written from cover to cover and letters double-sided on extra-long paper. I was barely ten years old. I would read and re-read their news and well-wishes. I was even once scolded for rereading—an act that broke my letter-loving childhood heart. (In my family’s defense that card played a mechanical ringing version of Happy Birthday, a soundtrack my family outgrew faster than my desire to stop rereading.)

I have long admired the whimsical feel of antique letter-writing desks. Their neatly boxed compartments— perfect for holding stamps, envelopes, and stationary. Their open and close nature— ideal for tucking away unfinished thoughts or secret love letters. In an act of kismet, I recently felt a magnetic pull towards Savers. I told myself, I would walk in and search for a copy of Glennon Doyle’s Untamed. I searched their collection to no avail and meandered around the store, coming upon a letter-writing desk. I already own two desks– one for journaling and one for everything else. What justification could I make for another desk? Yet, how could I resist a desk for the sole sacred purpose of letter writing?  I hobbled to the checkout line carrying the desk while smiling at onlookers, who either admired my fortitude or smirked at my inability to ask for help. For fifteen blissful dollars, I walked out with the desk and a great excuse to write letters. 

In the magnetic field of friendships, I have been fortunate to gather a few letter-writing friends. My friend Ali introduced me to a story regarding the origins of the word sincerely. In Latin, the word sine means without and sera means wax. It is said that sculptors in Rome would cover their flaws using wax. In the heat, the wax would melt and the flaws would be revealed post-purchase. As a result, sculptors began to label their work as being “sine sera” or “without wax” to indicate honesty in their work. Written letters take away pretense, requiring a fusion of pen and paper more akin to dancing than editing.

This substack began as a newsletter—a distant cousin of my once favored practice. I moved it here to focus on the writing rather than the news. This morning whilst sitting at my writing desk it occurred to me that I wanted to write letters here too. For 2025, I will be using this space to write letters, send well-wishes and love, and most of all to be devastatingly sincere. I have renamed the substack accordingly, Without Wax. Here’s to a year of heartfelt letters—delivered to your mailbox monthly with new technology and a flair of old-school style. 

Without wax,

Silvana