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Years ago I had a next-door neighbor named Andree with whom I exchanged, on an often-daily basis, letters. I'd write a poem about a missing tooth (her daughter's) or a bird's nest (high in my rafters); I'd write a short story; I'd rail at something; and then I'd tuck whatever it was into an envelope, walk it up onto Andree's porch and leave it in her box—being careful not to creak the hinged thing open, for it was important never to get caught. In time, Andree would write her response upon the thinnest paper imaginable with a loopy blue or black pen, and, at some never-once detected hour, return the favor.

Writing letters gave us room to say what we actually meant to say—between raising children (the thing we most loved) and scouring sinks and cooking dinners and bemoaning the hedge that grew too fast. It gave us a shot at intelligence, when what so much of what we had to do was a drumming, a mind knock, a scrape against the knuckles.

It's funny that we never caught each other in the act, but there it is: We didn't.

In any case, we wrote letters. We wrote our ideas down, our stories down, our critiques and encouragements and disagreements down, and when I moved, we wrote some more, but the almost everydayness of the correspondence was gone, and my world was smaller for it.

I have been remembering Andree these past few days while reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, the beloved epistolary bestseller that has, in my opinion, earned its following, those four-one-star reviews on Amazon notwithstanding. The book charms, of course, but the word "charm" is like "precious," like "gem." It's like "cute," when applied offhandedly to women (believe me, I know; I've had my fair share of "cute"), and by all that I mean that the word "charm" diminishes. It doesn't go far enough toward the heart of this book, the research tucked within, the evocation of characters that—while certainly and deliberately contrived so as to steep Guernsey in Austen-ese—forced me at least to throw down my guard and get involved. Charm doesn't say enough about the power of letters, the back and forth, the honesty that rises up between the cracks. The mysterious marvel of questions asked, of answers eagerly awaited.

From Guernsey:

Do you live by the river? I hope so, because people who live near running water are much nicer than people who don't. I'd be mean as a scorpion if I lived inland. Do you have a serious suitor? I do not.

Is your flat cozy or grand? Be fulsome, as I want to be able to picture it in my mind. Do you think you would like to visit us on Guernsey? Do you have a pet? What kind?