Punctually incorrect
Dear Michael, Â
I write to you in continued frustration over troubles with my family and in the expectation that you will understand my viewpoint and dispense some much-needed advice. We spoke briefly last spring about my ambitions to join the National Society for Foolish Uses of Time, a future which came increasingly into my considerations during the months preceding the completion of my studies. Midway through June, I committed myself to this direction and informed my family of it. I was met only with disdain. This past fortnight, the daily family dinner has seen relentless arguments, and Mother seems to have lost both the desire and capacity to understand my chosen path in life.Â
I have come to the realisation that a life unfruitful is one I simply cannot bear. There breathes within me an ambition that compels me to rise out of the channel family tradition has carved out for my future. We have a long history in the business of ornamental typewriters, one that has pressed forward long past the time it became obsolete. Each generation has forced the next to follow it into the back of the dusty workshop at 17 Rue du Mot, where the inventory stockpiles grow ever larger. I myself have seen the typewriters at the very bottom of the stacks being crushed by the steel weight of those above them. I shall not be mangled by the chains of conformity in the name of a senseless pursuit. I will escape this town and do something with my life, make a name for myself. Look at old Uncle Gary. He wasted away painting miniature landscapes to decorate the sides of the typewriters, just like Grandfather taught him; neither of them ever looked up at real mountains. Locked up with his paint cans, it is no wonder he eventually gave in to the bottle. I distinctly remember the servant boy being sent out twice a day on errands to the liquor store and tobacconist.Â
The NSFUT would redeem me. An entire institution at the forefront of their field, the quintessential organisation. That which is on top of all other things. That which has no equal in sight, was never and shall never be surpassed. It is true, as Mother has repeated ad nauseam, that they are far from this town and everything it stands for, but where my family sees uncertain horror, I see my sole hope of escape. In any case, the NSFUT are simply the very best at whatever it is that they do. By joining their ranks, I would have a purpose in life, and the contentment of being in the place that allows me to best fulfil it.
In truth, it was your mother’s visit for lunch yesterday that prompted me to write you. Given the current state of family affairs, I did not feel especially inclined to join the mealtime conversation, though I occasionally chimed in to steer the talk away from my plans. I later overheard our mothers as they sat in the drawing room. Despite my efforts over lunch, the issue of my future immediately took centre stage. I am still not entirely sure as to why I stayed by the door to listen, since hearing their talk only frustrated me further, but I suppose it must have been some version of that human affinity for watching a great disaster unfold from a distance, slowly.
Soon enough, in an effort to contribute her two cents to the conversation, your mother spoke of your life and the disappointment it caused her. Through her words, I increasingly felt the presence of a kindred spirit.
At a certain level, I believe she would like you to be happy by her own definition of the term, just as I hope my mother still does for me. I gathered that she feels you are making a terrible mistake in choosing to attend Cambridge, a place that she feels a Comma has no business attending. From her view, seeing her only child throw his life away is an unbearable plight. She once followed her own dream to marry your father; marrying a Full-Stop was seen as a complete affront to the deepest Comma values, a rejection of continuation for finality. Having only recently recovered from the familial shunning that followed, she cannot stand the idea of becoming outcasts once again, should you become the first Cambridge Comma.
I admit to you here that which I had not yet admitted even to myself: I am afraid. Afraid that my own efforts to break free will prove insufficient. As punctuation marks, our journeys are insistently imposed upon us in the form of predetermined identities. However this letter may find you, know that you have my empathy. Should you have found ways to endure this reality, I would be truly indebted to learn of them.
Yours punctually;
Stephen Semicolon














