Mere Correspondence | A Monthly Letter

From a letter about the cost of a cheeseburger when you're making minimum wage.

There was an era of my life where I priced things in hours. A cheeseburger didn't cost $8.20, it cost 90 minutes of work. "Would you like that in a combo?" Dude are you kidding? Fries and a soda are not worth 45 minutes of scrubbing baked-bean pans.

From "Say thank you to busboys" — Letter No. 4

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What Arrives

The Letter

One idea pulled from a real moment and followed until it reaches something universal. Ten to twenty minutes of reading, printed on heavyweight cream stock. It's not a pamphlet. It's a letter from one person to you.

The Card

Tucked inside each letter is a playing-card-sized card. Original artwork on one side, the core principle on the other. Over time, your cards become a collection.

The Experience

No screens. No algorithms. No inbox. There is no digital archive. When you've read it, it goes on a shelf or in a drawer. It doesn't disappear into a feed.

From a letter about what happens when no one is watching you fall apart.

I had been consistently sick for 8 months and was down at least 4 belt notches. I had parasites. It was rainy season. Our house was full of bed bugs and fleas. I was sleeping on top of a covered mattress with flea collars around the feet of my bed.

I wouldn't say that I was discouraged, but I was hurting. I believed that what I was doing was worthy of the pain, but it hurt nonetheless. And I had no one to share the hurt.

From "A little encouragement goes a long way" — Letter No. 6

Who Writes This

My name is Tim Clark. I live with my wife and four kids, and I write about the things I can't stop thinking about — the ideas that surface in ordinary moments and that won't let go until I follow them somewhere.

For the last decade, I've helped build a leadership development company. We train leaders at some of the largest organizations in the world, and the work is real — people lead better, teams change, and shareholder value increases. I'm proud of it.

But I told a colleague recently that I couldn't care less about helping another one of our Fortune 500 clients make another billion dollars. What I care about are the ideas underneath — the ones about character, and craft, and what it actually means to live well. Those don't fit inside a corporate training. They need a different container.

This is that container. A pen, a piece of paper, and whatever I can't stop thinking about.

I called it Mere Correspondence. "Mere" the way Lewis meant it. Essential. Stripped down. And "correspondence" because I don't want to talk at you. I want to write to you, and I want you to write back. If you need a different container too — here it is.

— Tim

The only way to read these letters is to hold them in your hands.

The world is full of content that costs nothing to produce, nothing to consume, and nothing to discard. This costs something. It asks you to sit down, be still, and reckon with an idea. It asks something of you. That's the point. And if something in a letter moves you — write back. The address is on every one.

Every letter passes through three gates before it ships:
Is it true? Is it good? Is it beautiful?
If not all three, it doesn't go out.

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