Mere Correspondence — A Monthly Letter

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

During the previous 8 months I had been consistently sick and was down at least 4 belt notches. Just sick enough to feel miserable but not sick enough to stop working. 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 had a buzzed head for practicality and I could have fit my whole hand inside my button-down shirt collar with the top button done. I had a cheap tie (I had found polyester to be best for the humidity) and my leather shoes had 4 holes and would soak my socks when it rained. I was emotionally beaten down. I had been hit in the face by a stranger not long before as I walked down the road. He said something about America, I can't remember.

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. It was just me. Or at least I felt that it was—it basically was—just me.

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

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What Arrives

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The Letter

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

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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.

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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 the people who work while no one is looking.

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.

I worked one summer as a busboy. I was supposed to work at the pizza place next door but when I went in for an interview, they said they didn't need me. But the barbecue next door which shared a kitchen needed a busboy. They forgot the interview, or most likely didn't care about the interview, saw that I was a warm body, handed me an apron, and said "Start bussing." I asked "What's the process?" They said, "Just buss the damn tables."

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

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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 won't let go until I've followed them somewhere true.

Most of my career has been inside Fortune 500 companies — building a leadership development firm, hosting hundreds of podcast episodes, helping large organizations lead better. Buttoned-up work. I'm proud of it. But this is something else. This is me, a pen, and an idea I think is worth your time. No team. No slides. Just a letter from one person to another, written on paper because some things deserve better than a screen.

I believe in objective truth, the dignity of hard work, and the kind of beauty that happens when someone gives a damn. If that resonates, you'll like these letters.

This is not a newsletter. There is no app. 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. The friction is a feature. 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 good? Is it true? Is it beautiful?
If not all three, it doesn't go out.

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