Why I Recommend The Correspondent by Virginia Evans to Readers and Writers
I started The Correspondent by Virginia Evans without reading the jacket copy — just a recommendation from a friend I trust. Because of that, the form genuinely surprised me. In hindsight, I should have expected it from the title, but I didn’t. It was also a form I hadn’t encountered before when reading fiction — at least not in this sustained and committed way — which made the reading experience feel both unfamiliar and intriguing from the outset.
Listening to the audiobook, I needed a little time to get used to the structure. I suspect a physical copy might make that transition easier, at least until you settle into the rhythm of the letters. But once I did, the form stopped feeling like a hurdle and started feeling like the point.
And from a book coach’s perspective, this novel is a masterclass.
The Power of Correspondence as Structure
The Correspondent is written entirely through letters — but crucially, not only from the protagonist. We also hear the responses she receives.
As writers, we’re often warned against head-hopping or juggling too many points of view. This book shows an elegant way to include multiple perspectives without confusing the reader about whose view it is. We learn who the protagonist is not only through what she writes, but through how others respond to her — what they challenge, misunderstand, echo back, or ignore.
One small friction for me, though, was the protagonist’s limited ability to see her own importance. At times, this felt slightly childish or overly innocent, especially when set against her otherwise sophisticated voice and intellect. The tension didn’t ruin the experience, but it stood out. It, perhaps unintentionally, highlighted how perception (both self-perception and others’) can be off compared to “the truth”.
Writer takeaway:
You don’t always need direct interiority to reveal character. Sometimes the richest insights come from how a character is perceived — and how they’re answered.
Constraint as a Creative Advantage
Writing a book in letters is a constraint. Letters restrict what you can show, when you can show it, and how much context you can give. And that’s exactly why they’re powerful.
Because the story unfolds through correspondence, there are countless avenues for revealing plot and emotion:
what is said directly
what is implied
what is omitted
I was impressed by how many subjects the book touches on — personal, relational, societal — without ever feeling crowded or overwhelming. The range is wide, but the execution is so elegant that it’s hard not to fall into the story. The form holds everything together.
Writer takeaway:
If you feel stuck, try adding constraints instead of removing them. Form can unlock creativity rather than limit it.
Letting the Story Stay Unfinished
Without spoiling anything: not everything in The Correspondent is resolved. Some threads don’t get endings. Some questions linger.
Normally, I love when a novel ties everything up neatly. Here, I didn’t miss that as much as I thought I would. The letter-format made the openness feel honest rather than unsatisfying. In real life, correspondence doesn’t arrive with closure — it arrives with continuation, interruption, or silence.
Writer takeaway:
Not every story needs a bow. Sometimes resonance matters more than resolution — especially when the form supports it.
Slowness, Letters, and What We’re Losing
Reading this book reminded me how much I once loved letters. Waiting by the mailbox, eagerly anticipating a letter from a friend. Today, I write emails and text messages, but it’s not the same. Letters carry a slowness, both in sending and receiving — a sense of care and deliberation — that doesn’t translate well to digital communication. And often, if we don’t get a response right away, we read all kinds of things into the silence. With letters, we expected the wait and thought nothing of it.
Reflecting on letter writing feels especially poignant for me personally at the time of writing, as Denmark’s national postal service, PostNord, delivered its final traditional letters at the end of 2025, ending more than 400 years of letter delivery. Physical mail had already become expensive; now the price is even higher, effectively disappearing the form of communication from daily life.
I find that sad — not just for nostalgia’s sake, but for what it represents. And also for losing the intimacy of letter writing, losing the personalization handwriting imposed on text, and losing the beautiful stationery that people often invested in.
Writing Longhand
As letter writing fades, I can’t help wondering whether the competence of writing longhand will fade with it. Yes, handwriting is still taught in schools, but students now write by hand far less than I did. I still enjoy writing longhand. In fact, I wrote the notes for this post in longhand. I love moving the pen or colored pencil across the page, hearing the faint scratching, and feeling more connected to what I’m writing — as if there’s an extra link between the brain and the words when they’re formed by hand.
While not directly about the possible loss of the art of writing longhand, The Correspondent argues for something related we should all care about deeply: attention, patience, and intentional communication.
Writer takeaway:
Whether you write novels, essays, or emails, slow down occasionally. Let form, voice, and restraint do some of the work. Trust the reader. Trust the silence.
Final Thoughts (Mostly From a Book Coach)
The Correspondent is more than a novel I enjoyed; it’s a book I return to in thought, as a reader, writer, and as a book coach. Its unfamiliar form was part of the invitation — and part of the lesson. By committing fully to correspondence, the novel shows how structure can carry point of view, character, and emotional depth without ever calling attention to itself.
What lingers for me is how much the book trusts both its form and its reader. Character is revealed through exchange rather than explanation, meaning accumulates through absence as much as presence, and the story is allowed to remain open in ways that feel true to life rather than incomplete. That kind of restraint is difficult, and instructive.