Now Playing: The You’ve Got Mail Soundtrack

“The odd thing about this form of communication is that you’re more likely to talk about nothing than something.”
— You’ve Got Mail

If I were being courted in the age of email, I imagine it would feel a bit like You’ve Got Mail. A slow unfolding. A thoughtful volley. A chance to be fun on the page before ever needing to speak. I’m not saying that’s what’s happening. I’m saying that’s what I would have liked. That’s what I still admire, passion on the page.

And yes, of course I use email—who doesn’t? But this is something else. This is about meaning, about memory, about the kind of messages that make you feel seen. The kind you print and keep. The kind that don’t just say what time the meeting is.

If you’ve never been a fan of email, it’s hard to explain the exquisite thrill of seeing a message just for you. Mail. A message meant for you, arriving not in a flurry of pings or group texts, but in a pause. A beat. A breath.

In the movie You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox fall in love one email at a time, their exchanges thoughtful, charming, and reflective in a way real-time conversation rarely allows. The internet was still quaint then, still dreamy.

It’s good to know screenwriter and author Nora Ephron wasn’t just worried about her neck. That came later, I think. I’m worried about not just romantic emails, but meaningful emails—ones that say more than the choice at the bottom of your screen like “Sounds like a plan” or “All good,” whatever they say nowadays.

It’s probably not fashionable for a woman my age with an MFA to admit this, but I still love You’ve Got Mail. Unironically. Repeatedly. Especially when I’m sick.

First of all, Meg Ryan.
Second, Meg Ryan.
And third, America’s current leading zaddy, Tom Hanks. (You’ve seen that picture of him with the beard and glasses, right?)

As I write this, I’m literally listening to the film’s soundtrack, and I hadn’t realized how much of the movie it expresses. It’s perfect. I’m listening to Harry Nilsson’s Remember right now. Oh, if you know the film, you know where we’re at in it, and your heart hurts for this young woman knowing she has to shut the shop. Ouch.

No movie captures the ache of slow-blooming connection quite like You’ve Got Mail. The way Meg Ryan sits at her computer, waiting for a message from someone who sees her, makes me a little jealous, if I’m honest. That ping wasn’t just a notification. It was permission to hope. (If what you get isn’t an unexpected nasty gram. Those are the worst! Honestly, I’m not over some of the worst of those I’ve received. But onward, Word Raccoon—my slightly feral writing self who scavenges language for warmth in the dark.)

Ephron, master of the romantic concept, knew exactly what she was doing. The romance wasn’t just in the email itself—it was also in the waiting, the words, the delayed reveal. We often show more of ourselves on the page than we ever manage face-to-face, which is how the romance between Ryan and Hanks’ characters bloomed.

And yes, I know You’ve Got Mail isn’t without its flaws. There’s a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) thread of paternalism in how Tom Hanks’s character (Joe Fox, get it—fox? Layers.) maneuvers. Like when he decides singlehandedly that he will continue the “relationship” when he knows who Kathleen is and knows she doesn’t know who her secret correspondent is. Sure, it’s charming when he rhapsodizes that he had hoped it would be her, and that it is.

But when he tricks his way into her apartment after she tells him she doesn’t want to see him? When he sits on her bed, covers her lips with his finger? (Am I remembering that correctly?) I think that’s supposed to read as romantic, but I’m like, No sir. I don’t care how much I may like you—we are not building a future on your liberties. Back off and come see me when I’m not in bed with a cold. And I’ll decide whether or not you get to visit my apartment, ‘k?

And yet, I still return to this movie. Not because I want Joe Fox, but because who doesn’t want to be wooed with the written word? Not with his-and-her T-shirts that felt like I was being branded and misdirected poems (I’ve had all those – stories, I’ve got them), but with letters, digital or handwritten especially. With late-night emails written with care and wit or speed and spice. With someone who gives good email.

Because while I’ve grown more confident with age, it’s still hard for me to be charming in person. Too many gears to operate at one time, depending on who I’m trying to talk to. On the page, though—give me a screen and a little time to revise, and I can be devastatingly delightful. (Or so I’d like to think. Am I wrong? Oh, god.)

Now, most of our feelings are filtered through thumbs and predictive text. Or worse, we send an email hoping to connect—maybe a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, a little softness—and get a nasty gram in return. A sharp reply when we were trying to be warm. A passive-aggressive tone from someone we once looked up to. A deliberate misreading from someone who should know us better by now. Like getting punched mid-hug.

Sometimes it’s not even that. Sometimes it’s silence… I don’t understand why it’s so hard to just say what we mean. I recently texted a friend: “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. I miss you.” No angle. Just truth. It was received well. Ah.

Or to my new book friend: “I have no agenda, but just want to get to know you better.” That’s the way I want to speak. That’s the language I wish more people could hear without flinching.

Maybe it’s fear. Fear of vulnerability. Of being misunderstood. Of wanting too much. We’re so afraid of seeming needy or offering too much, we end up offering nothing.

But honestly—what life are you waiting for to be honest? This is all we get.

Joe Fox gets really honest once, in a sense. He walks into the coffee shop to meet his anonymous email pen pal, only to realize—with a shock—that it’s Kathleen. He hadn’t known until that moment. And because they’re not just secret correspondents but real-life business rivals (he’s already put her beloved children’s bookstore on the chopping block), he panics.

He knows he can’t reveal he’s the one she’s been writing to—not yet. She’s sitting there, waiting with a rose, hoping to meet someone kind and thoughtful. So instead, he pretends it’s a coincidence, sits down as himself, and tries to be charming. She shoots him down.

Back home, back in his secret correspondent role, after much hemming and hawing in an email, he backspaces like crazy and writes this one instead. Here, I think, Joe is at his best. Too often we accept the excuse (I was called out of town; my dog was sick) instead of pressing on it a little harder and asking for the simple truth. But although he knows he can’t explain properly, he does apologize—which goes a long way.

And if you haven’t watched You’ve Got Mail, do. Just be aware that it’s not just the tech that is outdated. Still, see if you can love your way around it. At the very least, listen to The Puppy Song. Am I right?

The song up now is Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and here’s the reveal. Joe calls for Brinkley, his dog, which is exactly what Kathleen needs to hear to know who he is—then, here Joe comes around the bend and into sight, and it is him. But also, there’s this look on her face. It’s not uncomplicated. I think she’s still not sure she can forgive him for killing her mother’s dream, running the bookshop out of business.

For a second, the viewer also wonders if she should. Obviously, younger, softer me was all, “Oh, forgive him—he can help you reopen the shop.” Now me says, “Hang on. The man ran you out of business without compunction, has lied to you for quite a while now, talked his way into your apartment. Let’s look at his family’s record: so many divorces. So many yachts, so little accountability. My friend, stop and think.”

But when they embrace, all of that goes out of my head, as it’s meant to do.
God, I hope Joe doesn’t end up on one of those yachts.
For what it would do to Kathleen, not him.
Not that you asked, but that’s my take.

As Joe writes at the end of his apology: “Still here.”
Being there would be the real apology.

P.S. If you’re still reading, a personal note: My loved one is doing somewhat better. Not out of the woods, may never be, but for now, better. Even though I still had to take melatonin last night, I did manage to get a solid six after writing only three poems and revising two after midnight, so that’s progress. I think poetry is my new best friend. I mean, IDK if it’s any good, but it’s good for me.