I Made Postcards You'd Only Send to Your Enemies

A cautionary tale about inappropriate postcards, forgotten Amazon stores, and why I'm giving away the evidence.

Some of you would already know this but several years ago I founded an ecards website called Wrongcards. If you don't know what that is, check it out. It's really very wholesome.

People used to write to me about Wrongcards, and frequently in complaint; such people lived drab and squalid lives, lacking in good taste and refinement.

But sometimes people wrote to me praisingly; these I recognized as sensible and enlightened. Often, they asked me to publish printed postcards they could send to people in the mail. I never understood this. The website only offers cards one wouldn't wish to send to anybody, no matter the circumstance. But not everyone is as sensible as me.

People kept pestering me about it, though, so one day — this was back in 2012 -- I actually did it. I created a box containing printed postcards that would be utterly wrong to send to anyone, you know, unless they had enemies. Though if they did have enemies, I couldn't help think it would be better to send them an envelope filled with bees, because nothing vexes one's enemies more than receiving an envelope filled with bees. Of course, an amateur would send along spiders or something equally dramatic. And I just think that's silly. I always recommend sticking to bees if you have them on hand, because when they open the envelope, bees fly about the room and make everybody shake their fists and yowl with impotent rage. You send spiders, however, and everyone will just think you're weird.

Also, make sure you affix a sufficient number of stamps to the envelope, or you'll draw the attention of the people at your local post office. This was my error. Unfortunately, I have become well-known to my local post office and (even more sadly) they have taken to sending me politely-worded letters suggesting I desist from sending any more bees through mail. And obviously, in response, I sent them an envelope, thanking them and assuring them I'd never do it again. And you know what was in the envelope, don't you?

Anyway, back to my ecards website. People used to write to me and say: 'these ecards are great, but the problem is they're not super-appropriate to send to anybody'. I never really knew how to respond to that. Some people just flummoxed me, I guess. But so you know, I was always nice about it; I used to write back and promise I'd make more appropriate ecards, just for them. And I always felt sincere when I did this. In such moments, I believed my words. The problem was, not half-an-hour later, I'd forget what I was up to and make a card like this one instead.

But let's take a moment to rewind.

I created boxes of postcards that people could send to people. And I remember this all required a great deal of work. First, I had to design the box containing the postcards, and that took me three whole days. At the end of the first day, I was utterly miserable. Designing the box was hard, and nothing I tried seemed to work from an aesthetic point-of-view. I went to bed that night feeling very down about myself. I am not a naturally talented graphic designer and the work, for me, was far more difficult than, say, coaxing a number of bees into an envelope.

The next day, I woke up early and got back to work. By two in the afternoon, I had a rough design figured out, and by the morning of the third day, I had it finished. I really loved the design; even now it's my favorite 'graphic design-y' thing I've ever done. Also, the final one, because it was around this point I decided to stop doing anything to do with visual arts and focus on writing.

But, let me guess, you don't know anything about these 'wrong postcards', do you? Well, the reason for that is that I somewhat forgot to tell anybody I'd made them. I mean, I carefully and cleverly designed these postcards and their wonderful cardboard box, and had them professionally printed. Then I just didn't tell anybody. Each box had 20 cards packed inside them, and the box was covered in shrink-wrapped plastic. But again ...

And all this was pretty expensive, too, because I'd decided to spare no expense. I opted for the most beautiful quality of card because -- well, after all, these are postcards that nobody in their right mind would ever want to send to anybody. They had to look beautiful. And they were. They were wonderful. I mean, take a look.

Now, you might think something like, 'This is fantastic! You printed a thousand boxes of these? Where are they? Can I buy them?'

Well, no, you can't buy them. And if this newsletter had been printed on paper and sent in an envelope, it is at precisely this moment the bees would emerge and fly about, wild and free.

I don't know if any of you remember 2012, but a lot was happening. First, the Mayan Calendar had predicted the end of the world, so nobody was making any long-term plans. I also had a job at Harvard building websites, and some of those websites were even less useful than 'ecards that are wrong for every occasion' so (naturally enough) I was putting my heart and soul into it. Which is how I like to do everything, as you're probably noticing.

But I put aside some time to set up a shop at Amazon for the postcards. Then I shipped five hundred of the postcard boxes to Amazon's fulfillment center—ie. half the boxes I'd printed—and then I put up a link to them at Wrongcards.

It was 2012, and I think I was selling them for roughly $15 a box. And of course, I did absolutely no advertising. I sold about fifty boxes, then I forgot all about them. I forgot to login to Amazon ever again. I'm not sure I even set up my bank account with them. Sometimes, I wonder if I was ever paid.

Then one day in about 2014, I suddenly remembered—the postcards! So, I went and looked and ... long story short, because Amazon hadn't heard from me in such a long time, they'd unceremoniously discarded all those postcard boxes. They just threw them away, like the dreams of factory workers yearning for a job that allows them to visit the bathroom. Those boxes were gone, devoured by fate.

Now, if this all sounds a bit silly, then that's because it was silly. 2012 was, for me, a year of disasters. I later realized I was working too hard at Harvard; I mean, I was working non-stop, nights and weekends. The other thing I remember about 2012 is that it was the year I did not buy bitcoin. That year, bitcoin was priced at something like $29, and I actually intended to buy some. I just didn't because I was so busy at work.

I have since realized that being as busy as I was back then was not a good idea. We should all give ourselves time during the day to sit and reflect and consider what it is we're doing with ourselves. But I enjoyed working far too much. Activity alone was sufficient for me. Later, I had cause to doubt the merits of all that activity, but that's a story for another time.

Anyway, so much for 2012. The following year, a tiny baby girl named Boudica arrived in my life and she switched around my priorities rather sharply. Also that year, I didn't buy bitcoin again and I think it's because Boudica was distractingly cute.

I do sometimes think to myself: if only I'd taken the eight thousand dollars I spent to print 1000 boxes of postcards—postcards that nobody in their right mind would ever wish to send to anybody—and instead bought a few hundred bitcoin. I know, right? That's how close I came to becoming a crypto-bro. And I don't know about you, but I really feel I dodged a bullet there.

And here's some more good news—not all the boxes of postcards were destroyed. About four hundred boxes ended up in a spare room at Zoya's house, up there in Maine. I also have ten boxes with me here in Australia. Look!

So ... where do I go from here? Clearly, I have given none of this a great deal of thought for the past thirteen years. The postcards have occupied a dark, forgotten corner of my mind. Or rather, Zoya's house. But lately I've been thinking it might be time to do something about that.

Now, I can't just put them back for sale at Amazon; in fact, even thinking about doing that annoys me. Also, I do not currently have a job outside of writing this newsletter, so I would have no money to spend on marketing.

So what I've decided to do instead is just give them away to my paid subscribers at my Substack —or at least, those of them who live in the United States or Canada. That's less than fair, I know, but postage out of the United States has become insanely expensive in recent years. In fact, everything's become more expensive. I looked into the reasons for that and apparently it has nothing to do with billionaires not paying their taxes, and everything to do with immigrants and gay people just, you know, existing and going about their daily lives. To be fair, I may not have researched this matter thoroughly.

(I know some people say you should do your own research, but you know what else those people say? They say, Help, I can't breathe! The horse tranquilizers aren't helping! Then, they say, What do you mean it's too late? This is all Fauci's fault! Also, sometimes after that, they might say to me, 'Hey you're not funny!', to which I reply, 'How would you know?')

Anyway, this postcards give-away thing is for a limited time. This isn’t a forever deal. There are only so many postcard boxes left, and I’m sure Zoya will get fed-up with sending parcels for me after a while. But I’ll be sure to update my about page before it ends. (If you’re already a paid subscriber, I’ll reach out to you in the next few days.)

Also, now I'm thinking about it, I have precisely nine boxes of wrong postcards I could send to paid subscribers here in Australia. Though I suppose that if I had more than that, the post office probably wouldn't let me. Whenever I go in there, they look at me with obvious and ill-deserved suspicion. But how was I to know that 'bee allergies' are a real thing? The important thing was that I did my own research.

Oh, one last thing I wanted to say: this newsletter is the tenth I have sent out since I moved over to Substack in April. This means I'm sending out a newsletter every 6.3 days, which is an enormous increase in frequency. Long-time subscribers will remember I used to send out newsletters roughly every second month.

I would like to make writing these posts my job ... in between writing novels, of course. I don't know if that's workable yet, but we'll see. I'm also somewhat concerned that nobody is going to want a box of my postcards, even my paid subscribers living in the US and Canada, because of all my talk about sending envelopes filled with bees to people. As you can see, I'm not greatly skilled in marketing.

Still, there are definitely writers out there making a living from Substack and with your help, I'd like to be one of them. I mean, none of those writers seem to have much to say on the topic of weaponizing bees, and I'm thinking maybe I can occupy this niche.

With chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel