Mixes have been a big part of my life since high school, when I became a music-obsessive with only one friend who would tolerate my pontificating about the meaning of the latest U2 album, or the loss of R.E.M.’s drummer Bill Berry. The first mixes I made were for her, and they were tapes. If mix CDs are the new letters (or love letters, as the case may be), then mix tapes are hand-constructed valentines. If you make an hour-long mix tape, then it will probably take you, in total, two hours. There’s the stopping and starting and, of course, the turnover. The goal is to find a song that will fit completely at the end of one side, without leaving more than a few seconds of space. It is an art.

Mix CDs are more fun to make, but more casual. Because mix CDs can be made in a very short amount of time and with very little thought, they don’t hold the same weight that mix tapes do (the weight of suffering). But nevertheless, it is the same idea. There is the age-old problem that Nick Hornby runs into in High Fidelity: Do you make a mix with songs that you think the person should like, or songs they would like? The answer, obviously, is the latter, but it can be difficult. For example, I have a friend who says he doesn’t like singer-songwriters. But if I stumble upon a song so incredibly beautiful, does that rule still apply?

Once I pick the songs, I spend so much time just listening to them; deciding what order would make them flow in such a way as to give the listener the best experience. I listen to it until I finally get it right; I imagine the recipient listening to it, what songs will catch their ear the most and why. Will my friend prefer Blur to Whiskeytown? Mazzy Star to Neutral Milk Hotel? The beauty of it overcomes me, and I start to feel as though I’ve created something new. I may not have written the music myself, but I feel like I’ve created a new sound; have all those songs ever been together, at once, in that order before? Making mixes gives a non-musician creative control: a mix tape is to music what a collage is to art. Maybe the images are other people’s work, but it is the way you put them together that makes them something new.

The feeling of receiving a mix, if it’s right, is just as magical. I take it to my room, put in on the stereo, and just listen. If it’s from someone I love (or want to love), all the words have meaning. I wonder if the person considered the lyrics. It is a love letter, more than anything has ever been. I remember getting a mix from my first boyfriend, and the fact that it began with “The Only Living Boy in New York” was enough for me to say “yes” when he called to ask me out. I remember my first post-study abroad mix, feeling my heart stop at Dusty Springfield’s “Don’t Forget About Me,” carefully placed after Scott Walker’s “Duchess” on a mix from someone far away whom I could never possibly forget.

Even if it’s just from a friend, I rarely make a mix for someone (or receive one from someone) I don’t love in some way. I think a mix, for music enthusiasts, can help you understand someone better than any kind of written communication. The person is defined by where they hear beauty. For those of you who think technology is rendering long-distance communication impersonal, look no further than the mix. Make one for someone you love, and hopefully you’ll get one in return. It shows no signs of fading away, and I hope I’m lucky enough to keep giving and receiving them for the rest of my life.