✉️ The Lost Art of Letter Writing
And why we need it more than ever
There was a time when writing a letter was a ritual, like making tea or lighting a candle. You chose your paper, selected a pen, and sat down with a person in mind.
In an era of instant messages and vanishing stories, letters still dare to last.
“A good letter is a mirror of the mind and the heart.” – The Letter Writer’s Handbook, c.1960
✍️ A Little Moment from Today...
Today I bought a pad of Basildon Bond personal writing paper. Not Belvedere Bond—though that does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
It came with those beautiful lined envelopes—watermarked, like the pages—and there was something lovely about the care put into it all. The envelopes don’t require licking anymore, which surprised me. Instead, there’s a neat little pink sticker to seal them. It’s elegant and strangely satisfying.
The pages themselves are whisper-thin, and tucked into the pad is a thick guide sheet—the kind you slip under the page so you can write in straight lines. I can’t explain why, but the whole thing felt like a small ritual. A private, quiet joy.
🕊 A Memory from My Childhood Kitchen
One of my clearest memories is of my mother writing letters at the kitchen table. The sun would be pouring through the window, the house tidy after the morning’s chores, and she’d have a cup of tea by her side. She had daughters in England, one in Mohill, County Leitrim, she has sons in Germany, and she kept in touch with them through handwritten letters.
It wasn’t a one-and-done thing. She didn’t write them all in a single sitting—she paced them out, perhaps one letter a day—but she did it religiously. “I’m writing to Leah” she’d say. Or Petra. Or Jacky. Or Ann.
And when letters came back, I could always tell who they were from by the envelopes alone. Leah’s letters came in those classic blue and red airmail envelopes, so thin and crinkly you could almost see the words inside. Petra’s came with Irish stamps, and I began to recognise all the different handwritings like family voices.
Mama would sit down to read them the same way she wrote them—gently, deliberately, as if receiving someone into the house.
💍 News That Arrived by Post
I still remember the day my mother got the letter from my sister Leah, telling her she was married. Not engaged—married. A full surprise. The letter came with two or three little photographs tucked inside—Leah in her wedding suit, beaming, somewhere far away from our kitchen table.
This was long before phones were common in every house. We didn’t have one. So letters were the way you shared big news. There was no call, no message—just the familiar handwriting on the envelope, the sound of paper unfolding, and a sudden new chapter of someone's life landing in your hands.
Mama read it aloud, as she often did, and you could hear the mixed emotions in her voice. She’d always say things like, “Oh, she’ll fall out of love again,” with a wry smile. But that time, she didn’t. She just read the letter, slowly, and we looked at the photos together.
That’s the kind of intimacy only letters held. They weren’t just communication—they were connection.
💌 How We Learned to Write (and Flirt)
At school, we were taught how to write letters properly. Where the sender’s address went, how to open with Dear So-and-So, and how to sign off politely—Yours sincerely or Yours faithfully, depending on how well you knew them. We even learned how to address an envelope just right, and where to place the stamp.
It was all quite formal. But outside of school… letter writing had its own rules.
I used to go to Leitrim on summer holidays, and when I came home, there’d sometimes be letters waiting from a boy or two who had taken a shine to me. I’d write back, of course—how else would you keep the story going?
One time, a fella sent me a lock of his hair, tucked into the letter. It was very dramatic altogether. But then in the same letter, he mentioned he had shingles. I told my mother and she just looked at me and said, dead serious, “You’d better throw that lock of hair in the bin or you’ll get shingles too.”
She didn’t have to say it twice.
A Touch of Practical Magic
J. Willis Westlake’s How to Write Letters (1876) is filled with honest, romantic, and practical advice—some might even call it ritual. A few highlights:
“Take pains; write as plainly and neatly as possible… A neat, well‑worded letter of one page once a month is better than a slovenly scrawl of four pages once a week.”
So—prioritise care. A shorter letter, beautifully penned, is more treasured than a long one scribbled in haste.
“The envelope is the outer garment of your letter, and should be as neat and proper as the letter itself.”
That means: addressed correctly, centred neatly, stamp placed just so. Even a wax seal—or a small pink sticker on a premium Basildon Bond envelope—matters.
Westlake also reminds us that letter-writing is its own form of conversation:
“Write, therefore, as you would speak, were the person to whom your letter is addressed seated beside you.”
So let your voice emerge—warm, personal, familiar.
✒️ Rules to Write By
Weaving Westlake's practical rules together, here’s a romantic mini-guide for your readers:
Use fine materials. Choose quality paper, lined or unlined—but always real, heartfelt stationery.
Write slowly and neatly. One considered page is far more touching than four rushed ones.
Address the envelope with care. Center the address, place the stamp in the top right, and choose a satin or seal—like that Basildon Bond pad with its pink sticker seal.
Write as you speak. Be yourself. Let warmth and personality guide the ink.
Punctuate with love. Open with Dear X, close with Yours affectionately, Ever yours, or something personal and sincere.
Include something small & sensory. A pressed flower, a snippet of scent, a photo—something tactile that says, “I held this for you.”
More Than Words: An Invitation
Letters are more than communication. They’re rituals of care, of presence, of time taken. Westlake’s manual reminds us that every detail matters: from the ink we choose to the envelope we seal.
This is why I created the Scented Letter Project—to breathe ritual back into correspondence. We’re writing letters again: by hand, on beautiful paper, with small sensual touches. Some even carry natural fragrance, tucked at the bottom of the envelope like a secret.
If you feel the tug at your heart—an echo of your own memory—come join us.