A Little Note on the Lost (and Lovely) Art of Letter Writing

I’ll admit it—I’m often terrible at writing thank you letters.

I think about them a lot. I compose them in my head on dog walks and in supermarket queues. I even go as far as choosing the card and placing it on my desk... where it sits, staring at me, for an embarrassingly long time. The intention is there—strong, sincere—but the follow-through? Not so much...

And yet, when I do finally sit down and write—properly write—it always feels oddly nourishing. Like I’ve done something quietly significant. Because in a world that constantly demands our attention, taking ten minutes to connect with someone through ink and paper feels like a small act of rebellion. 

There’s something almost sacred about the process: choosing the right words (they don't have to be perfect), the rhythm of the pen, and that satisfying little moment of pride when the envelope is sealed.

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It’s not just the writing of the letter that can feel daunting—it’s choosing the card itself. In the Archivist office, we’re surrounded by walls of our own greeting cards, which, while lovely, does come with a certain pressure. You want to pick the perfect one. The card that will make your friend laugh and say, “Well isn’t that clever.” But when you do find the right one—it makes the whole thing easier. The words somehow flow more freely; as if the card is quietly cheering you on.

It’s a ritual I’m trying to reclaim. Not for the sake of appearances, or because I was told it’s the ‘proper thing to do’, but because it brings me joy. And I think we could all do with a little more of that.

So if, like me, you’ve got a few unsent Thank Yous (and a pile of well-meaning blank cards to prove it), maybe this is your nudge. Let’s not aim for perfect. Let’s just begin.

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