The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Why Letters Writing still Matters (and Might Be the Best Gift You Can Give)

When was the last time you wrote a letter?

This morning, I launched another downsizing attack. Our October move is fast approaching, and the bookshelf was my primary target. Sitting in the donate stack, I debated about a slender paperback called The Gift of a Letter.

According to Amazon, it’s a love letter to letters themselves: “dedicated to the most intimate and touching of human experiences.” The book celebrates the pleasure of writing by hand and the deep emotional resonance a letter can carry for the writer and the reader. A few thoughtful minutes with pen and paper can leave behind something treasured for years.

When did I last write a real letter? I used to scrawl quick personal notes on Christmas cards. But I gave up Christmas cards a couple of years ago. Cards and postage now cost more than nice gifts. And the time involved! These days, my Christmas greetings arrive in one tidy email blast.

Still, I used to be a letter-writer. When a friend was undergoing cancer treatment in Seattle, I sent her a note every day. Just a few sentences: something funny from work (we were former colleagues), an uplifting news item, a cheerful moment from TV. It wasn’t a burden. I had a 45-minute train commute, and writing replaced reading. Her sterile hospital room, sealed off in a laminar airflow unit, was like solitary confinement. A daily note felt like a small way to open a window.

People save letters. They reread them. They smile at the memories tucked into the folds.

My friend Leslie found a box of old letters in her closet. She read through them and was stunned at how beautifully they were written—earnest, lyrical, heartfelt. “You don’t see writing like that anymore,” she said. One letter, in particular, captivated her. It was from someone named Bill. She doesn’t remember who Bill was, possibly a flame before she met her husband, but the words moved her. “Back then,” she reflected, “you had to write poetically to express yourself. Long-distance calls were expensive. You wrote because you couldn’t afford to call.”

Box of old letters for sale on Etsy - see Epilogue

She’s right. But these days, we FaceTime. We text. We send emojis with hearts and sparkles and tiny cakes. But we rarely put our emotions on paper.

Another friend lit up when I asked if she had saved any letters. “Oh yes,” she beamed. “Wonderful ones from family. They remind me of the good times.” Her whole expression softened. You could almost see the memories behind her eyes.

I wish I’d saved some letters.

When I was first married, Dave’s Aunt Ruth used to send us letters—well, more like creative little scraps. Sometimes it was on paper, and sometimes the back of a can label or a magazine ad. Her writing crammed into every available inch, curling clockwise around the margins, photos, and logos. Her notes meandered through her day and always included an update on “dog,” a neighborhood stray. I don’t think “dog” had a name. But every letter described how he’d joined her on walks, trips to the store, or gardening. I never met Aunt Ruth, but thanks to those notes, I can picture her walking through town with “dog” trotting loyally behind.

Then there are the gems you find by accident. In my genealogy research, I stumbled across a 1920 postcard from my great-great-aunt Ethel to a cousin. On the front was a photo of Ethel on her front porch; on the back, a one-cent stamp and this message:“Hi Mabel. Do you know this thing on the other side (the dog?)? Say, are you going to the fair at Princeton? I am working and sweating to beat the band. Love, Ethel.”

That one-cent postcard did more than deliver a message. It gave me a peek into Ethel’s life—her humor, her affection, her weather report in human terms.

Until my 40s, I occasionally wrote letters to my sisters. Later, I wrote to my niece after she got married. There was something artistic about it. I selected cheerful stationery: balloons, cows with flowers in their mouths, or elegant beach scenes. I used my collection of fountain pens with royal blue, turquoise, or cocoa-brown ink. I still have some of those pens. I tried reviving them recently, but they dry out. Apparently, pens, like relationships, need regular attention.

Last week's blog covered how we tend to rank the importance of moments: visiting a sick friend seems meaningful; chatting with a store clerk, not so much. But what if they both mattered equally? What if writing a letter were as powerful as a phone call? Even more lasting?

Our community sometimes passes out Valentine’s or Mother’s Day cards for residents to write to those in the Care Center. It’s a lovely gesture. Many older adults have lost spouses and friends; their children live far away and seldom visit. A few heartfelt sentences can brighten a whole week.

And it doesn’t have to stop there. If you’re feeling inspired, here are some organizations that welcome letters:

• Operation Gratitude – for service members, caregivers, and first responders

• Service Members:

  • Soldiers’ Angels

  • A Million Thanks

  • Forgotten Soldiers Outreach

One caveat: don’t use cursive. Many younger folks never learned to read it. (Cursive has become a boomer superpower.)

Or start something closer to home. Check to see if a senior community might welcome some letters to their forgotten residents. Or perhaps write a thank you to your local fire station or EMTs. You don’t need to be eloquent. You just need to be willing to share a few minutes of your day.

The truth is, sometimes the joy of writing a letter rivals the joy of receiving one.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, that letter ends up in a shoebox—read and reread for years to come.

Epilogue: A Box of Someone Else’s Memories

While looking for an image of a box of old letters, I stumbled onto something unexpected—Etsy listings. Pages and pages of vintage letters for sale. You could even choose the decade, so you could purchase a bundle from, say, the 1940s or 1960s, like picking an era from a catalog.

Part of me was fascinated. The other part was horrified.

These weren’t just yellowed pages or quirky finds. They were personal, handwritten letters—most still in their original envelopes, names and addresses intact. You could trace the arc of someone’s life in ink and postmarks.

If you look closely at the photo I chose for this blog, you’ll see one letter that begins, “Hello Sweetness,” and continues, “The light isn’t good tonight but it’s good enough to write my sweet little ol’ wife a few lines…”

I’m torn. Would the couple who exchanged those tender words be heartbroken to know their private letters were now part of an online “vintage ephemera” collection? Did someone in the family treat a box of old love notes like clutter, something to be sold off along with costume jewelry? Instead of passing the letters down to the grandkids or great-grandkids, who might learn more about their ancestors, they are selling them for as little as $3.78 a piece.

And yet... reading them felt like brushing up against history. A soldier’s quiet devotion during WWII. A time when paper and ink were lifelines. These letters offer something modern communication rarely does: a deeply personal window into the human experience.

So maybe the real question is—what will we leave behind? And will anyone find it worth saving? I was lucky: I’ve found a few casual notes from ancestors that made me smile. But if you have a box of old love letters tucked away, especially the deeply personal ones, you might want to decide whether they’re meant to be a legacy or a secret. Otherwise, one day your “Hello Sweetness” could end up on Etsy, sold by the bundle to a stranger with a curious eye and a shopping cart.