A collaborative blog post
Thank you to everyone who contributed to create this post!
I search high and low for the weirdest or most unusual stickers and rubber stamps that I can find. I also have a lot of postal themed rubber stamps. When I find a kindred ephemera addict, I insert random paper tokens. But of course my personality shines the most through my words!
@Books-paper-nature
I tend to write over multiple days and sittings, and I like using washi tapes/postage stamps/stickers/rubber stamps that are seasonal, or match the theme of what I was writing about. Pens/inks/swatches from meetups I attended while a letter is written often gets incorporated as well.
When handwriting letters, I like to choose either funky stationery or a fun fountain pen ink that shows my playfulness. When using a typewriter, I use non-black ink and custom stationery and I’ll draw little emojis or doodles in the margins, to keep the typed text from feeling too anonymous.
Malika
I’m told I write like I talk. So there’s a host of ‘…….’ pauses, some LOL’s and a lot of sarcasm with parentheses to give the reader some idea of what I’m really thinking…(…or not!). So when I scribe a personal letter I’m putting on paper the conversation we’d be having if you were sitting with me at that moment in time.
Acutely aware of how wasteful our society is, I often use “scrap” paper (the blank backside of random junk mail) and other reusable paper as my stationery. I like how it adds a layer of context and sometimes humor. I also like using a date stamp and some element of mark-making/collage to add a visual element to the text that reflects my visual art practice and attraction to office supplies.
Fonda R
I write about my wife and cats. I’m more on the unique side, because I’m in a same-sex marriage. There don’t seem to be too many of us around. I also write about my days and what we have done with our time. I talk about my card-making hobby and send a new greeting card whenever I write. There’s usually more to write than will fit on a card, so I use a rose stationery that I printed off of Pinterest (it was free).
Letters After Loss
I did not learn to write letters in a classroom.
I learned in the quiet after funerals.
Loss rearranges a person. It strips language down to what is honest. After losing my mom, and later my father—and after watching the version of family I once imagined slowly unravel—I stopped writing words that were merely decorative. My letters carry weight because I know time is not guaranteed.
I write like someone who understands there may not be another chance.
That awareness shapes the way I write. I choose specificity over general praise. I anchor my words in shared memory. I avoid clichés and reach instead for concrete moments—because details are what survive us.
Specificity is preservation.
Grief sharpened that instinct in me. It taught me that one day, memories will matter more than adjectives. So I write with intention. I write as if the letter might be reread years from now, when the house is quiet again.
At the center of my letters are my three daughters—Kelsey, Riley, and Morgan. Each strong in her own way. Each carrying a different kind of light. Loving them has been the great steadying force of my life.
When I write to them, I name who they are distinctly. I do not group them together in sentiment. I call out courage in one, leadership in another, gentleness in the third. I reflect their individuality because I want them to feel seen—not as “my girls,” but as women becoming themselves.
That, too, is deliberate.
There are parts of my story that still ache. Relationships that did not mend. Holidays that look different now. Dreams of a tightly knit extended family that did not survive the years.
But here is what did survive: love.
Three daughters.
Three extraordinary women.
Three daily reminders that blessing and loss can coexist.
My letters hold both truths. I do not ignore pain, but I also do not surrender to it. I write from gratitude without pretending life has been easy. That balance—honest but hopeful—reflects who I am.
Even my imagery carries my fingerprint. I write in mountains and barns and peonies. I see strength in weathered wood, endurance in farmland, beauty in short blooming seasons. Those images are not decorative—they are the landscape of my life. They root my letters in the rural, faithful world that formed me.
In practical ways, this is how my letters reflect my personality and uniqueness:
I write as if time is limited.
I preserve details.
I name people carefully.
I balance grief with gratitude.
I speak plainly but with reverence.
I no longer assume I will have endless opportunities to say what matters.
So I say it now.
Clearly.
Specifically.
Without wasting the chance.
Julia S
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