Why I write letters by hand in 2026
We’re at peak digital saturation. AI writes our emails and autocompletes our texts. A handwritten letter is one of the last things that is unambiguously, provably me. Don’t get me wrong, I love how useful AI can be. But I don’t want convenience to come at the cost of genuine human connection. The slowness it takes to create art should be reflected in how it’s received: slowly, intentionally, and not left to the mercy of an algorithm.
The nature of my work has always been slow. It begins in the garden, then moves gradually through countless stages before finally appearing in my work, often nearly a year later.
Sunday Mail first existed as a monthly email newsletter, but I always dreamed of making it something more tangible. An email disappears into an archive. A letter can live in a drawer for forty years, rediscovered in a box, returned to, held onto, and handed down.
I love the ritual of sitting beside a window and allowing my thoughts to slowly pour onto paper. I remember watching old films as a child where people communicated this way, and it always felt deeply peaceful to me. From addressing the envelope to choosing the stamp, every part of the process considers the person receiving it.
Historically, letters are often the reason we know people beyond their public lives. The inner worlds of Lincoln, Keats, and Flannery O’Connor survived because they were written down and physically kept. It makes me wonder what we are leaving behind now. I’ve written for years on Instagram, only to watch those words disappear beneath time and the algorithm.
Turning Sunday Mail into actual mail ensures that the people who want to engage with my work and words can do so intentionally, and that those pieces of myself are no longer left to chance.
Creating these letters, alongside the artwork itself, has become a practice in presence. A way of slowing time, if only briefly. A gift in and of itself.
Warmly,
Krystal
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