I have a confession. I subscribe to far too many letter subscriptions.

It started with one. Five dollars a month seemed reasonable enough for a little surprise in my mailbox. Then Instagram started showing me more. Beautiful envelopes, interesting paper, vintage-inspired designs, and promises of whimsical correspondence delivered right to my door. Some were so appealing that I couldn’t resist.  Before long, that one subscription became several. Five dollars here, ten dollars there, and now I have a few that cost as much as fifteen dollars a month. I probably shouldn’t add up what I’m spending. Actually, I probably should.

I have always loved mail. Not the bills or advertisements, of course, but the kind of mail that makes you stop for a moment before opening it. Something unexpected. Something that feels as though someone took a little extra time to put it together. That is what attracted me to these subscriptions in the first place.

Many started as small, creative ventures. Someone had an idea, perhaps a story to tell or artwork to share, and decided to send it through the mail. There was something charming about that. I liked the thought of a person sitting at a desk, preparing envelopes and sending little bits of their imagination out into the world.  And some of the subscriptions have been wonderful.  Others, not so much.

I’ve noticed that as some of these businesses grow, the very thing that made them appealing begins to disappear. What started as a small, thoughtful mailing becomes a mass-produced product. The lovely envelopes are replaced with ordinary commercial mailers. The paper is cheap and glossy. The contents look as though they came straight from an automated printing service.  I recently opened one and wondered why I was paying to receive something that looked very much like the advertising mail I usually throw away.  Where did the charm go?

I understand that these businesses need to make money. I also understand that preparing fifty pieces of mail is very different from preparing five thousand. There is only so much time in a day, and printing, postage, and supplies are expensive. But somewhere along the way, I think a few of these subscriptions have lost their original purpose.

And then there is the business of canceling them.

Good grief.

It takes about thirty seconds to subscribe, but trying to unsubscribe can feel like an afternoon project. I’ve searched websites for cancellation instructions, looked through old emails, and tried to figure out which payment service was charging me. Why isn’t there just a simple button that says CANCEL?  For a business built around the pleasures of old-fashioned correspondence, it’s rather amusing how difficult they can make it to say goodbye.  All of this has made me think about why so many people, myself included, are attracted to these services.

There certainly isn’t a shortage of them. Scroll through Instagram for a while, and you’ll find someone offering a monthly letter, a postcard, a story, an illustrated envelope, or some other little surprise in the mail. Judging by the enthusiasm surrounding many of them, people really do enjoy receiving something other than the usual assortment of bills and junk.  I find that encouraging.

For years, we’ve heard that letter writing is a dying art. Yet here are people willing to pay every month to have a letter delivered to their mailbox. There is obviously still an appetite for correspondence, or at least for the experience of receiving it. But I keep coming back to one question.

If people love receiving letters so much, why aren’t more of us writing them?

I wonder whether we have become better at purchasing the experience of connection than actually creating it.  We pay someone to send us a letter, and for a moment we get that lovely feeling of having received something personal. Even though we know that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other people received exactly the same thing.  There is nothing wrong with enjoying that. I certainly have.  But it isn’t quite the same as opening a letter from someone who actually sat down and thought about you.  And it isn’t the same as being the person who writes one.

Writing a letter asks something of us. We have to take a little time, gather our thoughts, and decide what we want to say. We might tell someone about an ordinary afternoon, something funny that happened, a memory, or a thought that has been on our mind.  It doesn’t have to be important. In fact, some of my favorite letters have been about absolutely nothing important at all.  I think we sometimes forget that.

Instagram has made correspondence look like a rather elaborate production. Beautiful handwriting, perfectly coordinated stationery, wax seals, fountain pens, and envelopes arranged just so. I enjoy all those things myself, probably more than I should. But none of them is necessary to write a good letter.  A sheet of ordinary paper and a pen will do just fine.

I’ve also developed a little habit that I find surprisingly enjoyable. Sometimes I write letters to people I don’t know, then leave them around town for someone to discover.  Not long letters. Just a few words of encouragement, a friendly thought, or something that might make a stranger smile.  I leave the letter and walk away.  And I get the biggest kick out of it.

There is a strange little rush that comes from wondering what might happen next. Who will find it? Will they open it right away? Will they think it is odd that someone left a letter for a complete stranger? Will they smile? Will they take it home?  I have no idea.

I never know who finds these letters, or whether they make any difference at all. Perhaps some are simply thrown away. I’d rather not think about that, but I’m sure it happens.  Still, I like the possibility that someone might find one on a day when they particularly need a kind word.  There is also something freeing about writing a letter without expecting anything in return. No reply, no thank-you, no acknowledgment. Just a few minutes spent thinking about someone else, even if that someone is a stranger.

It costs very little, and I find it considerably more satisfying than opening another glossy piece of subscription mail.  Perhaps that is the part I’ve been missing.  With a subscription, I am waiting for someone to send me something. When I write a letter, I get to be the person who sends a little surprise into the world.  And I think I prefer that.

I don’t mean to suggest that all letter subscriptions are disappointing. There are some very talented artists and writers creating beautiful things, and I appreciate the time and imagination that go into their work. Some of these subscriptions have introduced people to the pleasures of receiving mail who might otherwise never have given it much thought.

That is a good thing.  But I wonder what would happen if even a fraction of those subscribers decided to write one letter of their own each month.  Imagine that.  Instead of waiting for the next envelope to arrive, they might send a note to an old friend, a relative, a neighbor, or someone they haven’t spoken to in years. Or they might write a few encouraging words and leave them somewhere for a stranger.  They might discover that writing a letter is just as enjoyable as receiving one. Maybe even more so.

That, after all, is one of the reasons I started the Arizona Correspondence Society. I wanted people to experience the pleasure of sitting down with paper and pen, of writing without distraction, and of reaching out to someone in a way that feels increasingly uncommon.  I didn’t want letter writing to become something we only admire in photographs or purchase as a monthly product.  I wanted people to actually do it.

As for my subscriptions, I suspect it is time to sort through them. I’ll keep the ones that continue to surprise me, the ones where the creativity and care are still evident. The others can go, assuming I can figure out how to cancel them.  And perhaps I’ll take some of that money I’ve been spending and buy a few stamps.

I have letters to write.

And maybe a few to leave around town.

Have you subscribed to a letter or happy-mail service? I’d love to know what you enjoy about it, whether you’ve ever been disappointed, and most of all, whether receiving those letters has inspired you to write one yourself.

Renee Palting is the founder of the Arizona Correspondence Society, a Tucson-based nonprofit dedicated to encouraging handwritten correspondence and bringing people together through the simple act of writing letters. Learn more at arizonacorrespondencesociety.org.