“Physical mail creates a pause,” says Atlanta-based artist and graphic design student Jaylan Birdsong. “It asks you to slow down, touch paper, sit with an image, flip through a zine, tape it to a wall, or tuck it into a journal.” Junk journaling (the act of scrapbooking everyday ‘junk’ such as cinema tickets and stickers into a mixed media collage) and similar creative crafty hobbies are on the rise, even Google searches for regular ‘journaling’ have steadily doubled since 2020. It’s little wonder: as billionaire-owned social media platforms fill with AI slop and become almost unusable, people are on the lookout for fun ways to minimise their screentime.

Snail mail (the act of receiving physical post AKA – the wads of paper that come through that metal rectangle on your front door) is the antithesis of the instant gratification of online algorithms. With Gen Z’s rapidly growing interest in physical media ownership, sourcing tangible artworks from independent artists makes total sense in the analogue revival, helping to financially support their favourite creatives as a heartwarming bonus. After all, if huge corporations like Adobe and Netflix can sign you up to a monthly membership, and Substack and Patreon have been leading on digital support, but why not subscribe to something more wholesome? Treat yourself and your letterbox to something that isn’t a TV license threat or local pizza delivery menu.

Birdsong’s own membership club, the Perch Post, was born out of necessity and frustration. “I would share my work on platforms like Instagram and feel as though it disappeared into a void,” she explains, her work would rarely break through from her immediate circle. “That experience became even more demoralising when AI-generated work began receiving more visibility than human-made art.” As the potential TikTok ban loomed in the US around January 2025, Birdsong publicly announced her mail club and the response was “immediate and validating”: her initial group of 25 fans has since grown to a community of 1,600 and counting. “Many are junk journalers, postcard collectors, or pen pals,” she confirms. “Demographically, it tends to be women in their mid-20s to 30s who are actively trying to reconnect with creativity.”

The concept of the snail mail subscriptions is simple: in exchange for a small monthly fee, you receive an envelope full of printed material, usually based on a theme. Obviously what you receive and how much this costs exactly depends entirely on the head snail’s choices but as the concept gains popularity and converts new creators, mail clubs cater to a wide range of feminine whimsy-maxxing aesthetics from Mud Bunny’s soft goth rabbits to Abi Prie’s medieval-inspired illustrated stories, Mimi’s dreamy kawaiicore stickers to Alexandra Poke’s realistic French watercolour paintings of cult classic films. I’m honestly not even sure what category Hyeji Mail’s impressively massive letterpress machine falls under: steampunk, maybe?

Stickers, illustrations, poems, photos, penpal letters, horoscopes, recipes could all be yours and although they’re mainly created by young women, 21 dads have sweetly formed a letter writing group for those wanting to hear from a fatherly figure. As with discovering anything on TikTok, once you’ve found one, the algorithm feeds you endless options until you’re entirely overwhelmed by choice: there’s something for everyone!

Physical mail creates a pause. It asks you to slow down, touch paper, sit with an image, flip through a zine, tape it to a wall, or tuck it into a journal

Chopped unc naysayers may question spending money on something when you don’t know exactly what you’re actually getting, but surprise mystery bags and blindboxes have seen huge success over the last couple of years. It’s all about finding a creator whose output you generally always enjoy. Chopped unc naysayers may also assume that launching a snail mail club is a get rich quick scheme, when having to make and post hundreds of small packages is an exercise in skillful production and community management: one that often leaves artists just about breaking even. Take it from a writer with a Vinted account, we would rather be making stuff than going to the post office. 

“For artists, resisting hustle culture is essential,” Birdsong agrees, reinforcing the importance of imperfection and value of slowness within junk journaling. “For me, the goal is creative freedom rather than maximising profit.” It takes around two weeks to curate each monthly offering, longer for zine drops, each one theme based on a mix of personal resonance and broader cultural moments: September had a Country Western theme, October had a Hallowzine, November was full of cats. She hesitates to refer to her community as members as they feel more like long-distance friends. “While I love making art, I dislike managing myself and I’m not interested in turning the club into a scaled business. I just wanted a sustainable way to make art consistently and share it in a form that felt intimate and intentional.”

Echoing similar sentiments is Berlin-based crafter Victoria Ng, founder of PIÑATO and the mail club spinoff Friends of Pinato, whose love for creating handmade paper goods began aged five as she made cards for family and friends. The idea casually came together after reminiscing with a friend on the times when receiving letters still felt fun, realising how “people only have so much wallspace" for her own prints, Ng wondered “how can I bring my artwork into people’s lives in a more meaningful and playful way?”

“The biggest challenge is probably all the behind-the-scenes admin work; the less romantic side of running something so analogue,” she explains, choosing to send out every other month to give the process of writing, illustrating, printing, packing and mailing the care and attention it deserves. “Even finding the right paper quality for all the different goodies has been much harder than I expected, especially when I have something very specific in mind.” 

As with every independent business, there’s community discourse around creators undercharging which throws the niche creative ecosystem off-balance and upsettingly devalues people’s hard efforts. Yorkshire-based illustrator and snail club owner Budleiaaa recounts how the earlier days penpal clubs in 2020 felt a lot simpler, often only containing a letter. Of course when money is involved, it only takes one greedy capitalist to spoil it for everyone but when competitors offer the moon and stars for seemingly pence, it becomes harder to match the price and output. Ng agrees, noting that it “creates a race to the bottom” and makes it harder to support creators in a sustainable and accessible way. “Hustle culture then pushes creators to overproduce and undercharge when slowness and care requires boundaries, pricing should reflect the intention behind the work.”

“With AI and the constant digital noise, people are feeling really overwhelmed,” says Ng, explaining how the mail club offers a more grounding experience and a pause from the screens. It’s “a moment to slow down and reconnect with others and with ourselves at a human pace” and the physical media resurgence is reflective of a “rebellion against digital chaos”. She doubly supports this rebellion through physical community, with the October edition sending out London invites for an in-person meetup. “One of my long-term goals with the mail club is to host Friends of Pinato meet-ups where we can craft together in person: that vision was one of the reasons I started the mail club in the first place.”

Even if the internet was to hypothetically revert back to being fun and slop-free again, it seems like the future of snail mail is already solidified as they continue to offer a unique and fun way to connect and share in creativity. As Birdsong says, ”they offer something that feels intentional and human in a very digital, disposable world.”