| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

When Virginia Woolf wrote that a woman needs a room of her own and £500 a year to write fiction, she wasn’t being metaphorical—she meant a literal room, and literal money. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about £35,000 today. A modest inheritance. A quiet space. The dignity of uninterrupted thought.

Woolf traces the evolution of women’s writing over time, watching it slowly twist free from the obligation to imitate or respond to male standards. And while we live in a time arguably rich with the voices of extraordinary female writers, it’s no accident. These voices have emerged because the conditions finally allowed for them—because some women now have the time, space, and resources for that essential combination of deep thought and light play.

Woolf’s “room” was both literal and symbolic. I’ve named mine Otiumsanctum, a space of sacred leisure. “Office” sounds too corporate, too fluorescent. It reminds me of Robert Hayden’s line: What did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? No, Otiumsanctum is something else entirely: a room filled with lovely papers, books, paints, candles, tea, and silence. Not sterile, but intimate. Not cluttered, but curated. Not a place to be productive—but a place to be.

This idea isn’t gendered, though it often touches gendered nerves. I believe everyone deserves a space like this. But I’ve noticed that complaints about the cost of my work—particularly the wax seals I design—come almost exclusively from women. Which makes me wonder: how many women today still lack that room, that £500, that permission?

Take this comment I received recently:

The issue wasn’t just price—it was position. My work was imagined as disposable. And most tellingly, in direct competition with a sack of russet potatoes and a gallon of milk.

To be clear: my work is financially out of reach for many, and most collectors save before acquiring a seal—especially the Hastings Étui. But for others, the barrier isn’t cost so much as how they feel allowed to allocate their resources.

Out of curiosity, I sometimes click on the profiles of those who leave these comments. I often find women working without pay (stay-at-home mothers), and/or women whose husbands have very expensive hobbies—trucks, golf, tech gadgets—hobbies that cost far more than any of my creations. And yet the extravagance of the husband’s fishing boat is rarely up for public debate. It’s her candle, her calligraphy pen, her little indulgence that gets questioned.

I noticed the disparity early. My mother’s hobbies—hiking, reading, cycling—were nearly free. They fit neatly into the folds of a day, asked little, left no mess. My father’s, by contrast, came with title transfers, insurance premiums, annual licensing fees. Cars. Motorcycles. Planes. His pleasures required hangars; hers weighed under 20 pounds.

Once, when a man called the house offering to sell my father a motorcycle, my mother took the message and added her own note: “No bikes until I get my ski boat and Jacuzzi!” He obliged. It was her one moment of negotiation in a long ledger of unclaimed entitlements.

And research backs this up: men tend to spend more on their hobbies and enjoy more leisure time, often outside the home. Women’s hobbies are chosen for their domestic compatibility—something you can pick up during naptime or between loads of laundry, and what can be set down in a moment’s notice. Women tend to carry the invisible weight of unpaid labor, and with it, the unspoken message that their time is not truly their own.

I say this with deep gratitude for the person who protects my own sacred creative space—my husband, who not only installed a child lock on the outside door, but stands watch like a loyal sentinel whenever I’m lost in creative flow. His hobbies, for the record, include a sports car and a sailboat. And yet, there is no tension between our passions. He has never questioned the worth of mine. He understands that while the Hastings universe may come at a cost, its value lies beyond measure. I don’t have hobbies. I have callings.

This isn’t about my work, exactly. But resistance to it often reveals something deeper: what women are allowed to want. They’re allowed a hobby, but not a practice. They’re allowed a coupon, but not a collector’s item. They’re allowed a quick craft, but not a lifetime art. And if they do want something exquisite, they must justify it with usefulness or thrift.

But what if we stopped justifying?

What if we let ourselves have the good teacup, the beautiful seal, the afternoon unaccounted for? What if we lived, not just by budgeting, but by delight?

So here’s to us—dear quaintrelles, flâneuses, artists, magpies, monks of leisure—anyone who sees the world slow down and grow lovelier when it’s held with care. Anyone who understands that beauty is not frivolous. It is formative. It is memory-making. It is, at times, the most serious thing.

And if you need reminding:

• You are worthy of rest.
• You are worthy of relaxation.
• You are worthy of beauty.
• You deserve nice things.
• You deserve what feels luxurious, even if only to you.
• Finding joy in your world isn’t hedonism—it’s a form of reverence.
• You are setting an example.
• When you feel joy, others feel it too.
• What calls to you is uniquely yours to follow.

And what a world it would be if we all had room or a room for that.

Seal of the Week: Cresce non cambia

A majestic tree stands unwavering and self-assured, its roots deeply grounded in the earth. Adorned with the inscription "Cresce non cambia" (Grow, but Do Not Change), this poignant embodiment champions the virtue of remaining steadfast in one's authenticity throughout the journey of growth.

Color of the Week: Mademoiselle

This color is named after my Grandmother, Neenie, who taught me to write letters. She would have adored this color, especially during her "pink era." It’s inspired by her and all things quintessentially romantic: the Parisian elegance of the Ritz, the timeless allure of Chanel, cozy tea times, and the cherished bond between grandmothers and granddaughters.

This pearlescent pink is both soft and luminous, exuding an air of romance and charm. I love pairing it with motifs that evoke a sense of whimsy and affection—delicate flowers, hearts, cherubs, and all things lovely.

I named it “Mademoiselle” as a tribute to Paris and a nod to Neenie’s time modeling for Mademoiselle magazine. Although the magazine is no longer in circulation, its tagline, “the magazine for smart young women,” still resonates beautifully today.