Messy Magic: How Writuals Came to Life

— Notes from the handmade chaos behind every Writuals product

If you walk into my home right now, you won’t find a startup office or a Pinterest-perfect craft room.
You’ll find a small Montréal condo, a tired-but-excited mother, a baby who’s somehow now a toddler, and a mezzanine overflowing with recycled tissue paper, bookbinding tools, and half-written ideas scattered on too many post-its.

This is Writuals.
Home-based, heart-driven, and slightly held together with compostable tape.

How it all began (and what I didn’t expect)

I officially started working on Writuals in April 2025, but really?
It started long before that — in daydreams scribbled on napkins, in emotional Google Docs, in long postpartum walks where I imagined what a paper-based ritual studio could look like.

When I first spoke the idea aloud — that I wanted to make intentional, handcrafted, eco-conscious tools for reflection, planning, and ritual — I didn’t have a product yet.
Just a craving.
For slowness. For creation. For something I could build with my hands and offer with my whole heart.

The first thing I made was the seasonal planner.
Then came the cards, the booklets, the templates, the wrapping paper.
Each one shaped by a core belief:
That organization can be a form of kindness.
That planning isn’t about productivity — it’s about peace.

From solstice cards to full-blown creative studio

The first product I ever made?
Hand-printed solstice cards — years ago, in the quiet joy of making something seasonal and sacred.

The first thing I made for Writuals?
The seasonal planner — which became the compass for everything else.

Since then, the little corner of my condo I used to call an office has transformed into a full-blown creative workshop.
There’s now:

• A growing wall of kraft boxes, seeded paper, and vegetable-based ink in jars
• Paper scraps EVERYWHERE
• Thread, yarn, and tissue paper in places they should not be

My husband and I share the space — me with my packing tape and poetry drafts, him with his computer, math equations and eternal patience. Somewhere between us: Rosalie’s baby monitor blinking quietly as I finish folding a hundred more sheets for the night.

Handmade in real life (not in a Pinterest board)

Here’s what they don’t tell you about making things by hand while parenting and building a business from scratch:

You will absolutely design products while in the bath.
You will pack orders in the dark, whispering “shhhh” while balancing tape and a baby monitor.
You will reprint full sets because your first batch of shipping boxes arrived completely upside down (yes, really).
You will bind booklets at 2 a.m. while Rosalie naps vertically on your chest and you pretend you don’t need your neck for anything important.

It’s not glamorous — but it’s glorious.
Because somehow, in between sticky notes, binder clips, and baby toys, you’re building something real.

Getting it all on paper (eventually)

I’ve always been the kind of person who needs to write to understand what I think.
Not just to-do lists — but notes of encouragement, poetic grocery lists, scattered brainstorms in colour-coded ink.

My process has always been a mix of deep intention and mild chaos.
I plan like it’s a ritual. I overthink fonts. I write product descriptions like they’re tiny love letters.
Even this blog post has been rewritten at least four times, because I want every sentence to feel right.
Not polished — just true.

I work in bursts. Often late at night, after Rosalie’s asleep, with a blanket around my shoulders and tea I’ve reheated three times.
I talk to myself while I write (it helps — especially when my brain feels like oatmeal).
Sometimes I outline ideas with markers that match my mood.
Sometimes I spiral. Sometimes I get goosebumps when something clicks.
But always, I come back to this:
What would I want to read right now, if I were in the middle of a season of becoming?

Writuals isn’t just a product line.
It’s the way I make sense of my own rhythms — and invite others to do the same.
It’s where my love of paper meets my desire for slowness.
It’s what I offer when I can’t fix anything, but still want to make something beautiful and useful and true.

Every product tells a story

What you see on my table at a market — or in a photo online — isn’t just a thing I made.

It’s:

• A booklet I stitched during nap time while whispering affirmations to myself
• A card I printed while it rained outside and I wondered if this would ever work
• A planner I restructured three times because I needed it to feel kinder, softer, and better suited to real life

I can tell you where I was for each one.
The smell of the tea I brewed. The playlist I was listening to. The particular emotion I was working through.

This isn’t just product-making. It’s memory weaving.

What I want you to feel when you open it

Every package I send includes:

• A handwritten note

• A bookmark that doubles as a business card

• Recycled, seeded, or scrap paper (no plastic, ever)

• And energy that says: you matter

I want you to feel like you’ve walked into a quiet stationery shop where everything was made just for you.
Like the tools in your hands were built for more than your to-do list.
Like the paper knows something you’ve been trying to name.

This season, if you’re buying a gift — for yourself or for someone who needs softness, structure, or a sacred space — I hope you consider something from Writuals.

Not just because it’s beautiful.
But because it was made with purpose, in the mess, in the love, in the slowness — with every ounce of care I could offer.

What I’ve learned, and what I hope for

If there’s one thing I know now, it’s this:
Creating something with heart is never efficient.

It takes time. Doubt. Encouragement. Late-night print tests.
And an entire village (including my husband, my daughter, my parents and in-laws, my incredible friends — and those of you who keep showing up with curiosity and care).

But it’s also the most fulfilling, grounding thing I’ve ever done (aside from my daughter).

So if you’re coming to one of the craft fairs I'm attending as a vendor — I hope you stop by and say hi.
If you're reading this online, know that I see you. I get you. And I probably made something for you — even if I didn’t know it yet.

With gratitude, ink stained fingers, and paper-crinkled joy,
Sarah B.
Founder, Atelier scriptural Writuals
(still on the mezzanine, still in wool socks, still building slow magic — one page at a time)