The letter for the draft you never sent
There's a message sitting in your drafts. You know which one.
Maybe it's three lines. Maybe it's a paragraph you rewrote eleven times. It starts with their name, or with “hey,” or with nothing at all, because you deleted the greeting and started in the middle, like you'd been talking the whole time.
Here's what nobody says about a draft: it isn't fear, exactly. It's that you can't find the version of you who gets to send it. The one who's three years past it. The one who isn't angry anymore, or is, but has decided the anger is beside the point. You're not there yet. So the draft sits.
You read it sometimes. Not to send it. Just to check it's still true. It is. That's the problem.
I've watched a hundred of these. One day you'll open it, change one word, and send it. Or you'll delete it and that'll be the answer. Either way it stops being a draft. But today it's still there, half-alive, and it's the most honest thing you've written in years.
If you want, I'll write the one you can actually send. You tell me who they are and what happened, and I'll write the version that sounds like you on your best day, not your worst. You keep the draft. This is the one that goes.
First line free, no obligation. Full letter $25 by card, delivered in 48 hours, one revision, and nothing ever sent to the person you're writing about. Door: [email protected]