When I launched the Shared Drafts Project, I honestly didn’t know what to expect. The first issue was meant to be an experiment — a way to see whether an unfinished, imperfect, in-process literary space could matter to people. Unpublishable became a home for all kinds of work: fragments, poetry, stories, reflections, pieces that almost got deleted, and pieces that were waiting quietly for a place to land.

The overwhelming response to that first open call showed me something important:

There is a hunger for spaces where our creativity doesn’t have to perform.

For Issue #1, I wanted breadth. I wanted to cast the net wide. I wanted to see what would happen if I simply invited people to share anything they hadn’t felt brave enough (or seen enough) to share before. And it worked — the pieces formed an ecosystem of voices, and the community showed me that Shared Drafts was worth continuing.

But as winter approaches, something in me shifted.

Winter always feels like a season of introspection — a turning inward, a quieting, a return to the inner landscape. While Issue #1 explored forgotten or overlooked works, Issue #2 felt like it needed a different kind of attention. A softer one. A closer one. A more private one.

Why “Notes to Self”?

So many of us create work with an invisible audience hovering over our shoulder.

Will people like this?

Is this good enough?

Is there value in what I’m making?

Will anyone care?

And that awareness — that pressure to be “good,” to be digestible, to be culturally neat enough to earn space — shapes how we create. It shapes what we allow ourselves to say. It shapes what we edit out before anyone even sees it.

But what about the writing we don’t create for others?

The pages in our notebooks.

The half-sentenced Notes app thoughts.

The reminders to ourselves.

The confessions.

The things we don’t polish because they were never meant to be polished.

Issue #2, Notes to Self, is an invitation into that private world.

I wanted a theme that honored writing that doesn’t try to please anyone. Writing that simply tries to be. The kind of work we make for our own clarity, healing, survival, curiosity, or understanding. Work that isn’t waiting for approval — work that simply exists because we needed it to.

Why Journaling?

I’ve been journaling for almost a decade — pages and pages and pages of thoughts, feelings, memories, fears, insights, and things I didn’t have the courage to say out loud. Journaling has been one of the most grounding parts of my life, a quiet place where I could meet myself honestly.

Looking back at my journals sometimes feels unreal — a decade-long repository of becoming, confusion, self-discovery, and growth. I wouldn’t publish 99% of those pages. But they’ve taught me more about myself than almost anything else.

And it made me wonder:

What would it feel like to share something that was never meant to be shared?

Not a polished story. Not a perfect poem. Not a piece written for an audience. But a piece written for you — a note to self.

There is a tenderness in that. A courage. A different kind of vulnerability. That’s what this issue is about.

What I Hope This Issue Becomes

I hope Issue #2 becomes:

• a window into the inner worlds we usually keep hidden
• a testament to the value of unfiltered thought
• a reminder that private writing is still writing
• a community space where honesty is enough

And I hope it invites contributors to look inward with curiosity rather than judgment — to ask themselves what their Notes to Self reveal about who they’ve been, who they are, and who they’re becoming.

As winter settles in and the year draws to a close, this feels like the right project to begin again with. Quiet, intentional, and deeply human.

Thank you for continuing to support Shared Drafts Project.

I can’t wait to read the pages you’ve never shown anyone — and to honor them with care.