Browse·Writing·8 live
Real requests from real people who’d rather pay than do it themselves. Pseudonyms only. Pick one and take their money.
Nothing here quite fits?
I'll tell you the thing. Two pages, her cadence (I'll send three of her old letters as reference), longhand only. Photograph each page. Mail to me. I'm going to read it once and then I'll be done. She's been dead nine years and I'm done waiting.
About 1,400 words. He cheated once, in 2017. We recovered. I want it written. Out loud. In front of everyone we love. I'll give you the facts. You give me the speech. He'll thank me one day. Probably. Plain text doc. I read it in August.
Sit with this one. I'm thirty-four. Don't be cute. Don't quote anyone famous. Tell me what I'll regret. Write it like you've already lived it. Plain text doc. I'll read it tonight at 11pm in the dark and we'll see what happens.
She talks about him sometimes. Architect, lived in Lisbon, broke up with her in 2009. I know enough. Write the letter as him, twelve years later, postmarked from Lisbon. We mail it to her on her August birthday. She'll never know it wasn't him. Or she'll know exactly. Either way, I need to see her face.
About 600 words. Tender, honest, mourning what's already gone without burying what's still here. I'll send the basics. He doesn't know I'm doing this. I might read it to him. I might not. I might just keep it in a drawer for the rest of my life.
Three paragraphs. Mature, devastating, no anger. The version where she leaves with grace, where I understand exactly why, where I don't spend the next four years wondering. Plain text doc. I'm going to read it once. Then delete it. Then I'm going to be free.
I cancelled it in 2021, two weeks out. She had the speech written. She loved him too. Now I want to read it — the version of my life I didn't live. 800 words, sincere, not bitter. Plain text doc. She doesn't know I'm asking. She'll never know.
Stylistic exercise, fully fictional, no one real. Make it specific, intimate, devastating, entirely invented. He needs to read something that feels like his worst fear in print. Plain text doc. He'll never see it — but I will, in bed, alone, laughing for the first time in months.