“I trashed this piece because it was based on a prompt that made me think too deeply and feel too much. This is an intimate reflection of a character that came from beyond me - a conversation between the present and past self, tender and inquisitive and warm and wrong - and I didn't feel comfortable putting this visceral note out into the world.”

“This piece, simply put, felt too hopeful. It was written as an alternate afterlife, and having lost people to both death and life, I felt like a fool for considering there was somewhere I could see them again. I think in our society we feel foolish for expressing a desire for unabashed joy.”

“This was trashed because I was just venting in my notes app. I had just gotten out of a relationship, and while initially, I didn’t understand why things ended, I eventually came to terms with its conclusion. A lot of what I write in my notes app is usually prose pieces where I just let out all the thoughts floating in my mind—a stream of consciousness—but I never edit nor plan on submitting them to be published. I like to call all the things existing in my notes ‘word vomit’.”

“This was trashed because it felt cliché. Love is a popular theme in writing, and even though I tend to write about it often, I feel like it comes off unoriginal each time I do. I sometimes question what more could be said about love when so many have written about it or have had similar experiences.”

“This was trashed because it was another one of my “in my notes word vomiting vent sessions.” I was angry at myself, and writing has always been my outlet for my emotions. The thoughts expressed here are scattered, fragmented, and run-on-sentence-ish. I would never take the content below seriously enough for publication unless I were to tweak and edit it into what feels more formal or ‘perfect’.”

“My writing group didn’t “get it.” They thought it was an acceptance of violence, when I intended it to be the opposite—to communicate a desire to protect others.”

“I gave up on this piece because it collected a lot of rejections, and I wasn’t sure what it is exactly. Is it a prose poem, a flash fiction, or a flash nonfiction (because the heart of the story is true)? I didn’t know what to do with it, so I “retired” it.”

“I've seen less waffle in waffle house. It's annoying to read. I thought I could intellectualise a recent heartbreak. (I couldn't.) Moral of the story is it wasn't feral and to the point enough. The process was like bleaching my hair at home and expecting a balayage.”