About
Driftwood started as a backyard idea that kept growing: a private place to put down what surfaces — the 3am thought, the half-remembered dream, the idea that dissolves between the shower and the towel rack.
I built it because I kept losing things to the gap between having a thought and having somewhere to put it. Every tool I tried wanted something from me first — a title, a folder, a decision about what kind of thought it was before I'd finished having it. At 3am, that's not a small ask. That's the whole ask. So the first rule of Driftwood was set before the first line of code: capture asks nothing of you. You open it, it's ready, you put the thing down, it saves. Everything else in the product answers to that rule.
People who've abandoned ten journaling apps and concluded the problem was their discipline. It wasn't. Most tools ask more of the moment than the moment has in it — especially if you're exhausted, neurodivergent, chronically ill, or giving care to everyone but yourself. Driftwood is built for the version of you that has eleven seconds and half a thought. That version deserves tools too.
Reading your writing is not part of running Driftwood — for me or anyone. There is no admin view of anyone's fragments or conversations, and the database enforces it. The one caveat I'll always be honest about: Driftwood runs on servers and isn't end-to-end encrypted, so like every hosted service, a valid legal order could compel access. Any product that stores your writing and tells you otherwise is overselling — I won't.
Leaving is easy. One zip with everything — writing, conversations, photos, recordings. Deletion that actually deletes.
It gets better the longer you stay, without asking more of you. Fragments accumulate; connections become visible; Eido knows you better. You never have to organize anything for that to happen.
I'll say what's true. Driftwood is in beta. Some things are rough. There's a public workshop page showing what's recent and what's coming, and when something's broken I'd rather tell you than polish around it.
Invite-only, small on purpose. A handful of people have been living in it for weeks, and their bruises are shaping it faster than any roadmap would. If you want in: join the waitlist and I'll make room as spots open.
— Amy