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Astrohaus Founder Statement on AI and Privacy

July 30, 2024 | 2 min read

Artificial intelligence has already transformed writing. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be in control of your own words.

Here at Astrohaus, we embrace new technologies, i.e., we are not a retro-computing company. We love thinking about how new technology can be thoughtfully added to our lives. The key word "thoughtfully" being very important here. We also believe that we shouldn’t lie down and let technology trample us and our values.

I want to be crystal clear, your writing is your writing. Other than syncing to authorized cloud providers like Google and Dropbox, we will never sell, lend, or otherwise give access to your private work.

If you want to use your written work as input to an LLM, that should be entirely up to you and opt-in. We currently do not have any AI or LLMs as part of the Astrohaus offering, but these tools are too powerful to ignore. They are already helping writers brainstorm, summarize, and edit. If we ever do integrate any AI tools, I want you to know that your data will never be used without your explicit consent.

And just to reiterate: the Astrohaus team does not have access to your data, except for limited members of our development team when it is required for doing their job to improve our services and maintenance.

When you sync your documents from Postbox to third-party cloud services like Google Drive, Microsoft OneDrive, Evernote, or Dropbox, your data is then governed by those services’ AI policies, not by Astrohaus. We’ve linked their relevant policies here:

Dropbox

Google Drive

Microsoft OneDrive

Evernote

Astrohaus is committed to promoting expression and celebrating the value of human-written language. Your commitment to the craft of writing inspires us daily, and maintaining the integrity of your voice is at the heart of everything we do. Thank you for choosing Freewrite as your partner in creativity.

- Adam, Founder

September 18, 2026 5 min read

I spent a decade correcting people's grammar. (Not in an insufferable way. I was getting paid to do it.) Now I write without correcting my own.

September 18, 2026 7 min read

Whether he's acting or writing, Wesley MacInnes finds a starting point for each creative project in freewriting.

September 10, 2026 2 min read

The winning short story in the 2026 Freewrite 500 is "Deathbed Victory" by Rocky Halpern.

I wish my mother could be a little less enthusiastic about losing weight from chemotherapy. Her sharp wrists and angular neck are trophies others remark upon. They look past her hair and eyebrows that are like hay carried away by a thunderstorm and ask if she’s doing keto or mediterranean. 

The world is mesmerized by shrinking things. Mini candy bars, happy meal toys, tiny dogs that fit inside a purse, dollhouses, adults who weigh as much as children. 

My mother wants me to go on Ozempic. I sit next to her hospital bed, and she wraps her wisp of a hand around my thick, pulsing wrist. She asks me to dream of wearing matching bikinis on the shores of a tropical beach. She wants me to share in her religion, recite the sacred text: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. 

But chemo has rubbed her tastebuds down to a dull throb, so what does she know about it anyway? 

She dozes off as evening begins to creep. The TV mounted to the wall across from the bed plays a muted rerun of Friends, the one where Monica wears a fatsuit. She is half my size, at least. I turn off the TV, let go of my mother’s hand, and head toward the cafeteria. 

I examine limp premade salads, gray tuna fish sandwiches, and an unmanned make-your-own smoothie station. Eating dinner here doesn’t leave me with much of an appetite. Maybe I don’t need weight loss medication after all, I can just skulk the halls and wonder how much time we have left together. 

How much of that time will my mother spend wishing there was less of me? 

How much less of her can there be before she disappears? 

A nurse is checking her vitals when I return to the room. My mother looks at me, laughs softly, and asks the nurse, Can you believe she used to fit inside of me? 

I think of how we must have been, her warm body encasing mine like a bacon-wrapped date. I wonder if she ate hot fudge sundaes when she was pregnant with me. I wonder if there is a single moment of her life where she didn’t feel terrified of her body. 

My mother is a ghost and it’s the proudest she’s ever been, her deathbed victory lap. Somewhere, Jenny Craig sheds a tear and whispers into the ether, It’s not just about losing weight; it's about gaining life.