Wcharacters.docx
¶1
Cada libro empieza como una constelación de ideas — personajes, lugares, momentos, conexiones — repartidos por tu cabeza. Unbind es donde se encuentran.
Te escribiremos cuando haya algo que merezca la pena decir.
Personajes con biografía. Lugares con textura. Líneas temporales que se pliegan y se bifurcan. Antes vivían en pestañas distintas, apps distintas, cuadernos distintos. Ahora viven en un solo sitio — y ese sitio ve cómo se conectan.
Tu próximo libro no está atascado. Está atado.
— Desata al autor. Desata el mundo.
Tu borrador lleva tiempo conteniendo el aliento.
Hora de soltarlo.
Consider this the table of contents.
Late in the draft, you reach for a detail — what the harbor smelled like the night she arrived — and it is gone. You search three apps and lose an hour. The canvas is where that stops. Put a character down. Put a place beside her. Draw what they are to each other. The world holds its shape while you write into it, and tomorrow it is exactly where you left it.
The book remembers, so you do not have to.
You think spatially on Sunday, in chapters on Monday, in dates on Tuesday, in arcs on Wednesday. Most weeks, that means four different files quietly drifting out of sync. Here, the same world holds still while you walk around it. Open the manuscript and the cards rearrange into chapters. Open the timeline and they line up by date.
Nothing is copied. Nothing forks.
The harbor was holding its breath when Aelin Vance stepped down from the gangplank, salt cracking under her boots.
She had not expected to recognize the lamp at the lighthouse — and yet there it was, the same crooked seam in the glass, the same bruised glow.
Eight years. Long enough for a town to forget. Not, she suspected, long enough for it to forgive.
Maybe Cael, after the grandfather. Check the dates against the harbor fire.
Storm rolls in from the north. Lighthouse goes dark before the Pact, not after.
"She had not expected to recognize the harbor — and yet."
You are mid-sentence and you need her brother's name. You alt-tab. The wiki loads. The browser eats your cursor. By the time you are back, the sentence has gone cold. Here, you type @ and her brother surfaces in the line itself — the room beside it, the year she met him, all a glance away, none of it asking you to leave the prose.
The sentence finishes itself.
She never thought she'd see Aelin again, much less in Saltwhistle Harbor, the year after her brother @Marek
You rewrote the opening. Then you rewrote it again. Then you wished you had the first one back. Every version of every chapter is kept by name, and the differences between them are visible at a glance — what you cut, what you saved, what you tried before you knew better.
Revision stops being a wager.
The harbor was quiet that night holding its breath, and Aelin walked slowly without hurrying toward the lamp — its glass cracked, its light still kind.
She did not call her brother's name. Not yet. She had practiced not calling it for eight years; one more night was nothing.
Most manuscripts die quietly, in the months between the third chapter and the first abandonment. The Compass is the panel that quietly fixes that. It sees the words you wrote on Tuesday whether you noticed or not. No badges. No streaks that turn writing into a chore.
Just the honest mirror, and the gentle nudge to come back tomorrow.
~80,000 words. At your current pace, the finish line is in sight — about ten weeks out.
The draft is done. Now begins the part nobody warned you about — the part with margins and bleed and ISBNs and a different file format for every store. The book you have been writing already knows it is going to be a book. It paginates itself the way printers expect. It checks the small things that get covers rejected — before you upload.
The last mile stops being a wall.
You have lost work to a vendor before. Maybe a service shut down. Maybe a subscription lapsed and the lock came down. Maybe the internet just blinked at the wrong moment. Here, the book lives on your machine first. Editing on a flight, on a train, in a cabin with one bar of signal — same book, no warning bar, no anxious reload.
Your world belongs to you, regardless of our weather.
"Works without us."
The tool that bends for the novelist also bends for the dungeon master. Same canvas. Different shape of story.
Three years of notes, one chapter that won’t end. The world is already alive in your head — the harbor, the half-sister, the year nobody talks about. Reach for any of it, mid-sentence.
Your aunt’s kitchen is a setting; your father’s silence, a chapter. Lay them out — the people, the years, the rooms — and draw the line that always ran between them, the one you couldn’t name out loud.
Six notebooks of lore, a few hard drives, a wiki you stopped updating — and still no book. Pin the cities, name the wars, draw the river the language crosses, once.
Tuesday night. Six players around the table, and someone asks the NPC’s daughter’s name — the kind of detail that lives in the world you brought in your pocket.
A series bible that doesn’t live in seventeen Google Docs — ensemble casts, episode arcs, continuity across seasons, the things a writers’ room remembers out loud and forgets in writing.
Canon in one hand, headcanon in the other — you write on a train, on a phone, on a tab the school computer hasn’t blocked yet. The world is yours, and only yours, until you say otherwise.
That was the shortlist. Turn the page — the full kit follows.
Apps nativas para iPhone, iPad y Mac — para que el mundo que has construido viaje contigo.
Próximamente. Aún no disponibles.
Five surfaces. Enter at any one. Most writers live in two or three. The arc is yours to draw.
Some authors plan everything. Some plan nothing. Most do both, in their own order.
Cards for the things in your story. A character. A place. A thread.
Draw threads between anything. Walk the world from every angle.
A clean page. If a canvas exists, it surfaces. If not, just write.
A daily pace. A quiet rhythm. A finish line, whenever you set one.
Pre-flight, pagination, the file you can ship — wherever you started.
Te escribiremos cuando haya algo que merezca la pena decir.
Unbind es un lienzo visual para quienes escriben obra larga — novelistas, autores de memorias, ensayistas, guionistas, poetas y constructores de mundos. Planea personajes, lugares, eventos, capítulos y mitología como elementos conectados en un lienzo infinito, y luego exporta el resultado como un manuscrito listo para publicar.
Para quienes escriben obra larga — novelistas, autores de memorias, ensayistas, guionistas, poetas y constructores de mundos — y necesitan no perder de vista cómo se conectan personajes, lugares, eventos e ideas a lo largo de un proyecto extenso. Si has escrito un borrador de 60.000 palabras y se te ha escapado un hilo, Unbind es para ti.
Unbind está en acceso anticipado en 2026 y admite autores en cohortes pequeñas. Apúntate a la lista de espera en unbind.page/es-ES/join — las invitaciones confirmadas te hacen subir puestos.
Unbind tiene un nivel gratuito que cubre la construcción de mundos personal, y niveles de pago para quienes necesitan más proyectos, más almacenamiento o asistencia con IA. Consulta unbind.page/es-ES/pricing para ver los planes y precios actuales.
Hoy Unbind funciona en cualquier navegador moderno, con apps de escritorio para macOS y Windows. Las apps nativas para iPhone y iPad están en la hoja de ruta para 2026; hasta que salgan, el lienzo web funciona en tabletas y móviles desde el navegador.
Sí. Unbind es offline-first — tu trabajo vive en local y se sincroniza con la nube cuando vuelves a tener conexión. Si se cae el Wi-Fi a mitad de una frase, no se pierde nada. La app de escritorio guarda tus datos cifrados en disco, usando el llavero de tu sistema operativo.
Sí. Unbind incluye un importador que toma un manuscrito largo en Word (.docx), EPUB o Markdown, detecta los cortes de capítulo, te deja revisar y ajustar las divisiones, y coloca cada capítulo en tu lienzo como un elemento. Scrivener, Notion, Obsidian y Google Docs exportan a alguno de esos formatos.
No. Unbind construye para quien escribe, no en su lugar. La IA dentro de Unbind ayuda con el trabajo de recordar — comprobar la continuidad entre capítulos, recuperar notas que se habían perdido, encontrar el hilo que se te escapó — nunca a sustituir la página. La voz es tuya. Lee el manifiesto en unbind.page/es-ES/manifesto .
Todavía no. Hoy Unbind es un espacio de trabajo para una sola persona; la coautoría en vivo y la edición compartida están en la hoja de ruta. Mientras tanto, puedes exportar borradores a PDF o EPUB y compartirlos con editores y lectores beta.
Unbind es un solo sitio para el mundo y para el manuscrito. Scrivener redacta bien pero no tiene un grafo visual; World Anvil y Campfire modelan mundos pero no compilan un libro listo para imprenta. Unbind reúne el lienzo visual, los tipos de entidad pensados para autores, el mapeo de relaciones y la exportación del manuscrito en un solo producto offline-first.
Sí. Tus proyectos son privados por defecto, se sirven sobre TLS y nunca se venden ni se comparten. La app de escritorio cifra los datos locales con el llavero de tu sistema operativo.
Sí. Unbind exporta manuscritos completos a PDF y EPUB con preajustes listos para imprenta para KDP e IngramSpark, además de exportaciones por elemento para personajes, lugares, eventos, capítulos y mitología. Los datos de tu proyecto son portables.