Everyone has a book in them. Fifty-five questions get it out.
Answer fifty-five questions about your life, out loud or in writing. They come back as chapters of a real, typeset book, in your own voice, and nothing goes in until you say it sounds like you.
The same care a family gets when they hire one: someone who listens closely, asks the next right question, and writes it the way you would have, if writing were your job. With one difference. Here, nothing is finished until you read it and say it sounds like you.
Every life holds more than one book.
The whole arc, beginning to now. Fifty-five questions across the five acts of a life.
What you learned, written down plainly for whoever needs it next.
How you met, what you built, and everything that came after.
What you believe, and what you have seen with your own eyes.
A book written to your child, in your voice, kept for them for good.
The Cookbook. The recipes everyone asks for, and the stories behind them. A small book of its own, not one of the five.
Coming soonNot a survey. The kind of questions you'd answer around a table, one at a time, in no hurry. And not all of them are ours: name up to five chapters yourself, in your own words, the night the car flipped, the summer at the lake. The book makes room for the stories only you know are there.
Fifty-five questions, answered in your own words at your own pace. Your voice on the page, and your book taking shape while you talk.
Begin your story 2Sit beside a parent or grandparent, ask the first question, press record, and let them talk. Every chapter goes back to them to approve before it counts, so the voice on the page stays exactly theirs.
Begin together 3This is that engagement, without the five figures: the listening, the follow-ups, the shaping, and typeset pages in your own voice, free while it is early. Two things are what actually make it work.
Until you tell them. One scene at a time, the telling becomes a book, and once told, a story is kept for good.
"Put me at that table: who sat where, what was on it, what got said every single time."
Read the chapter back. If it lands, tap once. If not, reshape it. The voice stays yours.
Each chapter typesets itself the moment you finish it. Fifty-five questions become a real object you can hold.
Your words, your recordings, your photographs. Yours, always.
Tell it out loud. The recording stays beside the chapter, playable by your family, in your own voice, for good. The telling is the easy part now.
You talk. The ghostwriter starts from what you actually said, the green door and the scrape of it, asks the follow-up a good listener would ask, and sets your telling into clean typeset prose. It arranges; it never invents. Every quote on the page is your own words, checked against what you said. If a line does not sound like you, one tap reshapes it, and nothing is finished until you approve it.
Give this to someone and you are not left in the dark for a year. You watch the book itself get thicker: how many questions are told, how far each act has come, the day a new part is finished. Counts and moments, never their words.
Chapters reach you only at the milestones the writer allows, and the raw tellings stay theirs until the day they hand the whole book over. That is the arrangement that makes people speak freely, and a book written freely is the book worth giving.
A real question from Act I, and the page the ghostwriter made of it. Keep scrolling; the pages turn.
The recording lives beside the typeset page, in his voice, playable by his family for good.
The door was green, and it stuck in summer. You had to lift the handle and lean, and everyone who loved us knew that, so nobody ever knocked. You just heard the scrape and knew company was coming.
A place from your early life. Take me to the moment you arrived there. What did you feel?
The end-matter. Every good book has one; open a query and it is kept in ink.
Free in early access, while the first books are being made. Answer the questions, watch the book assemble, keep everything. No card is taken.
When early access closes, the book is $179 once, printed, bound, and posted. There is no subscription and nothing renews. You are not charged when you sign up: the card is saved and waits, and it is charged on one day only, the day the writing is read back and the person who told it says it sounds like them. If that day never comes, you are not charged, the card is removed, and every chapter they finished is still theirs to read and keep.
Entirely your pace. Fifty-five questions: one a day is about two months, one a week is a bit over a year, one a month is a few years. There is no clock. Chapters unlock one after another, nothing ever expires, and the next question always waits.
You do not have to be. Speak your answers, write fragments, or add photographs with captions. The ghostwriter does the listening, the follow-ups, and the shaping. You just tell it.
Kept is built for people who do not love screens: big type, one action per page, and answering out loud is a single button. And you can always sit beside them, press record, and let them talk.
Nothing is lost, because the book is not written at the end; it is written as you go. Every finished chapter is already a typeset page, and the next question waits: a week, a year, however long. A twenty-chapter book is still a book worth keeping.
Only the people you invite. Stories are private by default; you decide who reads and who listens.
Yes. The book is typeset for a 6 by 9 hardcover as you write, and you can export the whole thing as a PDF at any time. Printed and posted is one of the ways to have it when early access closes, and your pages are ready for the press the day you finish.
Completely. Your words, your recordings, your photographs: yours. You can export the whole book as a typeset PDF at any time, so it can leave with you whenever you want, and it never stops being yours.
Those services collect answers and print them in order: a question, then what got typed under it, fifty times over. Lovely to have, but it reads the way a form reads, and the person who lived the life did all the writing.
Kept writes the book. A ghostwriter listens to what was actually said, asks the follow-up a good listener would ask, and sets each telling into typeset chapters with a beginning and an arc. Nothing is invented, nothing is padded, every quote is their own words, and they approve every chapter before it counts. You pay once, only after the first act has proven it sounds like them. There is no yearly renewal and no deadline that expires the book. And the questions are not the whole book: they can name up to five chapters of their own, in their own words, and the book asks after those too.
The book is a real hardcover on your shelf, and it needs nothing from us once it is in your hands.
The rest is yours in the same way: at any moment you can download the complete archive of the work, every chapter, every answer in their own words, every recording in their own voice, as plain files that open on any machine, with no account and no company attached. A story you trust a family with should never depend on the company that helped tell it, including this one.