Mercer Street
The house was small. By the kitchen door, a lemon tree that never gave more than four lemons a year.
She wouldn't hear of getting rid of it.
Tell me about the house you grew up in.
Most people mean to write it down. Almost nobody does — because a blank page is a hard place to start. Memoira starts with a question instead.
The house was small. By the kitchen door, a lemon tree that never gave more than four lemons a year.
She wouldn't hear of getting rid of it.
You talk — out loud or by typing. Memoira asks the next good question and writes it down with you, in your own words. Nothing is invented, and nothing goes in the book until you say so.
Tell me about the house you grew up in.
It was on Mercer Street. Small. My mother kept a lemon tree in a pot by the kitchen door.
The house on Mercer Street was small. By the kitchen door my mother kept a lemon tree in a pot, and though it never gave more than four lemons in a year, she wouldn't hear of getting rid of it.
Your words, arranged. You can change any line of it.
You don't need to know where to start, or how to write. You need someone to ask.
Type it or say it out loud. A few sentences is plenty. When you trail off, you get one good question back — not a form to fill in.
What you said comes back as a chapter, in your voice. Keep it, change a word, or ask to hear it differently.
Add photographs, reorder chapters, and read it back at whatever size is comfortable. It is a book, not a feed.
Pictures travel with the book when you export it. Share with the family in one tap — and stop sharing in one tap.
Your words are yours, always.
Nothing you write is public. If you ever stop paying, you keep everything you have written and can export all of it — we will never hold your life story hostage.
That's all it takes. The rest follows from there.
Begin my story