An AI content strategist for LinkedIn
It interviews you before it writes anything.
It spends about an hour asking what you have actually done, decided and got wrong. Everything it writes afterwards comes out of that, and shows you the sentence it came from.
No card for the interview — set aside about an hour, because it is the hour everything else is built from, and what it produces is yours whether or not you go on. Writing starts on a plan, from $49 a month, monthly or annual, cancel in two clicks. Recordings and transcripts belong to your account, are never used to train a general-purpose model, and are visible only to the people you have given access.
“They wanted to know if payroll cleared Friday.”
An answer somewhere in the first interview, transcribed and stamped with the minute it was said. Nobody writes this down anywhere else.
Written on the Monday, read by you, out when you approve it.
The draft shows the sentence it grew out of. Nothing leaves the product until a person has said yes to it, and there is no setting that turns that off.
A journalist asks publicly for someone who has run a turnaround.
The same story, rewritten as an answer to what she asked, sent from your own verified domain after you have read it. Solo can see these; answering them is what Professional adds.
Most pitches are never answered.
So it says waiting, and for how long, rather than calling it pending — and it will not turn six pitches and one reply into a percentage.
Will it sound like you? Not at first.
The first drafts are close and wrong in small ways. You fix the line, and the fix is kept. One edit is a preference about one post; the same edit three times is a fact about how you sound, and that is when it proposes a change to your voice profile and asks you to confirm it.
Every rule it is working under is written down in plain sentences on your own page, and you can withdraw any of them. Nobody’s voice arrives on day one, and a tool that claims otherwise is describing an average of the internet.
In hindsight, the lesson was clear: preparation means understanding what your audience truly needs.
I prepared for the wrong meeting. That is the whole lesson and it took me a week to admit it.
No “in hindsight”, no “the lesson was”. Say the mistake first and do not soften it. Proposed after the pattern repeats, applied only once you accept it, and listed where you can take it back.
What a week actually costs you
One interview, about an hour, at the start. After that it is reading rather than writing: every Monday the week’s drafts are already written before you hear about them, and the email that tells you carries one question that keeps the record growing.
Nothing goes out until you have said yes to it, which is the only part that genuinely needs you. Skip a week and nothing is sent in your name.
Under half an hour, and none of it is staring at a blank box.
Your draft on the prompter, under the lens.
Filmed at full quality in the browser and held on your own machine until the upload finishes. The post’s caption is written from what you actually said in it.
Send a link. Both sides record locally.
The call is thrown away and the two full-quality files are the episode. Your guest joins by link and never signs up for anything.
A feed every podcast app polls, $35 a month.
Submit it once and every episode after that arrives everywhere by itself. A page per episode, and notes written from the transcript — it refuses to write them from a title.
The piece people quote a year later.
Posts are cut from the argument rather than the other way round. Finished pieces go to Ghost, WordPress or beehiiv as drafts, for you to publish or send.
You add the journalist, or it picks up a call for sources somebody posted publicly. No list is licensed and no contact is held that a journalist did not publish.
Every post and every pitch waits for a person. There is no setting that turns that off, and twelve pitches a day per voice is the ceiling on every plan.
Colleagues can be asked to share something. Asked, once, with their consent on record — and you are told when they say no.
A number or a claim you never said is flagged before the draft reaches you, with the question it needs answered. An idea with nothing real behind it gets a question rather than a post.
And one honest warning: if you have not done the work yet, this will be a frustrating hour. The interview has nothing to find, and the product would rather say so than write around it.
Four plans. The unit changes once.
Full pricing, with what each plan leaves outFlat for a person. Per person for an organisation.
Solo writes. Professional also gets you covered: a verified sending domain, journalists already asking about your subject, and replies tracked back to the pitch. Team and Agency are the same product bought for several people, so the invoice grows with the thing being bought.
$49 a month
One person, writing under their own name.
$129 a month
The same person, getting covered.
$99 per person, a month
A company running its own people’s voices.
$149 per voice, a month
Running voices you do not own.
Prices in US dollars, billed by Stripe. Annual is ten months’ money for twelve. Long-form allowances are per voice and reset on the 1st. Cancel in two clicks from your billing page, or write to support@onrecord.tech and we will do it — either way there is nobody to get past.
It opens with this question.
No onboarding tour and no template gallery. You answer, it asks the next one, and about an hour later there is something to write from.
Take me back to the moment you decided to start this. What was going on in your life?
Type it or say it out loud. There is no wrong length, you can stop and come back, and the recording and the transcript stay yours.