How to write a story that lands.

The clearest fit: you do a job, AI tools have changed what that job looks like or whether you have it, and you can describe specifically what shifted.

That's a wider tent than people sometimes assume. The most obvious cases — copywriters who now edit AI drafts, illustrators losing clients, paralegals doing different work — are welcome. But so are the less-obvious ones:

• People who got hired because they're fluent with AI tools
• People whose jobs got harder, not easier, because of AI integration
• People who pivoted out of fields they expected to stay in
• People whose roles became more strategic, less hands-on
• People who were promoted into managing AI workflows
• People whose work hasn't visibly changed but who feel different about it

The common thread isn't whether the change was good or bad. It's whether you can describe it with specificity.

Specific details over general claims. "AI changed my job" is the headline of a thousand articles. "I used to write 40 pieces of copy a week. Now I edit 200 and write 10" tells a story.

An honest middle. Not "this is awful" or "this is amazing." Most contributors land somewhere ambivalent — relieved about some things, worried about others. That ambivalence is the most useful thing for readers, who are trying to figure out where they sit.

Practical advice. The "if you're starting out" section is what readers screenshot and share. Tell future you what you wish someone had told you a year ago.

No company names, ever. Not your employer, not their clients, not specific products you build. This protects you (employment retaliation is real) and us (defamation suits are expensive). If your story is "tech giant fired me," we'll publish it as "I worked at a large tech company." If you can't tell the story without naming names, we're not the right venue — try a journalist.

No coworker or manager identification. "My manager said something stupid" is fine. "My manager Sarah said something stupid" is not. Use generic descriptors: my manager, a colleague, the head of design.

No axes to grind. If your story exists primarily to call out a specific person, company, or movement, this isn't the place. We publish reflection, not exposés. Anger is fine — directed targets aren't.

No fabrications, embellishments, or composites. Your story has to be yours. Don't invent details for narrative effect. Don't merge two coworkers into one for clarity. We can't fact-check most things, but contributors who are caught inventing details get unpublished, and we don't republish from that account.

No financial advice or product reviews. "AI made my company more profitable" framed as advice for other founders isn't testimony — it's content marketing. Same for "ChatGPT vs Claude" comparisons. Other publications cover that better.

No AI-generated stories. The whole point is that humans are documenting what's happening to them. A story written by AI about AI defeats the entire archive. We're getting good at spotting it.

No personal attacks on AI tools or their makers. "I hate ChatGPT" is fine as one note in a longer piece. A whole story dedicated to railing against a specific tool isn't testimony — it's a rant. Direct that energy at the harms specifically; don't make it about the brand.

The submission form has three sections: before, now, and advice. There's also an optional fourth, feeling. A few notes on each.

What did your work look like? A typical week, a typical task, the rhythm of your day. Aim for the texture of the work, not just the title. The reader should be able to picture themselves doing what you did.

If your "before" is more than five years ago, tell us when. Workflows from 2018 read very differently than ones from 2023.

What changed? Be specific about what AI does and what you do. The most common mistake is staying abstract — "AI handles the basics now" tells us nothing. "I used to spend 30 hours a week on first drafts. Now I spend 5, and 25 hours on review and refinement" tells us everything.

If you got laid off, tell us roughly when, and what you've learned in the interim. The post-layoff period often produces the most useful insights.

What would you tell someone considering your field today? A student, a career switcher, a younger version of yourself. This is the section readers come back to most.

Useful advice is usually specific, occasionally counterintuitive, and rarely encouraging-without-caveats. "It'll all be fine" isn't useful. Neither is "it's hopeless." Real advice acknowledges the trade-offs.

This is where you can be human about it. A line or two of personal reflection — frustration, relief, confusion, ambivalence, hope. We strongly encourage filling this in. Stories without it can feel clinical; stories with it feel real.

Once you hit submit:

• Your submission lands in our review queue. We read every one, usually within seven days.
• If we have questions or want to clarify something, and you provided an email, we'll write to you.
• If we publish your story, we light-edit for clarity — fixing typos, tightening rambling sentences, breaking up long paragraphs. We never change meaning. If we want to make a substantive cut or rewrite, we ask first.
• Before publishing, we send you a preview link (if you provided an email) so you can review the final version. You get to say no.
• If we don't think your submission is a fit, we'll tell you. Sometimes we'll suggest revisions. Sometimes we'll suggest another venue. Either way, you'll hear back.

We aim for a one-week turnaround on first reads. If you haven't heard back in two weeks, write to us — emails sometimes go to spam.

Yes. The submission form lets you choose: full anonymity ("Anonymous · [your role]"), a pseudonym, or your first name. Most contributors choose anonymous, and that's the right default. Don't reveal more than feels safe.

No. But if you don't, we can't follow up with questions, send you a preview before publishing, or tell you when your story is live. We can't connect a story back to you later for edits or removal either. Submit without an email under the assumption that what you write is permanent.

The form caps each section at 2,000 characters (about 350 words). Most published stories use 200–400 words per section. The longest aren't usually the strongest.

If you have more to say than fits, write the most important version first. We can ask for additions later.

Yes — within reason. If circumstances change ("six months later, I got hired"), email us with the original story's URL and what you'd like updated. We'll make changes within a week. Major rewrites might require resubmission.

This works only if you originally provided an email so we can verify it's you.

Yes. Email us and we'll remove it. Search engines may take a few weeks to drop their cache; we can't control that. The story is gone from PlotGround the day you ask.

Yes — it's your story. We're glad to host it; we don't claim exclusive rights. If you'd like to repost on your own blog, in a newsletter, or for a journalist who asked, go ahead. A link back is appreciated but not required.

Not yet. PlotGround isn't a commercial enterprise; there's no revenue to share. If that ever changes — if we run reader-funded support, for instance — we'll be transparent about it and figure out a fair model with contributors. For now, your contribution is to the public record.

Most platforms treat contributors as content. PlotGround treats contributors as colleagues. That means: we read carefully, we edit gently, we ask before we change, we credit how you want to be credited, and we honor takedown requests without argument.

In return, we ask you to write honestly, stay specific, leave names out, and trust that we'll handle your story with the care it deserves.

If you've gotten this far, you probably have a story worth telling. We'd be honored to read it.