Will AI Put Me Out of a Job? A Memoir Writer’s Summer Research Project

My friend Chava has a way of asking questions that stick with you long after the conversation ends.

Last week, over coffee that had gone cold while we caught up on life, she tilted her head and asked, “So with all these new AI tools that can help people write memoirs themselves… are you going to be out of a job?”

I laughed it off in the moment. Made some joke about robots not being able to cry with their clients yet. But her question followed me home like a persistent tune you can’t shake.

So I did what any slightly anxious freelancer would do—I started researching.

I dove into the latest AI memoir tools. I tested platforms that promise to turn your life story into a polished book with just a few prompts. I read articles about artificial intelligence revolutionizing the publishing industry, about how anyone can now be their own ghostwriter.

The technology is impressive, I’ll give it that. Some of these tools can organize timelines, suggest narrative structures, even help with dialogue formatting. They’re getting better at mimicking different writing styles and tones.

But then I think about what I actually do.

Yesterday, I sat across from Arella, an 82-year-old former teacher who’s finally ready to tell the story of her childhood in Israel during the War of Independence. Halfway through describing the people she lost and the hunger she experienced, she stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes filled with tears she hadn’t expected.

“I haven’t talked about this in sixty years,” she whispered.

We sat in that silence together for a long moment. Not awkward silence—sacred silence. The kind that holds space for grief that’s been carried alone for decades.

No AI tool was going to prompt Arella to access that memory. No algorithm was going to notice the way her voice changed when she talked about her little sister, or know to ask the follow-up question that unlocked the story she really needed to tell.

When James, a Vietnam veteran, couldn’t find words for what he saw in the jungle, I didn’t need him to find them. I sat with the silence, the half-starts, the way he stared past my shoulder at something I couldn’t see. Sometimes the spaces between words tell the story too.

There’s something that happens between storyteller and listener that I’m not sure we have words for yet. Maybe it’s the simple act of being genuinely heard. Maybe it’s the permission to speak truths you’ve never said out loud. Maybe it’s just the radical act of having someone else hold your story with care.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not threatened by AI. I’m fascinated by it. This summer, I’m making it my project to really understand these tools, to see where they might actually complement the work I do. Maybe they can help with organization, or first drafts, or overcoming blank page syndrome.

But when Arella looked up from her tissues and said, “Thank you for letting me tell you that story,” I thought about Chava’s question again.

Time will tell how this technology reshapes the memoir world. Time will tell what clients will want, what publishers will accept, what stories will get told and how.

But right now, in this moment, I feel pretty confident I can tell my friend: I’m not out of a job yet.