I didn't set out to build a writing platform. I set out to solve a problem at my own kitchen table.
My wife and my daughter are both dyslexic. They are also two of the most devoted readers I know — the kind of people with a to-be-read stack that qualifies as furniture. And they are full of stories. Genuinely good ones: characters they've carried around for years, whole worlds they can describe to you out loud without missing a detail.
Almost none of it ever made it onto the page.
Here's what I learned watching them: imagination was never the problem. The problem is everything between the imagination and the page — organizing the thread, holding a chapter's shape in your head while you fight with the words one at a time, coming back the next day and finding your place again. For a dyslexic writer, that overhead isn't an annoyance. It's a wall.
I'm the software guy in the family. So when AI started getting genuinely useful, I did what software guys do — I started researching, and then I started building.
The rule that shaped everything
Early on I settled on the one rule that shaped every feature since: the writer decides how much of the story is in their own words. Not the tool. The writer.
In practice that's a dial, and you can set it anywhere. At one end, you hand Grove — the assistant that lives inside Scribegrove — a handful of beats, and it drafts the scene: heavier on the AI, and honest about being so. At the other end, you tell the story entirely in your own words, rambling and unpolished and yours, and the AI never rewrites a word of it — it just does the structural work: threading what you said into your outline, splitting it into chapters and scenes, keeping the canon straight so you don't have to hold it all in your head. That record of your own words stays in the product permanently. We call it your Foundation, and nothing AI-generated ever overwrites it.
The husband in the kitchen
The best way I can describe the assistant I wanted to build is this: it's the husband in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the fridge, while the wife sits at the table writing.
"How do you spell exonerate?"
"E-x-o-n-e-r-a-t-e."
"What do you think of this idea — what if the letters started arriving before she ever typed them?"
"Honestly? Chills. Keep going."
That's the job. Present, useful, occasionally opinionated when asked — and never, ever holding the pen unless you hand it over. A ghostwriter replaces you. A good kitchen companion keeps you writing.
Built for anyone with a story
Scribegrove is built for the people who were quietly told, one way or another, that organizing words wasn't for them. Dyslexic writers. People who think out loud better than they type. First-timers who have the whole story in their head and no idea what an outline is supposed to look like. If you can tell it to a friend across the table, you can write it here.
One honest note, because I'd rather be plain about it: Scribegrove accounts are for adults — subscriptions and the law both say so. My daughter writes through our family's account, at the table, with us. That's exactly how it was designed to work.
My wife was the first user. She's still the toughest tester I have — half the fixes in the changelog trace back to her finding something at nine o'clock at night and telling me it's broken. The product is better for every one of those nights.
If any of this sounds like your kitchen table, come tell your story. I'll keep writing these notes as we build.