LinkedIn on autopilot for people who know they should post and somehow never do.
Drop your photos into a folder. Overnight, it writes a caption in your actual voice, lays it out like a story, and slips one finished post under your door. You read it over coffee and decide: run it, hold it, or kill it. Make LinkedIn tolerable for one more day.
Connect one Google Drive folder and forget it exists. Shot from a launch, a build day, a whiteboard, a handshake. Drag it in and walk away. The newsroom picks up the wire while you sleep.
From your profile and a handful of signup questions, it learns how you actually talk: dry, warm, blunt, whatever you are. No hashtag soup, no “thrilled to announce.” Just you, on a good writing day.
Every morning, one post lands in your inbox: photo, caption, and the only decision you have to make all day. Approve, Skip, or Reject. No app to open, no queue to babysit.
It already knows when your audience is actually awake and scrolling. You don’t pick a time, fight a scheduler, or remember to come back. One click sets the press running.
No vanity dashboard. Just the plain read on which posts earned the room and which fizzled, so the desk gets sharper about your voice every week. You stay the editor; it stays the staff.
“Nobody scrolls past the specific. They scroll past the polished.” The Daily Dispatch · style desk
The temptation is to sound like a brand. Resist it. The feed is already drowning in “leveraging synergies” and stock photos of handshakes. What stops a thumb is a real moment, badly lit, told straight.
So the desk is wired for the opposite of polish:
A robot writing in your name should terrify you. So we built the brakes first: the machine drafts, you decide, and your name is never signed without your hand on it.
Not one post reaches LinkedIn without your click. Skip a day, kill a draft, go quiet for a week. The press waits for you, not the other way around.
It posts from your account, in your words, under your name. There’s no “posted via” tag, no shared byline. The credit is entirely yours.
Trained on your voice, not the internet’s. If a draft sounds like a chatbot, Reject it. The desk learns, and the next morning’s edition reads more like you.
Make LinkedIn tolerable for one more day.
Drop in your photos tonight. Read your first edition tomorrow. Press the button only if it’s good.
No card to start · You approve every post · Cancel anytime