How it works.

Every draft is also a page. A book, six by nine, in four designs — and the same book folded as a zine, cut and stacked, trimmed with crop marks, or saved as an EPUB for an e-reader. A résumé in eight designs. A script in four. Letters, cover letters, essays, speeches, proposals, press releases, minutes and lists.

Tap Page, the last door in the strip, or press ⌘P (Ctrl+P). The page has its own strip: write goes back to the words, designs shows your draft in every design at once, binding (books only) folds it into a zine, cuts and stacks it, trims it or makes an e-book, and print prints it. The line under the strip says what it is — a book, a résumé, a letter — and that is a door too: change it and the designs change with it. Plain text, Markdown and copy sit under the designs, or under print on a book.

The design and the binding you choose are kept with the draft, so they come back next time, travel in a saved copy of your drafts, and return if a deleted draft is brought back.

The title on the page is the draft's first line, unless that line is a sentence. Then it is the name in the bar. A book with no title asks for one, and the answer goes in the bar. Nothing is written into your text.

The page reads it as written there: bullets become a list, the bars between your city, email and phone become one line, Experience and Education become headings, and a job with its dates becomes a role with the dates on the right. A pasted letter keeps its sign-off on two lines, and gets today's date if it has none. Your draft itself is never changed: plain text, Markdown and copy give back exactly what you pasted.

Paste something long into an empty page and it may say what it reads like ("This reads like a cover letter."), once. Nothing changes unless you tap it. The foot of the page shows which printed page you are on, from the last time you opened Page.

Yes, without typing on it. A paragraph with worn phrases carries their count in the page's left margin — on the screen only, never on paper, and the design's own text does not move for it. Tap the number, the paragraph, or the worn count on the line under the strip, and This paragraph opens: the phrase in its sentence, the same ways out its underline offers when you write, and the reason. Tap one and the page sets it in the design's own type, with a bar beside the paragraph and one line saying what it did ("The paragraph re-set two lines shorter").

Keep writes it into your draft. Back to yours puts your words back — straight after a Keep it undoes the Keep, as ⌘Z does. Another hands this paragraph, and only this one, to a pen, and the take is set on the page the same way; ask again for the next pen. next › goes on to the next worn phrase.

Nothing changes unless you keep it. A change you have not kept is never saved: leave the tab, close it, rename the draft or press ⌘S, and what is kept is your own words. A pen's take you were weighing as you wrote comes onto the page with you, to be seen set before you decide, and goes back with you to the words if you leave it standing. A paragraph you hand to a pen is sent to be written, and kept nowhere.

Give it a style. There are seven: headline, tagline, body, caption, credit, header and footer. They are roles, not fonts or sizes — each design sets them its own way, so a headline in The Monolith is enormous and a headline in The Trade is a chapter title, and changing the design restyles everything.

On the write face the paragraph the caret is in names its style at the bottom left (¶ body). Tap it and the seven are listed, each one shown as your chosen design sets it; choose one and it applies to that paragraph, or to every paragraph you have selected. On the page, tap any paragraph: This paragraph opens with the seven as words, and the sheet re-sets at once. A paragraph is a line: what one press of Return makes.

A header or footer leaves the text and runs at the top or the foot of every page, where the design puts its running head and page number (a book keeps its own running-head pages). There is one of each: the first wins, and a second stays in the text. Every paragraph you have not styled is set as the page reads it, as before; unstyle gives a styled one back to that.

Styles are kept with the draft and never written into your words, so plain text and copy are exactly what you typed. Markdown carries them: # a headline, ## a tagline, a caption in italics, a credit as an attribution line; the header and footer are noted at the top. An e-book sets headlines and taglines as headings. Styles come back after an undo, in snapshots, in a saved copy of your drafts, and with a deleted draft brought back.

How the words look to you while you write — the size, spacing, line width and paper in Type on your screen, under the wordmark — is yours alone. It never reaches the page or the print.

Press and hold clear, at the top right, for two seconds — on the write face or the page. A red band under the bar counts down; let go, slide off, scroll or press Esc before it ends and nothing changes. A tap does nothing. With the keyboard, hold Space or Enter on it.

At the end the words go and the draft stays — its name, what it is, its design and its binding — and you are on a blank page with the caret. undo waits in the band for eight seconds and puts back the exact text, styles, caret and place; ⌘Z does the same. After that the words are still in Drafts, under the snapshots of this draft.

From this browser. The pages are composed here, from your words, and printed by your own printer or saved as a PDF from the print sheet. Nothing is uploaded to be laid out.

Nowhere. It is read in this browser and never leaves it.

No, and it will not guess. Good writers trip every one of these flags, because they are habits, and habits belong to whoever has them.

Worn words. Worn constructions. Rhythm too regular to be a person thinking.

And over-correction — prose filed down until it has a uniformity of its own. Nobody else will tell you that.

A hundred findings is not a hundred problems. It is four or five habits, each caught several times. Tap one and it says what it knows.

The names for things writers do on purpose. 203 ship with Tone, with what each is and where it came from. The reference is here.

Seven. Anaphora, epistrophe, anadiplosis, tricolon, asyndeton, polysyndeton — each a count of something mechanically there.

Catching it means guessing at meaning, and a tool that guesses will eventually call a plain sentence a metaphor.

A short list that is true beats a long one that flatters.

A register, the words a writer would never use, and — once calibrated on their published work — their cadence. Stored in this browser only.

One writer usually needs several. An email voice, an essay voice, a voice for a toast.

How fast the thing was written. A note between meetings and a filed report are not the same document and should not be read the same way.

Paste URLs under Your pages. Each is fetched, stripped to prose, measured, and dropped. Meant for your sites, not somebody else's.

One tag. It runs in your visitors' browsers, so it costs you nothing.

<script src="https://write.work/js/tone-embed.js"
        data-target="#editor"></script>

More options

Over MCP, locally, with no network call.

"tone": { "command": "node",
          "args": ["/path/to/mcp/tone-mcp.js"] }

Tools: lint_prose, list_voices, explain_rule. Summary at /llms.txt.

curl -O https://write.work/js/tone-lint.js

const Tone = require('./tone-lint.js');
Tone.analyze(text, { form, level, voice });

Returns findings with offsets, habits, rhythm and stats. It does not touch your text and makes no network call.

Nothing. It runs on your machine rather than ours, which is why it can stay that way.