A 90-day plan for women founders: talk the ideas stuck in your head
into published posts that sound like you

Why your best ideas never make it online

It usually arrives on a walk. A sharp opinion about the thing everyone in your industry keeps getting wrong. It feels big, maybe even the start of something, and you promise yourself you'll write it down when you get home.

At home you open a document. You type a first line, read it, delete it. The idea that felt enormous on the sidewalk now reads like a LinkedIn post from a stranger, so it goes back into your head to sit with the other forty.

Maybe you know the voice that follows. "Who am I to talk about this?" "A thousand women are already saying it, and better." "I'll start once I've nailed my niche." And late at night, the quieter one: "I think I could actually do this. So why am I still not doing it?"

If that sounds familiar, you're not alone, and nothing about you is broken. The women who hear that voice loudest are often the most capable people in the room. They run companies. They fix a friend's pricing problem in fifteen minutes and leave her with a plan while their own coffee goes cold.

You don't have an ideas problem or a discipline problem. I call it the Filing Problem. Your ideas have nowhere to go while they're still warm, so your brain files them away.

Why you don't need a niche before you start posting

The standard advice says get clear first. Pick the niche, choose three content pillars, decide your colours, write the perfect bio, then post.

I understand why that feels right. You wouldn't open a restaurant without a menu. The more you've already accomplished, the more responsible it sounds to plan before you show your face.

The trouble is that clarity comes out of the work. You find out what you can't stop talking about by recording forty messy voice memos and noticing that eleven of them circle the same thing. Deciding your niche first means picking pillars before you've talked long enough to hear yourself. Every idea then has to apply for permission. Is it on brand? Does it fit? Most don't pass, and the woman who was fascinating for two hours at dinner has nothing that survives inspection.

That approach made sense when Instagram was a glossy magazine. Today someone finds you because a friend sent her your reel with the message "this is you." She doesn't check whether your grid matches. She hears a person and wants more.

Why content calendars, courses and ChatGPT posts haven't worked for you

Look at everything the market sells you. A calendar. Thirty posts generated in an afternoon. A promise to write every morning. Another course.

Every one of those starts at a blank page and asks you to do three jobs at once: have the idea, word it perfectly, and judge whether it's any good. Nobody does three jobs well in one sitting, and the judge always talks loudest.

The calendar gets you through one day. The ChatGPT posts arrive confident and well structured, and they sound like nobody in particular, so you publish three, feel faintly embarrassed, and stop. The course adds a fourth job, which is learning the course.

A woman in my community spent 90 days with a content coach. Good scripts, real strategy. She told me dread came over her body every time she saw a script she had to film. You can't grow a recognisable name through a process you hate. The strategies weren't wrong. They were step two, and somebody sold them to her as step one.

Why I wrote this book

Before I turned 27, I had maybe 300 followers on Instagram. I had plenty to say. I came from a world where "doctor, lawyer, failure" was practically a saying, so every idea got run past an imaginary panel of former colleagues before it was allowed to exist. From the outside it looked like modesty. It was fear with excellent manners.

Then I started a business from a voice memo. I ranted into my phone that nobody made decent cat toys for people who care about design. That rant became a point of view, the point of view became Bloire, and Bloire became a community of 150,000 cat lovers and a seven-figure business. I named it after my two cats, which tells you how much strategy was involved.

Here's what I didn't admit for years. The cats were my hiding place. If a video went viral, it was the cat. If it flopped, the cat flopped. Nobody ever saw me.

After that came burnout so heavy I basically stopped creating for two years, closer to three. Then one night at a founders' retreat in France, walking the grounds in 40-degree heat, a sentence arrived that I had been avoiding: it's my turn. I flew home to Montreal and started My Yaps that same week, with no strategy document. About a month later, 25,000 people were following a woman they had never heard of. No ads.

When I looked back at how any of it happened, I saw the pattern. On the days things worked, I had talked first. On the days nothing got made, I had let the judge in before I opened my mouth.

I'm writing this to you from Lisbon, where I talked this whole book into my phone while walking up and down hills with my rescue dog, Cleo. Get Known is the method I was already using, written down for the woman who is brilliant out loud and quiet online.

Why talking before you type gets your ideas published

When you talk first and judge later, the idea gets out at the speed you think, and the judging gets easier because there's finally something real to judge.

Speaking keeps up with your brain. Typing doesn't. Dictation is roughly four times faster than writing, but the speed matters less than the feeling. You don't get the stall at the top of the sentence or the little editor clearing her throat before the first word.

The recording also keeps what a blank page never lets in. The joke you make before you get serious. The sentence you restart. The word in French that slips out when the English one won't come. That's the part people recognise as you, and it's the part no AI can copy.

People told stories out loud for tens of thousands of years before anyone wrote one down. In French Canada we had the veillées, long winter evenings of stories passed from kitchen to kitchen. Nobody there worried about the first sentence. The keyboard is the newcomer.

How the Spoken Draft Method works: talk first, let AI sort it, then publish

The method in Get Known is the Spoken Draft Method: a voice-first, human-led, AI-assisted way to put out a body of work under your own name. You yap the idea while it's alive. Your AI library sorts the mess into your own language. Then you put your taste and your stories back in before you publish.

It works because it fixes the order, which is where things were breaking all along. The judge only gets a seat once there's something on the table.

Inside the book, the Spoken Draft Method runs as a loop with five steps.

What the method has done so far

Years before the method had a name, I was writing proposals for million-dollar gifts at the Canadian Red Cross. Done the usual way, they took weeks. Talked out first and shaped after, they took days.

I carried a book called Gust of Wind for years, half of it written by hand in notebooks, never finished. When I started running it through the loop, it got done. And this book, Get Known, was talked into my phone in about a month, forty minutes at a time, walking down a hill with a dog.

My Yaps went from an idea to 25,000 followers in about a month with no ads, because the reflex had been catching ideas for months before I ever sat down to plan.