We want your words, stories, flours, flops, feels.
You don’t need to be perfect.
We aren’t.
Neither is bread. Sometimes the crust splits wrong. Sometimes the dough misbehaves. Still worth baking. Still worth biting into.
Same goes for your writing. Doesn’t need polish. Doesn’t need to sound like a professional. We care more about truth. Texture. Messiness. Smell of memory. The feel of fingers pressed into dough. Those kinds of things.
Why do we ask for your voice?
Because we’re not a giant kitchen full of chefs with white coats. We’re people who bake because it calms the mind, fills the house, connects generations.
We don’t want to publish textbook content. We want to print heartbeats in flour.
Who we love working with
— Someone who taught their kid how to braid challah
— A person baking to grieve
— A guy making flatbreads in a tiny van kitchen
— A woman who learned to knead dough from her grandmother
— Someone obsessed with oven spring
— People who make bread without rules
— Folks who are still figuring it out
You don’t have to be famous. Or follow trends. We don’t track traffic. We feel tone. If your story lands like a warm loaf in our inbox, we’ll read every word.
What you can write about
This isn’t a list. It’s a spark.
— Your go-to bread. The one you always come back to.
— The time your sourdough bubbled over at 3am.
— The smell of your grandfather’s rye.
— What bread means during a hard time.
— The first time you baked for someone you loved.
— Mistakes you made learning to bake.
— How a local bakery changed your mornings.
— What “bread” even means to you.
— Recipes, of course. But tell us why that recipe matters.
— Ingredients that shaped you.
— Tools you swear by—or tools you make do without.
— Bread memories from your home country.
— Notes from your daily life, shaped by dough.
If you’re unsure, send the seed of the idea. We’ll help shape it.
You don’t have to be a “writer”
Bread doesn’t ask if you’re certified. Neither do we.
We’ve published first drafts before. We’ve helped people find the story inside a rough stack of notes. If you’ve got passion, we’ll help pull the shape from the mess. Sometimes the best lines come from people who’ve never written a sentence outside of messages to friends.
We want humanity. Sweat. Doubt. Smiles. Curiosity. All of it. Especially the stuff people usually cut.
Voice matters more than structure
We’re not a magazine. We’re not a news site. We’re a corner table, always holding a few crumbs. If your writing reads like someone sharing thoughts while kneading dough, you’re in.
No forced intros. No “first, then, finally.”
We’d rather feel something. Laugh a little. Cry, maybe. Or at least close our eyes and taste your memory.
Writing about bread doesn’t mean it’s only about bread
It could start with flour and end with grief. Begin in a bowl and end in love.
Maybe you talk about toast, but really you’re telling us how you survived winter. We like the layers. Let your story stretch and prove. Then bake it here.
What’s the deal with recipes?
We accept them. Actually, we love them. But not if they just sit there like sad IKEA instructions.
Give us something with feel. You don’t have to list times like a stopwatch. Tell us when dough “feels alive,” when it smells like warm hay, when the crust sings. Those notes mean more than “bake 24 minutes at 180°C.”
We want recipes with fingerprints. Marks of a life lived. Photos not required, but if you’ve got some, send them in.
Word count?
Flexible.
Some stories stretch long and don’t feel like it. Some get right to the point in 300 words and stay forever. As a rough guide, aim for 500–1500 if you’re writing a story. If it’s a recipe with a short backstory, 400–800 might work. If you’ve got something that flows for 2500+ but never drags, we’ll take it.
Editing
We’re gentle. We won’t strip your voice. No one wants to sound like a brochure. We only cut what feels out of place or unclear. We keep tone, rhythm, you.
And we always ask before publishing anything.
What you get out of this
We don’t pay yet. We hope to someday. Right now, we’re working with crumbs and crusts.
But you get a full bio. A link to your blog or socials. You get real readers who care. And you get our hands in your dough, metaphorically speaking.
Some folks we’ve published before have gone on to write books. Or start newsletters. Or just felt proud seeing their name on something that matters.
We also keep all work archived with your name. You own it. If you ever want to republish it elsewhere after 30 days, you can.
What we don’t want
— Copied content
— Stuff written by AI
— Salesy tone
— Recipes without heart
— Hollow listicles
— Posts trying to game search rankings
— Pitches that feel like a cold call
If you’re not sure your piece fits, ask. But if your first sentence mentions “SEO” or “in today’s competitive content space,” we’ll probably skip it.
Examples of what works
We once ran a piece by someone who made flatbread with wild thyme during a blackout. Another one came from a teenage baker learning to shape boules after school.
We’ve published grieving sons, new moms, students baking with borrowed pans, and an old timer who mailed us a poem about sourdough and missing teeth.
None of them started with, “Here’s 5 tips for better baking.” Every one of them started with feeling.
How to submit
Email us: contact@maison-kayser.com.sg
Use the subject line: Write For Maison Kayser
You can include:
— Your piece (in the email or as a document)
— A quick intro if you’d like
— Any links to your own writing, blog or socials
— A photo if it adds flavor (not required)
— A title idea (we might change it, but helps us feel tone)
If it’s just an idea or outline, that’s fine too. We’re happy to brainstorm with you.
What happens after you send it
We read every piece. If something clicks, we’ll reply. If we think it’s not quite right but worth shaping, we’ll tell you. If it doesn’t fit, we’ll still thank you. Because showing up matters.
We usually reply within two weeks. Sometimes faster. We never ghost people.
What if I want to write again?
Even better. Some folks end up becoming regulars. We build trust. You get space to share. Maybe we start a series. Maybe we co-write something.
Long game matters to us. Like sourdough.
Bread lasts longer when shared. So do stories. This page isn’t a pitch deck. It’s an open door. A table with a seat waiting. No linen napkins. Just crumbs, warmth, and a lot of heart.
We’re not trying to fill slots. We’re trying to hold something real. If you’ve got something that deserves air, send it in. If you’ve got doubt, send anyway.
The oven’s on. Let’s see what rises.