I recently read A Real Piece of Work by Freya Bromley, a novel about a young woman who writes a memoir about her dead sister. Nola hopes that, by writing about Darina, she can keep her sister alive while finding a way through her own grief.

The memoir becomes a worldwide success, resonating with readers in ways Nola could never have imagined. But Darina isn’t just Nola’s sister, her memory also belongs to their siblings and parents, friends and lovers, many of whom don’t recognise the version of her that Nola has written.

The book is fiction – and very good fiction, in case you’re thinking of investing – but the questions it raises are real. Who owns your life after you die? Who gets to tell your story? And what happens when you’re no longer around to object?

It used to be that, when we died, the worst we had to fear was a memoir and, for most of us, that wasn’t even a thought. The majority of us are neither famous nor infamous, or, hopefully, interesting enough for anyone to write about us.

Our families might dig us up, all puns aside, and create a family tree. They’ll frame a few photographs and share a ‘hard to believe she’s been gone a year’ post on whatever social media platform is trending by then, but that’s about it.

And while their memories, like Nola’s, may be unreliable and subjective, they are, at least, human.

Digital archives

But now, even those of us living wonderfully unremarkable lives can’t rest easily, because we are unwittingly – or carelessly – creating digital archives of ourselves.

Think about everything you’ve left scattered across social media – Bebo, Friends Reunited, Facebook, Instagram – all posted without ever imagining it might one day outlive you.

Then there are the email threads that will trail behind you like contrails, and all the photographs, videos and voice notes – oh God, the voice notes!

For the first time, people like you and me are leaving behind enough material for others, if they choose, to construct a digital version of us – and I can understand the attraction for those left behind. When my dad died, I found myself fighting the urge to go to a clairvoyant, hoping somehow that I might find him. After all, who doesn’t want one more conversation, one last chance to hear the voice of someone they loved?

Artificial intelligence is moving far faster than we are but, thankfully, legislators are beginning to catch up.

In certain circumstances, people must be informed when they are interacting with AI, while deepfakes and other AI-generated or manipulated material must be identifiable as such

Here in Ireland, the Protection of Voice and Image Bill 2025, introduced by Fianna Fáil TD Malcolm Byrne, has passed Second Stage in the Dáil, although it still has several legislative hurdles to clear before becoming law. The Bill seeks to make it an offence to misuse a person’s name, photograph, voice or likeness, particularly through convincing deepfakes that make it appear they have said or done something they haven’t.

At European level, transparency requirements under the EU Artificial Intelligence Act came into effect this month. In certain circumstances, people must be informed when they are interacting with AI, while deepfakes and other AI-generated or manipulated material must be identifiable as such.

The Irish Bill does refer to consent from an executor, administrator or heirs in the case of someone deceased, but questions remain. If you can’t use my voice and image without my consent while I’m alive, why should you be allowed to do so when I’m dead?

Can I leave that right to my children? Can I leave an instruction that nobody has that right? And if I don’t make my wishes known, who gets to decide?

Rest in peace

Which brings me back to Freya Bromley’s novel, which asks who gets to tell the story of someone who can no longer tell it.

Perhaps the question we need to answer, before technology does it for us, is whether the dead should have the right to remain that way and whether, in this brave new digital world, we will still be allowed to rest in peace.