@geo1951I've been following this thread on AI with the usual cocktail of curiosity, skepticism, and low-level dread. But since everyone seems to have opinions about how it should or shouldn't be used, I figured I'd lay out how I actually use itโmessy, iterative, and very collaborative.
Here's what the writing process looks like for me:
It starts with sparksโstory concepts, fragments, vibes. Sometimes it's a setting: a tattoo parlor where ink rewrites memory. Sometimes it's a phrase that hits like a bell: "I want you in the gray months." Sometimes it's a single image: a woman bathed in meteor light, saying, "I'm yours until dawn." I jot down dozens of these. The ones that keep humming go further.
From there, I provide the scaffolding: a rough outline, story beats, character sketches, locations. And then I hand it to the AIโnot to write for me, but to push back. I ask it to expand the outline, add connective tissue, test the structural load. I use the same process for characters and locations. I provide the bonesโbackground, tension, motivation, visual anchors. The AI drafts a fuller portrait, and I interrogate it: Is this character too easy? Is that location doing symbolic work? Does the room reflect the person who lives in it? We revise. A lot.
When we move into actual beats, it's the same dance. I set the target. AI drafts the first version. I respond, shape, cut, challenge. Then again. Then again. Until something true emerges.
The full draft comes after all of thatโand while the AI might write the first pass of a section, it never survives untouched. I edit brutally. Voice, rhythm, cadenceโthose are mine. But the heavy lifting? The momentum? The surprising suggestions that nudge a scene somewhere stranger or sharper? That's the collaboration.
It also makes a damn good editor. It reins in my worst impulses. For example, I like raw language. I love the word cuntโnot just for shock, but for the chewy, almost sacred vulgarity of it. To me, it's a word of power. But the AI often suggests I dial it back, reminds me that not every reader shares my particular appetite for provocation. And honestly, it's usually right. Not because I want to be bland, but because I want to be heard. It helps me wield the knife with precision, not just enthusiasm.
That saidโAI can write a good short story mostly on its own. Nocturne for Two is one where it took most of the lead. But it can also take dozens of iterations to get a story right. Pause. Rest. Worship. was a gauntlet of rewrites, pacing failures, tonal shifts. The machine is not always helpful, but it is always available.
For longer piecesโnovellas, novelsโit simply doesn't have the capability yet. That might be a limit of the LLM architecture itself, or maybe it's just a memory issueโinsufficient internal context to hold the full emotional and thematic arc. Either way, you can't hand it a blank page and expect a coherent 40,000-word manuscript. Not yet.
What it can doโsurprisingly wellโis style. That's something I value deeply as a creator. I like to shift tone and voice depending on the story's needs. Compare When the Toaster Spokeโabsurd, punchy, magical realistโwith The Sitarist's Requiemโsomber, reverent, sorrowful. The AI helps me explore those tonal registers, test alternate voices, stretch the prose beyond my usual defaults.
One of the biggest gifts AI has given me as a writer is permission to experimentโand the support to actually pull it off.
Take The Veil of Shadows, for example. That was the first time I'd ever attempted to write a bondage story. I didn't know if I could do itโnot just technically, but emotionally and thematically. I don't come from a BDSM background. I had no personal experience to draw from, at least not in the way the story demanded. What I did have was curiosity, respect for the emotional depth of kink, and a sense that there was a story I wanted to tellโif I could find the structure to hold it.
And then there was timing: I started writing it over Easter. Which meant the idea of using the Stations of the Cross as a framework suddenly clicked into placeโnot as a religious treatise, but as a narrative spine. Suffering, transformation, ritual, surrender, resurrection. Those are erotic themes, too, if you let them be.
I asked the AI to extract the meta-themes of the Stationsโremove the specifics, boil them down to their emotional and symbolic beats. What's happening at Station 1, Station 7, Station 12, not just literally but metaphorically? From there, I built a plot outline that mirrored those momentsโnot beat for beat, but "spiritually". The AI helped scaffold thatโoffering interpretations, suggesting transitions, even testing the weight of each scene.
For me, The Veil of Shadows was complex and ambitious for me. I had never written anything like it beforeโphysically intense, symbolically loaded, and emotionally layered. But the AI gave me confidence to go there. Not by replacing the work, but by helping me with the unknown. By helping me hold the weight of the structure while I focused on what needed to be a raw and intimate story.
That's the real power of this tool. Not that it writes the story for youโbut that it lets you write the story you didn't think you could.
But let's be honest: it's not capable of what some of the best writers on this site do. It can't replicate the ease and warmth of Lubrican. It doesn't have Aroslav's depth of character work and slow-burn payoff. It lacks that elusive soul you find in truly artful writing. And I don't expect it to.
It helps me produce better writing, faster. More ambitious stories, more polished drafts, fewer stalls in the mud. It's a partner, not a replacement. A glorified idea bouncer, structural engineer, and line editor rolled into one tireless voice in the ether.
At the end of the day, I consider that the words are still mine. But they're sharper for having been written with the help of AI.
E