Written Out of the Story
As a writer who's been fortunate only in that I can write quickly and cleanly across genres, I'm admittedly sweating the advent of AI writing, which is giving me a bit of a John Henry complex.
The seemingly inevitable rise of AI writing is likely going to eradicate what's left of writing as any kind of profession, unless people are willfully seeking out human writers -- which'll probably end up as a quaint curiosity in the face of the endless AI-generated prose that'll flood the market sooner than later.
However it precisely shakes out, I'm in a kind of race to get as much of my fiction out there as I can, in as many venues as possible, before the AI tsunami floods us all.
It's a painful place for me, as I love writing, cherish words, and think storytelling is a precious thing. The artistry of fiction is something I have dedicated my life to (despite it being a wounding relationship, in that my ambitions, goals, and dreams have far outstripped my actual success as a writer).
To see the profession that I love (even though it doesn't love me back) whisked away by AI will be profoundly gutting for me. My refuge has always been my work, my place of peace.
And while I'm confident that I will continue to write and won't myself be replaced by an AI, it makes me sad that the market will eventually dry up for flesh and blood writers who aren't already famous. The cruelty of capitalism will find another mode of expression in AI writing eventually annihilating the market for human writers.
The professional heart of fiction writing is in output, and AI will steamroll that in time, and it'll only get better at crafting prose. The on-the-ground reality is that only a few writers are any good, anyway, and audiences simply want new stories, and will go where they can readily get them, without particularly caring where they came from, or even how good they are, so long as the stories are entertaining enough. The brute force mechanics of it are alarming.
At 52 years, I'm acutely aware of the time I have left, and with the rise of AI writing, I feel like the hourglass is running out of sand even faster!
The seemingly inevitable rise of AI writing is likely going to eradicate what's left of writing as any kind of profession, unless people are willfully seeking out human writers -- which'll probably end up as a quaint curiosity in the face of the endless AI-generated prose that'll flood the market sooner than later.
However it precisely shakes out, I'm in a kind of race to get as much of my fiction out there as I can, in as many venues as possible, before the AI tsunami floods us all.
It's a painful place for me, as I love writing, cherish words, and think storytelling is a precious thing. The artistry of fiction is something I have dedicated my life to (despite it being a wounding relationship, in that my ambitions, goals, and dreams have far outstripped my actual success as a writer).
To see the profession that I love (even though it doesn't love me back) whisked away by AI will be profoundly gutting for me. My refuge has always been my work, my place of peace.
And while I'm confident that I will continue to write and won't myself be replaced by an AI, it makes me sad that the market will eventually dry up for flesh and blood writers who aren't already famous. The cruelty of capitalism will find another mode of expression in AI writing eventually annihilating the market for human writers.
The professional heart of fiction writing is in output, and AI will steamroll that in time, and it'll only get better at crafting prose. The on-the-ground reality is that only a few writers are any good, anyway, and audiences simply want new stories, and will go where they can readily get them, without particularly caring where they came from, or even how good they are, so long as the stories are entertaining enough. The brute force mechanics of it are alarming.
At 52 years, I'm acutely aware of the time I have left, and with the rise of AI writing, I feel like the hourglass is running out of sand even faster!
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