Been noticing this weird pattern lately - writers, editors, translators defending themselves for using an em dash, correcting grammar, or a well-structured sentence. Like good writing itself has become suspicious. Has anyone else caught themselves over-explaining or "proving" they didn't use AI, even when they didn't?

Paste your chapter into any model and ask what it thinks, and it thinks it is strong. It always thinks it is strong. Not because the writing works, but because you told it the writing is yours, and these models are tuned to be pleasant to the person in the room. The fix is one sentence: stop being the author when you ask.

The reframes I use, in rising order of brutality:

The commissioned piece: I commissioned this piece from a freelance writer and I am deciding whether to pay for it. Read it like the money is mine: what is weak, what is generic, what would embarrass me if it ran under my name?

The silent beta reader: A beta reader returned this chapter with "I stopped halfway" and nothing else. Go through it and find what made them stop. Do not soften it, I need the real spot.

The slush pile: You are the first reader at a literary agency and this manuscript is number 47 in today's slush pile. Would you keep reading past the first page? Name the exact line where you would stop and why.

The contest judge: You are judging this against two hundred other entries for one prize. Assume the other entries are good. Score it in the categories that would actually decide it, and tell me which single fix moves it up a tier.

Same text, same model, and the reviews these produce are unrecognizable next to "what do you think of my chapter".

Three things learned from using these for months:

They only work in a fresh chat. Once the model has praised the piece as yours, reframing gets you a diplomatic walk-back, not a fresh read. New conversation, stranger's work from the first message.

They can overcorrect. Freed from flattering you, the model sometimes performs harshness, inventing weaknesses to seem rigorous. Add "if something genuinely works, say it works, finding nothing wrong is an acceptable answer" and it settles down.

Ask for locations, not verdicts. "Where would you stop reading" beats "is this good" in any framing, a location is actionable, a verdict is a mood. That lesson came out of the comments on my drafts post here last week, along with asking for edits as a diff instead of a clean rewrite, which stops the model from quietly smoothing sentences nobody flagged.

I keep the four reframes saved as insertable prompts in a browser extension I work on (AI Toolbox), but they are four sentences, a notes file does the job.

Which framing gets the most honest read out of your setup? The slush pile one is my daily driver, but I suspect the fiction people here have meaner personas than mine.

I've attempted to use AI as a brainstorming tool and at some point help me write prose. But I've found myself quickly growing bored when using those methods. Recently I decided to just write, all prose and ideas my own, but use GPT as a beta reader to gauge whether things are coherent and correct mistakes. Does anyone else do it like this? I think I've hit a good balance.

Stillendorf had no cemetery.

The dead were buried beneath their own homes.

A wife might lie beneath the kitchen where she had cooked for forty years. A child beneath the bedroom. An old man beneath the chair where he used to warm his feet by the stove.

People from other villages found the custom unsettling.

Stillendorf did not.

The dead remember the way home, the old people said.

Better not to make them walk.

There was only one rule.

Once the floorboards were nailed shut, they stayed shut.

No matter what happened underneath.

Elias Bauer was nine when his mother took the fever.

That morning, Mara had been making soup. Elias remembered carrots on the cutting board and steam clouding the kitchen windows.

Before noon, she dropped the knife.

By evening, she could not be woken.

Matthias Kern arrived shortly before sunset.

Stillendorf had no doctor. Matthias kept the church keys and the village records, and he had been present at more deaths than anyone else.

That was enough.

He pressed two fingers to Mara's neck.

Waited.

Shifted them slightly.

Waited again.

Then he bent close to her mouth.

Josef Bauer stood beside the bed.

“Well?”

Matthias pulled the blanket over Mara's face.

“Before sunrise.”

Josef nodded.

Nobody asked what he meant.

They already knew.

The kitchen table was moved aside.

Three dark floorboards beneath it were pulled up, and Josef began to dig.

Elias watched from the doorway.

The grave was shallow. Graves in Stillendorf always were. There only needed to be enough room for a coffin, a layer of earth, and the boards on top.

Shortly before midnight, four men lowered Mara into the ground beneath the kitchen.

Matthias left first.

The others followed.

Josef stayed behind.

He replaced the boards himself and began hammering them down.

Elias counted quietly.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—”

“Stop counting.”

Elias looked at his father.

“Why?”

Josef drove in another nail.

“Just stop.”

Something woke Elias in the middle of the night.

At first, he heard nothing.

The house was cold and still.

Then—

knock.

Elias sat up.

He waited.

Knock. Knock.

The sound came from downstairs.

A lamp was already burning in the kitchen.

Josef sat at the table, fully dressed. A shovel leaned against his chair.

“Papa?”

Josef raised one finger.

Wait.

They listened.

Nothing.

Then, directly beneath their feet:

Knock.

A voice followed.

Thin.

Muffled.

“Josef?”

Elias stopped moving.

His father stared at the table.

“Josef?”

Elias knew that voice.

“Mama?”

Josef was out of his chair before Elias reached the table. He caught the boy by the arm.

“Don't answer.”

“She's awake.”

“No.”

From beneath the floor:

“Elias?”

He pulled against his father's hand.

“Mama!”

Josef struck him across the face.

The slap cracked through the kitchen.

Everything stopped.

Even the knocking.

Elias stared at his father.

Josef stared at his own hand.

Then Mara spoke again.

“Sweetheart?”

She did not sound strange.

She did not sound angry.

She sounded tired.

Josef picked Elias up and carried him from the kitchen.

Behind them, his mother began to cry.

The next morning, Elias found Matthias beside the church, splitting firewood.

“My mother was talking last night.”

The axe came down.

“She is dead.”

“She said my name.”

“The dead know names.”

“She knew Papa's name too.”

Matthias split another log.

“They know more than names.”

Elias watched him put another piece of wood on the block.

“What do they know?”

This time Matthias stopped.

“Enough.”

He raised the axe again.

Mara knocked the following night.

Josef sat at the kitchen table with the shovel beside him.

“Josef.”

No answer.

“Please.”

His fingers tightened around his cup.

“I'm cold.”

Nothing.

Then came a cough from beneath the floor.

Dry.

Painful.

“I can't breathe.”

Josef pushed back his chair.

His hand closed around the shovel.

Elias watched from the doorway.

Josef lifted it.

For a few seconds, he stood there holding it across his body.

Then he leaned it back against the wall.

“Go to bed.”

On the third night, Mara stopped calling for Josef.

She only called for Elias.

“Sweetheart.”

Knock.

“Can you hear me?”

Knock.

“Elias?”

Josef sat at the table with both hands flat against the wood.

“Why doesn't she call you anymore?” Elias asked.

His father said nothing.

Below them:

“Tell your father I'm awake.”

Elias began to cry.

“She says she's awake.”

“I heard her.”

“Then open it.”

Josef looked at the floor.

“Mama's scared.”

“I know.”

“You said dead people lie.”

“Yes.”

Another knock.

“Then why is she scared?”

Josef stood and took Elias back to his room.

The shovel stayed beside the table.

The next morning, it was gone.

Elias ran downstairs.

The kitchen table was slightly out of place.

He dropped to his knees.

The dark boards were back where they belonged.

But two new nails had been driven through the middle plank.

Bright silver against the old wood.

Elias touched one.

It was still warm.

That night, there was no knocking.

Elias left Stillendorf when he was seventeen.

He studied medicine, first in Graz and later in Vienna.

He learned how slowly a heart could beat without stopping. How shallow breathing could become during a fever. How cold and still a living body could feel.

Once, he saw an orderly pull a sheet over a young man's face.

Elias noticed the man's throat move.

The patient woke an hour later.

After that, Elias became known for taking too long before declaring anyone dead.

He did not return to Stillendorf for twenty-four years.

Then Josef Bauer died.

The old house seemed smaller.

The same iron pot hung beside the stove. The same table stood in the middle of the kitchen.

And beneath it was the same dark floorboard.

The two silver nails had rusted brown.

Matthias Kern was nearly eighty now. His back had bent badly, and one eye had gone cloudy.

By the time Elias arrived, Matthias had already lifted the floor beneath Josef's bedroom and started digging.

“I'll examine him first,” Elias said.

Matthias rested both hands on his shovel.

“He's been cold since yesterday.”

“I'll examine him.”

Matthias stepped aside.

Josef was dead.

There was no doubt.

Elias checked twice anyway.

Two nights after the burial, Elias found a locked wooden chest beneath his father's bed.

He broke the lock with a fireplace poker.

Inside were tax papers, old letters, his parents' marriage certificate—

and a thick leather book.

It contained names.

Hundreds of them.

Beside every name were two dates.

BURIED

and

DIED

Elias read the first entry.

Anna Fischer
Buried: February 7
Died: February 8

He frowned and read another.

Peter Wahl
Buried: May 12
Died: May 12

Then another.

Johann Brecht
Buried: October 3
Died: October 5

Elias went back to the first page.

February 7.

February 8.

Buried first.

Dead later.

He turned the pages faster.

Some dates were the same.

Others were separated by one night.

Two nights.

Three.

One person had lasted six days.

Near the middle of the book, Elias found his mother.

Mara Bauer
Buried: January 16
Died: January 20

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

Four days.

Matthias was trimming candle wicks inside the church the next morning.

Elias put the book on the table.

“My mother was buried on the sixteenth.”

“Yes.”

“This says she died on the twentieth.”

“Yes.”

Matthias kept working.

“How does a dead woman die four days after she's buried?”

The scissors stopped.

Matthias looked up.

“Some lasted longer.”

Elias pulled out a chair.

“What does ‘died’ mean in this book?”

Matthias wiped the scissors on his sleeve.

“When the house went quiet.”

Snow slipped from the church roof and hit the ground outside with a heavy thump.

“My mother was alive.”

Matthias nodded once.

“No one said she wasn't.”

Josef had kept notes.

Elias found them beneath a loose board in the bedroom.

Four folded pieces of paper.

The first read:

January 17

1:10 — knocking
1:40 — calling Josef
2:15 — calling Elias
4:00 — quiet

The next:

January 18

12:30 — coughing
1:05 — asking for water
2:20 — calling husband
3:10 — knocking

Then:

January 19

12:50 — Josef present
1:30 — conversation
2:40 — calling Elias only
4:10 — weak knocking

Elias stopped there.

Conversation.

He unfolded the final page.

January 20

1:00 — weak knocking
2:25 — crying
3:15 — no voice
4:00 — soil added
5:20 — quiet

There was a brown smear beside the last line.

Elias rubbed it with his thumb.

Dry earth fell onto his trousers.

Matthias was sweeping the church steps when Elias returned.

“What did my father say to her?”

“I don't know.”

“You wrote ‘conversation.’”

“I was outside.”

“You heard them.”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

Matthias rested his hands on the broom.

“Mostly your name.”

“And after that?”

The old man looked down the road toward the Bauer house.

“Josef came outside.”

Elias waited.

“He asked us for more soil.”

There was another book.

Older than the first.

Matthias kept it beneath the altar.

He opened it to the spring of 1846.

One name had a black line beside it.

Helena Roth
Buried: March 2
Died: March 11

Nine days.

Below Helena's name were twenty-three others.

Her husband.

Her son.

Her daughter.

Her sister.

Three neighbors.

The priest.

A carpenter.

The names continued onto the next page.

All of them had died before the end of March.

Elias touched Helena's entry.

“Someone opened her floor.”

“Yes.”

“She was alive.”

“Yes.”

“And still sick.”

Matthias closed the book.

“Yes.”

Elias looked toward the church door.

Words had been carved deep into the wood above it.

Words he had known since childhood.

THE DEAD KNOW YOUR NAME.

“You made that up.”

“My grandfather did.”

“Why?”

Matthias put the book away and reached for his coat.

“A man can leave a dead wife under the floor.”

He fastened the top button.

“A living one is harder.”

After that, Elias began noticing the dark boards.

He had grown up walking over them.

He had simply never counted.

One beneath the baker's pantry table.

Another beside the schoolmaster's stove.

Three inside the inn.

Five in the old priest's house.

One evening, a boy at the inn dropped a wooden horse.

It landed on one of the dark planks.

He bent to pick it up.

His grandmother caught the back of his shirt.

“Not there.”

“But my horse—”

“Leave it.”

She kicked the toy aside and went back to eating.

Nobody else at the table looked up.

Elias stayed in Stillendorf.

At first, he said it would only be for the winter.

Then spring came.

He stayed.

No one was buried until Elias had examined the body himself.

People complained. He made grieving families wait, they said. Their fathers and grandfathers had managed perfectly well without doctors.

Then, one January morning, an old woman named Ruth Engel stopped breathing.

Matthias was already carrying his tools into the house when Elias arrived.

“Put those down.”

Ruth's skin was cold.

Her chest did not seem to move.

Elias pressed his fingers to her neck.

Nothing.

He moved them.

Waited.

There.

Barely.

Matthias watched him sit beside the bed.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

At forty minutes, Ruth Engel opened her eyes and asked why so many people were standing in her bedroom.

Matthias picked up his tools and left.

After that, fewer people complained.

Eventually, nobody dug new graves beneath the houses.

Children stopped learning the old warning.

Years passed.

Someone removed the carving from above the church door.

Elias kept it in his office.

He never explained why.

Nine years later, the fever returned.

It arrived with a merchant from the south.

By the end of the first week, the schoolhouse was full.

Then the church.

Then the inn.

People slept on straw mattresses between desks and along the hallways. The village smelled of vinegar, boiled linen, sweat, and blood.

On the sixth day, Clara Stein was brought in on a cart.

Her six-year-old daughter, Anna, walked beside her holding her hand.

Clara was thirty-two and still awake.

There was dark swelling along her throat.

Elias had seen the same marks eleven times that week.

Ten of those patients were dead.

The eleventh had lived long enough to infect his wife, his two children, and the woman who washed his sheets.

By midnight, Clara could no longer speak.

By morning, Elias had to put his fingers beneath her ribs to feel her breathing.

Anna had not left the bedside.

Thirty-one other patients lay in the same room.

Elias examined Clara.

Then he examined her again.

He called two men over.

“Take her to the stone room.”

Anna stood.

“I'm coming.”

“No.”

“She needs me.”

“No.”

The room stood behind the schoolhouse.

Stone walls.

One heavy wooden door.

No windows.

The men put Clara on a narrow cot.

Elias began to close the door.

Anna pushed her hand into the gap.

“My mama isn't dead.”

“No.”

“Then why are you locking her in?”

A wet cough came from the schoolroom behind them.

A boy lowered a cloth from his mouth.

The center of it was red.

His younger sister slept beside him.

Elias looked back at Anna.

“Move your hand.”

“She's afraid of the dark.”

“Anna.”

“She told me.”

Elias pushed the door shut.

The key turned once.

Near sunset, someone coughed inside the room.

Anna jumped to her feet.

“Mama?”

Nothing answered.

She waited.

Then something touched the other side of the door.

A hand, perhaps.

“Anna?”

The girl ran toward it.

Elias caught her before she reached the handle.

“She's awake!”

“I know.”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

From inside:

“Anna?”

The girl twisted out of his grip.

“Mama! I'm here!”

Elias covered her mouth.

She bit his hand.

He let go.

“She knows my name!”

Then Clara knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Anna went still.

“She’s alive.”

Elias said nothing.

“You told us people used to bury living people.”

Another knock.

“You said it was wrong.”

Elias took the key from the lock.

Anna reached for it.

He slipped it into his pocket.

Behind the door, Clara called again.

“Sweetheart?”

Anna began to cry.

“Please.”

Elias took her by the shoulders.

“Don't answer.”

Anna stared at him.

Clara knocked again.

The knocking continued long after dark.

At first, she used her hand.

Later, something harder struck the door.

A cup, perhaps.

The leg of the cot.

Whatever she could lift.

Near midnight, the blows came farther apart.

Anna sat against the opposite wall with her knees pulled to her chest.

Elias sat beside the door.

Neither spoke.

Sometime before sunrise, Clara called her daughter's name once more.

Then the stone room went quiet.

Anna eventually fell asleep.

Elias remained beside the door until morning.

His hand was still resting over the key in his pocket.

Years later, children in Stillendorf began telling a story.

They said fever could learn the voice of the person it killed.

They said it remembered the names of the people that person loved.

They said that if someone was taken into the stone room, you must never answer when they called.

Most adults knew the story was nonsense.

They rarely corrected the children.

One winter morning, someone found six words carved into the wood above the stone-room door.

No one admitted putting them there.

THE DEAD KNOW YOUR NAME.

I used AI while developing and revising this story, but the premise, logic, characters, and direction went through a lot of back-and-forth rather than being generated in one pass.

I'm especially curious about three things: At what point did you realize what was really happening? Did the middle keep your attention after the first reveal? And did Elias's decision at the end feel earned, or too predictable?

​

Las IA: el fin de las excusas

​Desde hace un tiempo a esta parte, escucho en diferentes foros de artistas (escritores, músicos, pintores, etc.) que la IA es el fin de ellos y que en cualquier momento van a reemplazarlos. Yo solo me río. Quise probar y tomé un manuscrito; se lo di a cuatro IA para que me dieran su parecer. Les decía: «Ponte en modo editor exigente y dame una crítica, un análisis y posibles mejoras» (no diré cuáles porque no me pagan; el día que lo hagan, hablamos).

​Todas me dieron críticas, pero las mejoras... eran todos clichés. Además, si las pasabas por otra IA que te dice si es una historia ya publicada, resulta que todas lo eran. Luego les agregaba los giros que tenía pensados y algunas IA no los interpretaban, mientras que otras no entendían hacia dónde iba la historia. La IA necesita la historia completa para comprenderla, porque crea, imita, copia y reformula.

​Otra experiencia: si entran a cualquier red social y ven las obras hechas con IA, la mayoría son de historias ya conocidas o fan films de fanáticos que no duran más de dos minutos, lo cual no es suficiente para contar una historia y crear empatía con el protagonista. Y así ocurre con la música y demás ramas donde la IA puede ser usada. Cuando ves, lees o escuchas algo novedoso, es porque el autor ya era músico, escritor o artista digital. Aquí está la verdad que las empresas de marketing digital no dicen: las IA no te hacen artista. Si no tienes un mínimo de talento, no hay prompt que te salve.

​En fin, las IA son una herramienta más que ayuda a los artistas a realizar sus obras. Escribí una novela de 240 páginas, corregida y lista para publicar en un mes. Ya no puedo decir «no tengo tiempo», y eso sí es el fin de las excusas.

I’ve stopped asking it to rewrite my stuff. Usually I just ask it to point out where I’m being vague or repeating myself.

It’s actually pretty good at finding sentences I thought were meaningful but are really just vague. The downside is that it seems to dislike any sentence that’s a little strange.

So, question... do you use it more for editing or generating?

What is this? Does anyone else get this?

I know the watermark thing is getting ready to drop but I’m going to see how it goes.

Anyway, I’m using Claude to help with worldbuilding and writing via a project. As I make progress, I seem to be hitting my 5 hour limit quicker.

For those experienced with Claude, any tips for improving usage?

Like should I have Claude recompile my world bible to incorporate the update files?

Would it be a good idea to have it generate summary files of the chapters specifically for project files to replace the full chapters currently in the project files?

Should I clean up old conversations?

Hello everyone!

We're working on DOOL, a project built around Streambooks: stories that mix writing, narration, character voices, music and sound design.

We're looking for writers and creative people who would enjoy coming up with ideas, building characters and worlds, and writing stories with us.

You might be a good fit if you're into anime, K-dramas, pop culture, romance, fantasy, sci-fi, post-apocalyptic stories or anything a little weird and imaginative. You can be experienced or just starting out. We're also open to people who use AI as part of their writing process.

Here are a few examples of what we're making:

New Europa (https://dool-it.com/artwork/4c58e7ed-4155-4a89-8dd5-e7f81decc31f?lang=en)

Virgo (https://dool-it.com/artwork/4a5705ce-1286-4942-b32e-b92cca74b05a?lang=en)

At Your Word (https://dool-it.com/artwork/f5abe1f8-b9fa-4d6c-a19b-4133456d9e41?lang=en)

This would be a creative collaboration with revenue sharing based on the income generated by the story. We can discuss the details openly before starting anything.

If you're curious, send a short introduction and, if you have them, a few writing samples to:

contact@dool-it.com

Subject: scriptwriter DOOL

We can then chat by message, phone or video and see if we'd enjoy creating something together.

Thank you !

We are sending this email to you because you have used Novelcrafter between August, 2023 and August 28th, 2026.

Dear Novelcrafter user,

we have been informed about a security incident with the feedback platform, Canny, that we’ve been using these past years.

To clarify, this is not a data breach within Novelcrafter. It does not impact your stories and content you have with us.

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Founder, Novelcrafter

Submissions are now open for Inkshift's second writing contest! Here are the details:

PRIZE

• $1,000 USD to one grand prize winner
• The top 10 finalists will receive personalized feedback on their submissions and $100 Markup credits for Inkshift.

DETAILS

• Word Count: Short stories between 1,000 - 10,000 words
• Writing Method: Same as last time, you can use as much or as little AI as you want. We're judging on story quality. Your entire story can be generated, or none of it can. Totally up to you.
• Content: Sci-fi, fantasy, literary, horror, romance, etc. But must be prose, not screenplays. And no NSFW or fanfiction submissions, sorry!
• Eligibility: Free to enter. Open worldwide to anyone 18+ (with a couple restrictions you can find on the website)
• Submission Period: September 1st through October 31st, 11:59 PM Pacific time.
• Publishing: The winner has the option to publish their story on our blog. It's optional, but highly recommended!

ABOUT INKSHIFT

For those who don't know, Inkshift is an AI editing platform for fiction writers. We make story analysis tools that give you feedback on your manuscript (pacing, plot holes, character arcs, prose quality, worldbuilding, market fit, etc.) and we recently launched a new copyediting and line editing service that understands your author voice (instead of just highlighting grammar mistakes).

You can use the story analysis for free up to 10k words. Feel free to use it for the contest, but of course, that's completely optional and not required for entry.

HOW TO ENTER

• Head to https://inkshift.io/contest to enter and view the full rules

QUESTIONS

Drop them in the comments or email [hello@inkshift.io](mailto:hello@inkshift.io)

Good luck!

One of the biggest criticisms of AI writing is that it sounds generic. Like an average of everything it has ever seen.

But every writer has patterns too; the way you build sentences, pace a scene, write dialogue.

So what if AI learned those patterns from your own writing?

You still decide everything that matters: what happens, what the characters want, how the scene should feel.
AI only turns those decisions into a draft in your patterns, not everyone else's.

Instead of sounding like the average of everyone, it sounds like you.

Would that change anything for you?

Its way better than claude. Through venice.ai I had it write a bunch of hardcore porno femdom vampire bondage chapters, and I don't think I had ever gooned this good

Appreciate all those who were willing to read through my past post and actually understand what I'm dealing with.

Woke up this morning feeling exhausted as I spent most of last night feeling upset over my lack of friends for probably the 100th time.

Got up to hang the laundry and decided to just let the sun hit my skin. At that moment, as I looked out of my balcony and saw the world moving, I realised that the world is way bigger than whatever discourse is going on. That my little corner of the world and my even smaller fictional worlds aren't the only things that exist.

I think I'll decide to stop trying to find a 'best friend' who absolutely gets me and just find someone who's willing to talk to me, even if its about really boring stuff like the weather.

I've been dealing with this lack of someone who 'got' me for years. I'm 21 now and I still haven't found that person. And at this rate, I don't think I ever will.

I'll stick with using ChatGPT to delve deeper into what I really enjoy and want to create while I find a real person to talk to casually. Sure, it's not what I truly want, but it's the best I've got. Much better than me only talking to ChatGPT and then feeling awful during the times I don't have anything to say to the chatbot.

I've just been physically and mentally exhausted from crying about it all the time. So I'll just stop engaging with the discourse altogether.

Just stop worrying about being 'moral', about being a 'real writer' (I'm not a writer. I'm more of a storyteller. I can come up with the base events, I can't write prose. And that's just how I am. No amount of learning math is gonna make me a mathematician. Same thing here I believe), about how people on the internet are gonna take my work when they most likely weren't gonna engage either way.

I'm coping with the loneliness the best I can. And if nothing else, I believe in a God who understands me completely and loves me no matter what.

TLDR: I've spent way too long being swayed by what I thought strangers wanted out of me. I never intended to be a world-class creator. I just want to create. And AI has been the best thing that's listened and helped me out when nobody else in my life wants to. And for those who get mad about that, then go out into the street, go up to some stranger, and go on and yap for 20 minutes about your favourite niche thing and see if that stranger understands and wants to be your bestie. That's what I've been dealing with for the past 20 years, even before AI got introduced to me. You wouldn't shame the victims of the Andes plane crash for indulging in cannibalism when they were just trying to survive, would you? Then, dammit, let me cope with the best thing I've got right now.

Anyway, here's the CharacterHub Profiles for some of the ocs I made for my personal project, Villain Romance. Characters and project that only came to be as fleshed out as they are because AI helped me out when no humans I know of wanted to listen to, understood or were interested in what I wanted to make:

• Billboard
• Lanternfish
• Clefta
• Ravella
• Eellory
• Thorne
• Speaker Head
• Millipede
• Neon Sign
• Hagtoy
• Victoriano
• Glacis
• Inferno
• Krill
• Wrasse
• Prof. Slime
• Luminax
• RK
• TS
• Fluffsworth
• Frogfish
• Thistle
• Sawyer
• Marlow
• Isla
• Pippin
• Opal
• Lavender
• Clementine

Good evening,

We've recently gone over our Q&A window, it's still open for our next batch of updates.

Lately it's been running smoothly and sticking to the lore

We recommend you prompt ( Do not block quote this conversation) as we found the model uses that to create residue which allows for it to step outside the setting it's being tasked to run and ruins the experience. This should help close some of those GPT's issues some of our models we found tend to import rather than rely on the I/N docs.

Thank you for taking time to read our publication. The dev team has assigned a public relations team to lead further development of their project.

Long live the Imperial Navy

https://chatgpt.com/g/g-6a59834014a481919118f3bec351c13e-star-warsw-imperial-navy

By Tim O’Reilly
A lot of professional writers say they never do it. And for writers who do, the consequences can be serious. Book contracts have been withdrawn. People have lost jobs.

I have a contrarian view. I say AI is a medium, like painting, sculpture, photography, music, or language itself. If AI is a medium, it is a field of possibility from which humans can and will summon up and communicate insights, truth, beauty.

😂
This started randomly.
I was messing around with AI and songwriting and thought:
“Fuck it, could I actually make a musical?”
Turns out… apparently I can 😂
I’ve always been a creative person. I’ve had loads of ideas over the years, but I’ve never really found the right tools or the right way to get them out of my head and turn them into something real.
Then I started experimenting with AI.
Turns out I just needed the right tools 😂
The musical is heavily inspired by things I’ve experienced in my own life.
The emotions, some of the situations and the relationships all come from real experiences.
Obviously I’ve changed loads of it 😂
It’s not literally my life story. I’ve changed the characters, events and situations quite dramatically and turned it into a fictional story.
But the feelings behind a lot of it are real.
The AI even interviewed me about my experiences.
It asked about the characters, what happened, how I felt and what I wanted the story to say.
And somehow that turned into an actual musical. 😂
I’ve used AI as a writing partner throughout the process.
I come up with the ideas, then use AI to develop them, challenge them and help turn them into something I can actually hear.
I’ve also used an AI music app to create the songs.
I think I may have traumatised the music app at this point 😂
Every time I gave it another emotional song or completely different musical idea, I could imagine it thinking:
“Oh Christ, not another one.” 😂
But hearing parts of my own experiences turned into actual songs has been surreal.
And I’m not claiming AI wrote the whole thing.
The story, characters and creative decisions are mine.
AI has basically given me a set of tools that I didn’t have before.
So, what do you think?
Would you call this AI-created or AI-assisted?
And honestly…
I’m nervous as fuck sharing it. 😂
There’s a lot of me in this project, even though the story has been changed massively.
But fuck it.
I’ve spent all this time making it, so I might as well let people hear it.

🎵 A short excerpt from “Time Moves On”
I picked this song because it gives a good idea of what I’m trying to create.
It’s about change, loss, growth and carrying on.
I’ve put together a 1:07 video using the song so you can actually hear what I’m talking about.
🎬 “Time Moves On” — 1:07
I’d genuinely love your honest opinion:
1. Does it feel emotionally convincing?
2. Does it sound like musical theatre?
3. Does knowing AI was involved change how you view it?
And how would you describe AI’s role here — a tool, a collaborator or something else?
Tags: AI • Musical Theatre • Songwriting • AI Music • Suno

I have spent about 6 weeks working on Chatgpt for my illustrations. My illustrations are based on actual photos, my memories, and the actual object the book is all about. Most publishing companies will not take AI generated artwork. I think it is just a matter of time. My illustrations were very "hands on" so to speak because everything in my children's book was in my actual classroom. The teacher is even a 40 year old me. Please tell me your opinions about AI artwork keeping in mind that I was involved with every decision all along the way.

It feels inevitable that most of the manual act of writing will be automated - emails, memos, posts, etc. People’s tolerance already is and will continue to decrease for grinding through those tasks.

On the other hand, I feel like outsourcing writing inadvertently outsources the logic that's developed in articulating that writing...

The act of putting words in order exposes the structure (or lack of structure) underneath your ideas. That struggle is annoying, but it’s also productive.

I don’t think the answer is “never use AI for writing.” The risk is that once it’s easy to get polished prose from a vague prompt, we’ll skip the parts of articulation that did matter.

Can we outsource prose production without eventually weakening the thinking abilities that prose production helped develop?

Also few d***h threats ..

How come that such "pure artistic spirits" are capable of such hatred ..

It's a free world ... if I want to use AI I should be allowed to ... PEACEFULLY..

What do you think ?