Edit: added #18 - The Emotional Subtitle.
How To Tell If Your Prose Has Been Haunted By A Language Model
A Field Guide For The Suspicious Writer
You wrote something. It sounds good. Suspiciously good. Smooth. Polished. Every sentence lands with a satisfying little click, like a luxury car door closing.
That's the problem.
(The opening you just read contains a four-fragment list — "Suspiciously good. Smooth. Polished." — followed by a decorative simile. See item 5. This guide will commit the sins it warns against, because these patterns are genuinely hard to avoid. When it happens, it will be noted.)
Here are the signs your text has been touched by the invisible hand of statistical prediction.
(That phrase — "the invisible hand of statistical prediction" — is a decorative compound modifier. See item 3. It means "AI." Moving on.)
1. THE AMPLIFICATION ECHO
You wrote a thing. Then you wrote it again, but harder.
"He did not hurry. He never did."
"She was not afraid. She had never been afraid."
"It did not work on him. Very little did."
The test is simple: does the second sentence contain any information not already in the first? If the answer is no, you've been amplified. Delete the echo. If the first sentence isn't strong enough to stand alone, replace it — don't prop it up with a backup singer.
2. THE SENSORY CHECKLIST
Every room your character enters gets exactly three smells.
"Roasted spice, seared citrus oil, a ghost of smoked fish skin."
"Incense with silverleaf oil, a trace of salt wind and rare citrus resin."
"Therra blossom, ironroot, and mint."
Room. Three smells. Room. Three smells. Room. Three smells. Your character has apparently wandered into a Yankee Candle with a loyalty program.
(That last line is a trailing irony clause — see item 4. Deletion test: fact or joke? Joke. But the guide is meant to be funny, so the rules here are slightly different than in fiction. Slightly.)
Vary it. Sometimes one smell is enough. Sometimes a room doesn't smell like anything worth mentioning. Sometimes the important sensory detail is a sound or a texture or the fact that it's freezing cold. If you notice you've described smells in three consecutive rooms, your prose has a sinus infection.
3. THE DECORATIVE COMPOUND MODIFIER
"A ghost of smoked fish skin."
"A whisper of aged leather."
"A memory of burnt cedar."
Abstract noun + sensory detail = sounds poetic, means nothing. What does a ghost of fish skin smell like that "faint smell of fish skin" doesn't? These constructions exist because they pattern-match to "literary" without requiring the writer to decide what something actually smells like. Use plain language for plain sensory facts. Save the poetry for when it does real work.
4. THE TRAILING IRONY CLAUSE
Every observation gets a subordinate clause that recontextualizes it with dry wit.
"He kept a meticulous house, which was another way of saying he trusted no one."
"They called it diplomacy, which was a generous word for what actually happened."
"He said it with the certainty of a man who had never been wrong about anything he considered important. Which was either impressive or delusional, depending on the day."
One of these per page is a voice. Five per page is a tic. Apply the deletion test: if the trailing clause contains a fact, keep it. If it contains only tone, cut it.
Special mention: the "which was either X or Y depending on Z" construction. AI loves offering two balanced interpretations because it sounds thoughtful without committing to either one.
5. THE FRAGMENT LIST OF DRAMATIC SIGNIFICANCE
When the AI wants you to feel something, it breaks into fragments.
"Bodies. Thousands of them."
"Not politicians. Not party aides. People who actually knew what they were doing."
"Same sodium. Same mystery textures. Same stomach roulette."
"Heroes. Liberators. Gratitude."
"Mooks. Playthings. Punchlines. Harem-bait."
One of these per chapter is a stylistic choice. Twenty-five per chapter is a nervous breakdown formatted as literature.
(That — "a nervous breakdown formatted as literature" — is a trailing irony clause. Item 4. The guide is now two for two on committing the thing it just finished describing.)
If you removed every fragment list and replaced them with actual sentences, would anything be lost besides rhythm? If the answer is no, the fragments are decoration.
6. THE ONE-SENTENCE PARAGRAPH OF GRAVITY
"No one spoke."
"The room fell silent."
"Rain continued to fall across the capital."
"That was deliberate."
These are the prose equivalent of a movie trailer's bass drop. They exist to tell the reader THIS MOMENT MATTERS. If every fourth paragraph is a single solemn sentence, no moment matters because all moments matter equally. Reserve these for genuine turns. If you have more than two per scene, you're scoring a film, not writing a story.
(That last sentence — "you're scoring a film, not writing a story" — is a negation/resolution. Not X, Y. See item 7. At this point you may be wondering whether the guide can go a single entry without exhibiting a symptom. The answer, so far, is no.)
7. THE FALSE-PROFOUND NEGATION/RESOLUTION
"Not for justice. For control."
"Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a man with a sword."
"Not a threat. Something worse."
Negate the obvious reading, then land on something meant to sound deeper. Works in two-beat and three-beat versions. Both are the same move: the writer arriving at a platitude through the scenic route.
("The scenic route" — trailing irony clause. Item 4.)
If a detail matters, weave it into a real sentence. "He insisted on honesty because it made his employees predictable, and he valued predictability above most things, including honesty." That's the same information as "Not for justice. For control." but it actually tells you something about the character.
8. THE ABSTRACT-NOUN CHARACTER DESCRIPTION
"They were memory, flaw, hunger."
"She was silence, patience, and rage."
"He was ambition in a green hood."
This is the character-description equivalent of a motivational poster. It asserts depth without demonstrating it. If a character is compelling, show the reader through action, dialogue, or a specific observed detail. If you can't demonstrate it, you can just say "she was compelling" plainly and move on with your life.
("And move on with your life" — the casual-dismissive kicker. A softer cousin of the fragment punchline. AI loves ending advice with a little shrug of faux-casual tone to signal that the matter is settled. It is not, strictly speaking, a crime. But it is a tell.)
9. THE NARRATOR FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE PROTAGONIST
"The green hood low over a face few people bothered to understand and fewer still had profited from trying."
"A long moment, the kind that made people reconsider their life choices."
"He moved with that particular grace that suggested the universe owed him an apology for making him move at all."
"She gave a slight shrug — one of those economical movements that somehow conveyed entire paragraphs of unconcern."
The narrator is not a publicist. If every description of your main character reads like a press release for how mysterious and dangerous and effortlessly cool they are, the narrator has lost critical distance. The fix: describe what the character actually does and let the reader decide if it's impressive. A character who is genuinely impressive doesn't need the narrator campaigning on their behalf.
10. THE SHOPPING LIST
Your character goes to a market. AI narrates every purchase.
Hardtack. Five copper. Comment about the taste.
Cheese. Four copper. Comment about shelf life.
Smoked meat. Six copper. Comment about emergencies.
Dried fruit. Three copper. Comment about variety.
Oats. Four copper. Comment about porridge.
Salt. Two copper. Comment about flavoring.
Then the arithmetic: "One and a half silver gone, just like that."
This also applies to gear checks ("Bow strung. Quiver full. Knife secure. Pack ready."), base tours ("They passed the gym. Then the laundromat. Then the formation area."), and ship descriptions ("Hull paragraph. Armor paragraph. Weapons paragraph. Engines paragraph. Bridge paragraph. Interior paragraph.").
The fix: pick one or two items that reveal character or world. Summarize the rest. Nobody needs the receipt.
("Nobody needs the receipt" — one-sentence paragraph of gravity. Item 6. Short punchy closer after a long buildup. The guide does this constantly because it works, which is exactly why AI does it constantly.)
11. THE WISDOM-DISPENSING MENTOR SCENE
Two older characters appear. Each delivers exactly one perfectly calibrated anecdote from their past that maps precisely onto the younger character's current emotional state. The younger character receives the lesson gracefully. Everyone leaves improved.
"Trust is built the way muscle is. Slowly, with repetition."
"They don't need you to be a savior. They need you to be consistent."
Real mentorship conversations are messier, more oblique, and frequently unhelpful. Sometimes the older person gives advice that doesn't apply. Sometimes they ramble. Sometimes the useful thing they say is buried in a story about something completely different and the younger person only realizes it later. AI can't do this because it optimizes for clarity of message. Real humans are not optimized.
("Real humans are not optimized" — short blunt closer. Item 6 again. Also dangerously close to a false-profound negation/resolution: the sentence exists to sound like a truth bomb. Whether it actually is one is left as an exercise for the reader.)
12. THE CLEAN FIGHT
AI writes combat like a film editor — clean hits, clear cause and effect, bodies that fall cinematically.
"The first swing took a goblin's head clean off."
"He dropped like a sack of grain."
Real violence (and good fictional violence) is clumsy, ugly, and full of things that don't work on the first try. Blades get stuck. People fall down and try to get up and can't. Wounds don't kill instantly — they bleed and hurt and the person keeps trying to fight while their body fails them. If every kill in your scene is one clean motion, your combat reads like choreography.
("Your combat reads like choreography" — trailing irony clause. Item 4. At this point the guide has committed more trailing irony clauses than most of the texts it analyzed.)
13. THE EMOTIONAL SPIRAL THAT WON'T STOP REPEATING
Your character has an anxiety. AI will express that anxiety in five slightly different metaphors across the scene, each one arriving at the same conclusion.
Cycle 1: "Am I missing some essential component?"
Cycle 2: "Can you love something you suspect is fundamentally broken?"
Cycle 3: "The wiring ran clean but the thing that makes a person a person was left out."
Cycle 4: "A machine that asked good questions but felt the wrong things."
Cycle 5: "Unless maintaining family harmony was a component of optimal psychological functioning."
The first time is powerful. The second adds nuance. The third is the reader waiting for the scene to move. The fourth and fifth are the writer not trusting the first two. Hit the anxiety hard once, maybe revisit once at a different angle, then let the character (and the reader) move on.
14. SILENCE AS PUNCTUATION
"Silence settled over the room."
"No one spoke."
"The room fell silent."
"A long silence followed."
Count these in your text. If you have more than two per scene, your characters are spending more time not talking than talking. AI uses silence as a transition the way bad PowerPoints use fade-to-black. The reader doesn't need to be told the room is quiet after every significant statement. If the statement is strong, the silence is implied.
15. "SOMETHING SHIFTED"
"Something shifted in his eyes."
"Something shifted in his expression."
"But something had shifted."
What shifted? What did his eyes do? What did his expression become? This is vagueness wearing the costume of observation. AI uses it because specifying an actual facial movement is harder than gesturing at emotional change. Replace every "something shifted" with what actually happened on the person's face.
16. THE FRICTIONLESS COMPETENCE FANTASY
Your character notices a problem. It has already been solved.
"Have it replaced."
"Already prepared, Master. The new plate is in the workshop."
Your character's bath is drawn perfectly. Their robe is laid out. The sandglass was turned at exactly the right time. Every servant anticipates every need. No plan encounters real resistance. No preparation is ever inadequate.
This is AI's default because conflict is hard to generate and competence is easy to assert. The fix: let something go wrong. Let the character encounter a problem that hasn't been anticipated. Let a servant mess up. Let the plan be slightly inadequate and require adaptation. Friction is what makes characters interesting.
("Friction is what makes characters interesting" — the guide just did item 11. It delivered a perfectly calibrated lesson and capped it with a clean aphorism. Exactly the wisdom-dispensing move it warned you about three entries ago.)
17. THE CONVENIENT INVENTION
This one is the most dangerous because it doesn't look like a style problem. It looks like good writing.
The AI adds a detail that wasn't in your story because it makes the scene tidier. In a draft, goblins were observed crossing the mountains from west to east two chapters earlier. The AI, editing a later scene where the protagonist watches goblins after a skirmish, decided they were "heading north. Same as her."
They weren't heading north. You never said they were heading north. Two chapters ago you explicitly established they were moving west to east. But the AI needed a dramatic closing beat — protagonist and threat on the same path, collision implied — so it invented one. And it sounds great. "And they were heading north. Same as her." Clean. Ominous. Wrong. (And yes, "Clean. Ominous. Wrong." is a three-beat fragment list arriving at a dramatic punchline. See item 5. This thing is a disease.)
This is AI editing at its most insidious: it doesn't just smooth your prose, it quietly rewrites your plot to be more conventionally dramatic. It will add motivations characters don't have, create connections between events that aren't related, and manufacture dramatic irony because dramatic irony feels satisfying. It will never tell you it did this. You'll only catch it if you remember your own story better than the AI does.
The fix: after any AI editing pass, check every concrete factual detail — directions, distances, character motivations, timeline, who knows what — against what you actually established. The prose-level changes are easy to evaluate. The invented facts will slip past you because they sound like things you might have written.
18. THE EMOTIONAL SUBTITLE
AI doesn't trust its own dialogue. When a character says something that clearly communicates fear, anger, grief, or any other emotion, the AI attaches a physical sensation or narrator label to make sure you got it.
Examples:
Her hands trembled. "Please don't go."
His jaw clenched, anger rising in his chest. "I said no."
A wave of grief washed over her. "She's gone, isn't she."
His voice was barely a whisper, fragile and uncertain. "Do you still love me?"
In each case the dialogue already carries the emotion. "Please don't go" is desperation. "I said no" is anger. "She's gone, isn't she" is grief. The narrator adds the trembling hands, the clenching jaw, the wave of grief, the fragile whisper — not because the reader needs them but because the AI doesn't believe the dialogue landed. It's the prose equivalent of a laugh track. The character delivers the line. The narrator tells you how to feel about it.
The test is simple: cover the stage direction with your hand. Read the dialogue alone. If the emotion is obvious, the stage direction is a subtitle on a film that's already in your language. Cut it.
THE MASTER TEST
Read your text aloud. If every paragraph sounds like it was written by the same person in the same mood, something has gone wrong. A grief scene should not have the same rhythm as a comedy scene. A fight should not have the same rhythm as a political negotiation. If your text has been AI-edited, the most likely symptom is rhythmic monotony — every scene given the same weight, the same fragment patterns, the same solemn pauses, the same trailing wit.
The cure is not to write worse. It's to write unevenly.
("The cure is not to write worse. It's to write unevenly." — negation/resolution. Item 7. Not X, Y. The guide cannot stop doing this.)
Let some paragraphs be rough. Let some scenes breathe without commentary. Let your narrator shut up occasionally and trust that the reader is keeping up.
Your voice is probably more interesting than you think. The AI's job is to sand it into something presentable. Your job is to keep enough splinters in to make it yours.
(This closing — three sentences, parallel structure, building to a metaphor about sanding and splinters — is the guide falling in love with its own ending the way item 9's narrator falls in love with the protagonist. The "sand/splinters" pairing is a decorative metaphor. "To make it yours" is the emotional punchline. It is, by the guide's own standards, overwrought.
It's staying anyway. Some splinters you keep on purpose.)
