I Thought I Was Using AI To Write My Novel, But It’s Just A Guy Named “Al”
I sat down with an idea, a three-thousand-dollar laptop, and a dream. I was going to write a novel — nah, the Great American Novel. I had it all in my head; I just had to paint the walls, as us writer types say. Sitting in the crowded coffee shop, I let everyone know I was a writer. I laughed and cried along with my characters; I paced with great energy as ideas were hitting me fast and furiously. I typed standing up. We call that writing hard. People watched me, amazed. I said the word “Manuscript” to the barista so many times that he threatened to call the police. And if he would have, I’d have gladly suicided by cop because that’s how much I love this shit.
But looking at my work at the end of the day — a day that had felt so fruitful, so full of creativity — I couldn’t help but feel crushed. Three hundred forty-seven words. Half a page. I fell into a serious depression; at this rate, my novel wouldn’t be done for like a month. And it wasn’t just the pace that bothered me; strung together, my words were unreadable gibberish. Ideas that seemed like “can’t fail” notions now seemed silly in retrospect. One character named “Broccoli” speaking to another character named “Broccoli”? That’s just stupid.
I needed help. I had the three-thousand-dollar laptop, the ideas, but I lacked the ability to…
