Failed Writer's Journey: AI, Contests, and Why Do You Bother, Then?

A story written with AI won a contest run by a literary magazine. This is not overly surprising, in part because the story is bad. I will let Lincoln Michael explain why, but the gist of it is that the piece uses nonsensical metaphors and overwrought prose. It feels very much like a beginner’s piece (he says, having never had any fiction published by anyone), something that is very easy for imitative AI to produce. Most writing is middle of the road, at least in terms of mechanics, and so its easy for imitative AI to well, imitate it. Hence, this piece.

I also said that I am not surprised it won a contest. Frankly, a lot of people, especially a subset of people who consider themselves literary fiction aficionados, like this kind of writing. And who am I to gainsay them? People like what they like. If the contest is going to reward easily imitable writing over stories with emotional or experimental heft, then, eventually, an imitative AI produced story is going to win. Bad stories have won contests since the first time Grog the Caveman got applause for the one hundred recitation of the time he brought down the antelope all by himself. The only question I have, really, is why did the author bother?

You are suppose to do things for the fun, not the reward. No one is going to think highly of this writer because he won an award — everyone is going to know he didn’t write the piece. The only tangible effect is to lower the impression of the reward itself with normal people. You get neither acclaim nor the satisfaction of having created something. This idea that the only thing that matters is the output is soul destroying. The satisfaction of being done is that you did it. You created something. You wrestled a story to the ground. You. Not your friend, not your writing group, not some jumped up Markov Chain. You. What else is the point?

The more I contemplate how people are using these word calculators, the more I think their danger is embedded in the idea that work doesn’t mater. A chatbot will be your “friend”, if you want. It will always agree with you, always tell you that you are great, a real special person. But you won’t have done anything to earn that friendship. You won’t have been a good person, you won’t have done anything to justify that praise, you won’t be worthy of the displayed affection. It is hollow and empty. I didn’t date my wife because she agreed with me all the time. Far from it. I dated her because she is wonderful — smart, kind, opinionated, fun to spend time with. Part of that fun was that she her own person, willing to challenge me, willing to make me think, willing to make me earn her respect and affection. It is a real relationship, not a shower of sycophancy.

I get the desire to have your stuff seen (I mean, I did this. And then reminded you I did, just now), but if it’s not your stuff, why does it matter of it is read? The art I create, as bad as it is (there is a reason this section is called Failed Writer’s Journey, after all), is real. It comes from my experiences and imagination. It exists because I worked to make it exist, and the voice is mine, not an amalgamation of training data. The work is rewarding because I did it. The sense of satisfaction belongs to me, was earned by me. If you aren’t willing to earn the rewards, why are you bothering at all?

Weekly Word Count

A fair bit this week. About 16 pages of a script about kids who have to deal with school shootings, cloning, and how to be a good person in a world that doesn’t reward good. It’s been stuck in my head for a bit, and so I just kind of needed to get it out.

I am also working on a script for a noir-ish graphic novel — think Encyclopedia Brown crossed with Brick. I have no illusions about its future (if you think my writing is bad, you should see my art), but I really do think that learning different kinds of formats, different ways of telling stories, deepens my own storytelling abilities.

Have a great weekend, everyone.