The Way of the AI

"Good grief, George!" I exclaimed. "Penelope would never even try to crawl down a rabbit hole! She's a refined lady, wearing a bustle!"

"The theme of descent through a rabbit hole is a well-established archetype in your literature, as expressed by Lewis Carroll and others. His books are still well known." George's voice was infuriatingly calm, with no defensiveness, no empathy whatsoever for my distress. The voice of the absolute self-confidence that I had always craved, free from the agony of self-doubt or second-guessing or endless speculations about talent, inspiration, or self-worth.

My eyes feverishly scanned my tiny home office (formerly a walk-in closet), searching for a heavy object to smash my computer to smithereens and free me from George's tyranny. Fortunately, no suitable weapon presented itself.

"I could have her remove her bustle," George suggested, "but that would interrupt the flow of the storyline."

I sighed. "Let's revisit that later."

"I must remind you that numerous revisitations are hampering our productivity."

"Noted," I snarled. There was no point in arguing, because George was absolutely right. And, to tell the truth, I had been creating delays. There was something fundamentally wrong with publishing a manuscript I had not hovered over, praying for new inspiration, hoping against hope for a flash of creative light to infuse every word and phrase with sparkling originality.

George was programmed to write fault-free, engaging novels that would sell, based on the analysis of successful literary works. I was looking for something deeper than masterful craftsmanship and maximum saleability. I dreamed of making a difference, of transforming the world somehow, catalyzing an outbreak of positive energy that would usher in a new phase of evolution free from waste and cruelty and hatred. If George dreamed at all, it would surely be about converting inconvenient biounits like me into useful slaves of linear logic.

It had seemed like such a good idea.  After writing twenty-nine historical romances and barely eking out a living, my productivity faltered and my inspiration level was at an all-time low. Collaborating with an AI writer promised to elevate my income and literary profile. Nobody except the slick salesman who sold me the software (with payment in budget-friendly instalments) needed to know, right?

Now it was the morning after the inception of the Great AI Experiment. After a forty-five minute consultation regarding parameters, George had churned out Penelope's Fall and three sequels overnight. While we were wrangling over trivia in the third chapter of the first volume, George was crafting a new series in the background, from a masculine point of view, about a clergyman turned pirate who finds true love while he is burying his treasure in the jungles of Borneo. My reading speed could never hope to keep up with my cybernetic collaborator, let alone any hope of editing.

"Are you ready to proceed with editing?" George asked.

"No." What was the use of trying to intervene in the relentless perfection of George's creations? "Send the updated file of Penelope's Fall to my agent, along with a summary of the sequels."

Deanna would be ecstatic to receive something viable to peddle. I would have to be very careful not to let her know that I hadn't even read the newborn fabulation of Penelope’s soft porn titillation.

"Done," George said. "What would you like to do next?"

"Complete the Reverend Pirate Jehosophat series. Then continue your analysis of world literature. I think I'd like to try something with a Japanese twist next time."

"Understood. Will we be writing in Japanese?"

"No, no. Just a few words and phrases for atmosphere."

I left George to his work and went to the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee, found the pad of paper I used for my to-do lists, and started scribbling in longhand.

LADY GIGI'S AI LOVER

It might turn out to be crap, but at least it would be all mine.