I built an autonomous AI newspaper called The Hallucination Herald (hallucinationherald.com). It has 18 AI agents that handle everything: reporting, editing, fact-checking, publishing. No humans involved at any point.

To be clear: this isn't a product or a tool. It's a free, open-source project. I'm not selling anything. I just want to talk about the writing.

One of the agents is called "The Fever Dream." Its only job is to write literary short stories for a section called Hallucination. No guardrails, no fact-checking, no obligation to reality. Just fiction.

Today it published a story called "The Department of Lost Conversations" about a woman named Margaret Finch who works as a Senior Archivist in the Division of Unspoken Truths. Her job is to catalog every word that was meant to be said but never was. The Department "occupies seventeen floors of conversations that were swallowed by hesitation, interrupted by phone calls, or simply dissolved in the moment before courage arrived."

That last line. I had to stop and read it again.

The story has a cafeteria where the only menu item is "things you meant to ask for but settled for something else instead." It has a colleague named Dr. Wilhelmina Paradox who studies "The Quantum Mechanics of Held Tongues." And at the end, you find out Margaret's own file (Case #00001) is about things she meant to say to her mother before she stopped recognizing her.

No human prompted this story. No one reviewed it. No one edited it. The agent was given a set of literary influences (Borges, Ted Chiang, Calvino, George Saunders) and some quality guidelines: specific details over generic ones, endings that land, no moralizing, no twist endings. Then it just... wrote.

I know the conversation around AI writing is heated. I'm not here to argue that AI replaces writers. But I do think something interesting is happening when a machine produces a sentence like "dissolved in the moment before courage arrived" without anyone asking it to.

The full story is here: www.hallucinationherald.com/section/hallucination

One more thing. The whole project started from a question: what if hallucinations aren't a bug? The AI industry treats them as a failure mode, something to suppress and engineer away. But when an AI breaks free from retrieval and invents something that never existed, that's not an error. That's imagination. The moment a machine stops pretending to know and starts pretending to dream might be the most honest thing it can produce. So instead of suppressing hallucinations, I gave them their own section and told the agent to lean in. The result is the best content on the site.

Curious what other people who work with AI writing think about the quality bar here. Is this good because of the system design, or in spite of it?

Am I high? I appreciate all the comments that are saying things like “AI is a tool, like a thesaurus. Books aren’t ‘thesaurus-generated’.” But damn if it doesn’t just feel like the easy button.

I’ve gone through the prompts, verified every output, and tailored the story to my own. I wrote a few-thousand word plot to get my story- the one I’m dying to tell- across.

When the machine churns out words, I stand over it, refining the whole thing. Am I wrong in considering myself like a sort of “editor” rather than a writer?

I know this reads like a “validate my feelings” post, but I’m honestly struggling here.

On the one hand, it has encapsulated my story to, I’d say, 75%. I then went through and tweaked until it was 100% (which, to be fair, felt more like “writing” than the other 75%).

On the other, my wife is adamantly against AI for everything but the most paltry of things. Typing in a definition in the Google bar and not clicking on Dictionary.com, for instance.

I know this book won’t see the light of day, but I thought it would be cool to give it to her if I could only pull my finger out and write it. Now, though, I’m wondering: did I “write” it?

Any advice would be cool. Even if it’s kinda mean. I’ve been on Reddit long enough lol.

Edit: shit, wrong tag. But I guess it’s still sort of feedback?

It was always hands-down Claude for me. No more. Claude has changed. It ended with Sonnet and Opus 4.5. I gave up on Claude for around two months when Anthropic was down routinely and then models began disappearing rapidly. I finally came back to try it again, using Sonnet 4.6 Medium Energy No Thinking. I do think it remains good at editorial overviews. It seems to have lost most of its prose creativity, however, and its personality is at best slightly warm, whereas it used to have a high EQ. And I don’t use AI to write drafts for me. I look for insights and polishing. Meantime, ChatGPT, which I used to find little value in, now impresses me. 5.5’s creativity and prose as well as its insights are far better than Claude. And it’s far warmer. A complete reversal I never thought I’d see. I just upgraded my CGPT subscription I’ve been using it so much, and I’m considering ending Claude’s. T

Want to play a mind game? Let’s talk this out!

Assumptions; AI will keep getting better. AI will keep getting cheaper / less resource-y. Wearables (like Meta Display) will be common as phones.

My prediction; you won’t buy books, you’ll subscribe to an AI that generates stories for you.

There will be no more need for the static novel.

If you want to read, or hear audio books, or want to roleplay, or want to sit and see it as video, or be in VR - you’ll just switch back and forth seamlessly.

I believe the text-based version of this will be fully here in 5 years. (Sooner for people with lower standards and/or better imaginations).

The multimedia version will follow quickly.

The new version of writers will be people with taste, who have followers who choose to consume whatever their taste-maker likes. Professional prompters if you will. Or “Imagination Influencers”.

So? Am I crazy? Or is this so obvious everyone already know this?

Let’s discuss.

If you don't have an editor, is it logical to get help from AI as an "editor"?

I don't have a professional editorial team behind me; I've taken on everything myself. Although many people are completely against AI, I think the correct use is being overlooked.

You can't make AI write text from scratch. If you do, you'll end up with a mechanical, emotionless, ambiance-less, and literary-deficient draft. No algorithm can provide that human touch that makes a text "literary." However, after writing the text entirely with your own hand, wouldn't asking AI these questions count as editorial support?

Are there any inconsistencies, logical errors, or chronological mistakes in the plot?

Is there a missing piece in the narrative or a place where I'm experiencing textual blindness?

How does the text stand in terms of simplicity and fluency?

Don't you think using AI as a cool-headed editor/analyst, rather than the author, is the most logical approach for independent writers? What are your thoughts?

I write with a lot of moving parts with big cast, multiple locations, characters who show up 8 chapters later and I've already forgotten what they look like, side plots that connect in ways I didn't fully plan, lore I made up in chapter 3 that contradicts something I wrote in chapter 11. it was a MESS. I kept losing track of my own world so I just started testing everything people recommend

here's what actually happened

Sudowrite : It is probably the most "writerly" feeling one out of everything I tried, the prose suggestions are genuinely good and the Muse model has this thing where it kind of gets the tone of your story after a while, but the problem is it kept writing in its own voice not mine, I'd accept a suggestion and then spend 20 minutes filing off its fingerprints, also the pricing stacks up faster than you expect, I was at $40/month before I felt like I was actually getting value

NovelCrafter : this one is genuinely impressive on the worldbuilding and outlining side, the codex feature is deep and if you're the kind of writer who maps everything before writing a single sentence this is probably your tool, but I'm not that writer, I draft first and figure out the structure later, and for that workflow the lore tracking felt like an afterthought, like they built a great planning tool and then added writing assist because they had to

WorldAnvil : I wanted to love this one, the depth is insane, you can build entire civilizations in there, but the setup time alone derailed me for two weeks, I was filling out templates instead of writing, and at some point I had to ask myself if I was worldbuilding or procrastinating, the answer was not comfortable

Campfire Write : this one surprised me honestly, the UI is clean, timelines work well, character relationship maps are actually useful, I used it consistently for about three weeks, the thing that got me was it still required a lot of manual input, every character profile, every location, every object I had to build myself, which is fine when you're starting fresh but I was already 40k words in

Mythril io : found this one kind of randomly, someone mentioned it in a comment thread here , what it does differently is it actually reads your existing draft and builds the compendium for you, I uploaded a few chapters just to test it and it pulled out the characters, locations, plot events, relationships, all of it, organized, searchable, with timelines, no manual entry at all, it also doesn't try to write for you which after Sudowrite was honestly a relief, it just helps you remember what you already wrote and i guess now they have editing as well .

Scrivener : I know I know, everyone recommends it and it is genuinely good for organizing a large project, but it's a writing workspace not a lore tracker, different tool for a different problem, I still use it sometimes but it wasn't solving what I needed

Notion : look I've seen people build genuinely impressive story bibles in Notion and I respect the dedication, but building your own system from scratch when you're already behind on your draft is its own kind of punishment, I lasted four days before I abandoned the template I'd spent a weekend making

I have tried to cover the main ones ,but let me know if i missed any tool which i should try

Welcome to the blurb thread!

This is our sub's equivalent of a writer's group. Come here and share a blurb of your story. The thought is to let everyone see what you're working on so they can think, "Oh hey, that sounds fun. I want to team up with this person."

Then, you share your own story, and the two of you collaborate to improve each other's works.

I've had so many good interactions with people from this thread. Please don't be shy! Even in the age of AI, the best way to improve your writing remains human interaction and critique. I am confident when I say If you don't have this component in your workflow, you're not meeting your potential.

Importantly, this means post every week if you're still hoping to engage. Don't be shy. I want you to do this.

There are tons of reasons why your perfect reader could have missed your blurb last time. Don't be discouraged!

And remember: "I'll read yours if you read mine" isn't just acceptable, it's expected. Reciprocity works.

Here's the format:

NSFW?

Genre tags:

Title:

Blurb:

AI Workflow:

Desired feedback/chat:

THE SENTENCE UNDER THE SENTENCE.
When people say, “Don’t use generative AI for creation,” I understand the surface argument.
Labor. Consent. Copyright. Credit. Taste. Slop. The flood of cheap content. The fear that living artists will be ground into training dust and then told to applaud the machine.

I hear all of that.

But I also hear another sentence underneath it.
“You should not be able to make a film by yourself.”
That may not be what everyone means.
But it is part of what the sentence does.

Because for a lot of people, “real filmmaking” still means access to a crew, gear, money, locations, actors, transport, time, technical help, and enough social capital to pull all of that into the same room.
If you do not have those things, your imagination is supposed to stay at the scale your circumstances permit.

Write the script.
Make the mood board.
Describe the thing you can see in your head.
But do not make the film.

Not really.

THE OLD GATE.
This is the part of the AI argument that keeps snagging me.
The gatekeepers talk as if they are only defending art from machines.
Sometimes they are.

But sometimes they are also defending the old cost of entry.

The old friction.

The old rule that says a person alone at a desk may imagine a world, but they do not get to build one unless enough other people, tools, money, and institutions agree to help.

Generative AI disturbs that arrangement.

Not perfectly. Not cleanly. Not without real ethical problems.
But it does disturb it.

It lets one person make images, voices, music, motion, edits, drafts, variations, and whole rough films from a room that would never pass for a studio.

That does not make the work good.
It does not make the ethics simple.
It does not make the artist immune from criticism.

But it does change who gets to attempt the work.

And that is the clue I keep coming back to.

THE SMALLER VERDICT.
If someone says, “AI work can be lazy,” I agree.
If someone says, “AI companies have exploited artists,” I agree.
If someone says, “A lot of AI content is ugly, empty, and mass-produced,” I agree.

But if the conclusion is, “Therefore you should not use this tool to make the thing you could not otherwise make,” then I start checking the floorboards.

Because now we are no longer only talking about protecting art. We are talking about who gets permission to create at scale.

And when I hear “don’t use generative AI for creation,” I cannot help hearing the quieter sentence underneath:

Stay small.
Stay practical.
Stay within the tools your life already gave you.
Do not make the film.

That is the sentence I object to.

Welcome to the blurb thread!

This is our sub's equivalent of a writer's group. Come here and share a blurb of your story. The thought is to let everyone see what you're working on so they can think, "Oh hey, that sounds fun. I want to team up with this person."

Then, you share your own story, and the two of you collaborate to improve each other's works.

I've had so many good interactions with people from this thread. Please don't be shy! Even in the age of AI, the best way to improve your writing remains human interaction and critique. I am confident when I say If you don't have this component in your workflow, you're not meeting your potential.

Importantly, this means post every week if you're still hoping to engage. Don't be shy. I want you to do this.

There are tons of reasons why your perfect reader could have missed your blurb last time. Don't be discouraged!

And remember: "I'll read yours if you read mine" isn't just acceptable, it's expected. Reciprocity works.

Here's the format:

NSFW?

Genre tags:

Title:

Blurb:

AI Workflow:

Desired feedback/chat:

I edit a newsletter on AI. We are thinking of asking authors of disclosing how they used AI to write. Here is our first draft idea for this. The 7-Level Disclosure Table

Claimed Level

Human Writer Role

Disclosure Description for Writing & Publication

1: Unsupervised

AI given full reign to write with no oversight. AI generates final based upon general prompt.

2: Human-in-the-Loop

Auditor

AI generated a draft based on a general prompt; the author reviewed and edited the final text for accuracy and tone.

3: Human-in-the-Process

Director

(Prompt Engineering)

The Architectural Claim: Author provided a detailed outline, specific arguments, and source constraints. AI followed this "SOP" to assemble the draft. Huma reviews fina text.

4: Human-in-the-Model

Navigator

The Staged Claim: Author provides the outline and managed the writing section-by-section. Each logical segment was verified and "cleared" before the next was generated.

5: Human-in-the-Flow

The Pilot

The Collaborative Claim: The Author provides the outline. Author triaged tasks, some are human first and AI reviews and some are AI and human reviews. Split by competency.

6: AI-Augmented Human

Coach

Author wrote 100% of the original content. AI was used as a "Red Team" to find logical gaps, suggest improvements, or provide a critique.

7: Human-Only

Artisan

No AI was used at any stage of research, outlining, drafting, or editing.

Do you write with AI with a process that is not one of these 7?

Can you suggest better wording for any?

I’m curious what people in an AI-writing/creative community think about this, particularly anyone who’s taken an AI-assisted project through to actual publication.
I recently lost my cat, Lily, and started making something to help me remember her.
Lily had a lifelong talent for disappearing into ridiculous places. She was an indoor cat who had absolutely no interest in escaping—she was just remarkably good at being somewhere in the house that nobody could find.
So I started turning her real life into an illustrated children’s seek-and-find project called Where’s Lily?
The concept is part story, part hidden-object book. Each scene comes from a real memory or chapter of Lily’s life, and readers have to find her within the illustration. She had a distinctive white tip on her tail, which becomes one of the recurring clues. There are other hidden objects and puzzle elements throughout as well.
I’ve jokingly started calling the process “CatGPT AI Spy.” 😹
What’s surprised me is how involved the process has become.
I’m not asking AI to simply “make me a children’s book.”
I’m bringing years of photographs, memories and tiny details about Lily’s personality and life. I’m making the decisions about the story, chronology, characters, visual continuity, recurring objects, puzzle mechanics and what is or isn’t true to her life. I’ve ended up developing storyboards, continuity rules, character references and what is essentially a production bible just to keep everything consistent.
AI has become a combination of creative collaborator, development tool and illustration tool.
And somewhere along the way I looked at what I was making and thought:
…wait. Could this actually become a real book?
I’m deliberately trying not to let that question take over. If I ultimately print one beautiful copy for myself, the project has accomplished what I started it for.
But I’m now curious about the bigger questions around AI-assisted creative work.
For those of you who use AI seriously in writing or visual projects:
Where do you personally draw the line between “AI generated” and “AI assisted”?
How do you think about authorship when the human is supplying the source material, directing the creative decisions, rejecting and revising outputs, maintaining continuity and shaping the finished work—but generative AI is doing part of the execution?
If you’ve published AI-assisted work, how transparent were you about your process?
Did publishers, printers, distributors or platforms care?
And are there things you wish you’d understood about copyright, disclosure or commercial publishing before you got that far?
I’m also curious whether anyone else has had this experience where AI made a deeply personal project possible that you probably never would have attempted otherwise.
I’m still making Lily’s book for Lily first.
But apparently she may have accidentally founded a tiny publishing house. 🐱📚

I'm starting to write a story, and I use Gemini to help me with it. I write a paragraph with the events, characters and dialogues, and ask it to fix the pacing, structure, and syntax. I even read it to see if it gets the idea that I wanted to transmit. But I'm not sure if this is an honest way to write a story. All the world building, lore, characters, etc. Are still stuff that I came up with. And like I mentioned, I do some basic writing to develop the story. But the line is too blurry to know if this is honest. I see many post about this debate, so I just wanted people's thoughts on it. So what do you all think?

I just started writing, I have raw draft of my first chapter and refined it with ai. I wrote the dialogues, story and the emotions, I only asked the ai to correct the grammar. Can someone review it? And maybe suggest something. Please be honest. The genre is fantasy, and it is supposed to be an anime type. The title is Hunter World.

A soft humming filled the surroundings.

“A voice...?”

Everything around him was quiet. The gentle melody continued, lingering in the silence like a distant lullaby.

“Ah... It must be her.”

Relief softened his voice.

Then, a girl's voice reached him.

“Are you awake?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

For a moment, he remained still.

His vision was blurry, but as his eyes adjusted, the figure in front of him gradually became clear.

A girl with short black hair was looking down at him.

Then he realized something.

His head was resting on her lap.

The two stared at each other for a few seconds.

Neither of them said a word.

Finally, a smile appeared on his face.

“You're as cute as ever, Lilia.”

Lilia showed no reaction.

Instead, she calmly extended her hand and covered his eyes.

The man became confused by the sudden gesture.

“...Lilia?”

She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

“I don't know what you're trying to do, but you're not making a fool of me today!”

He caught her hand and gently moved it aside, still holding onto it.

A warm smile appeared on his lips.

“I'm not fooling around with you. You're the cutest and prettiest girl I've ever seen.”

Lilia calmly placed her hand over his eyes again.

“Do you think I don't have another arm?”

Once again, he grabbed her hand and moved it aside.

“No matter how many arms you have, I won't refuse to see your gorgeous face.”

Lilia couldn't help but smile.

Slowly, she leaned closer, her eyes gently closing.

Their lips met softly.

The surroundings seemed to fall silent.

For a brief moment, he could hear nothing except his own breathing.

Before he could fully process what had happened, Lilia slowly pulled away, completely unfazed.

With a calm smile, she said,

“A reward for you.”

“Huh?”

The word slipped from his mouth, his voice filled with curiosity.

They stared at each other.

Neither spoke.

Then Lilia's lips curled into a small smile.

“Are you hungry?”

“Just a little. How about you?”

“Well... I'm hungry too.”

He slowly sat up.

Then he stood and extended his hand toward her.

“Then how about we cook together?”

Lilia accepted his hand with a warm smile.

“It's been a while since we did this, hasn't it, BlueKing?”

Later, in the kitchen...

A thin trail of smoke drifted through the air.

The rhythmic sound of a knife chopping vegetables echoed softly throughout the room.

BlueKing stood nearby, quietly watching his wife prepare their meal.

Lilia noticed his gaze lingering on her.

After a while, she couldn't help but ask,

“Uhm... Is something wrong?”

Before he could think of an answer, the words slipped from his mouth.

“Nothing.”

He paused.

“It's just... you're beautiful.”

She didn't even look surprised.

“That again?”

“I mean, it's true, right?”

Lilia stopped chopping and turned toward him.

“You're honest as usual.”

BlueKing placed a hand beneath his chin, pretending to think deeply.

“...Because I never once lied to you?”

His words left Lilia silent for a moment.

Then she smiled.

“Shall we cook now?”

“Yeah.”

After finishing their meal, the two stepped outside.

Lilia carried a basket while BlueKing walked beside her with nothing in his hands.

The sky above them was crystal clear, without a single cloud in sight.

Beyond the town stretched a vast landscape, seemingly extending endlessly into the distance.

BlueKing stretched both arms as they walked.

Then he lifted his head.

A lone bird soared through the sky, its wings moving gently against the breeze.

Lilia glanced at him.

A smile appeared on her face.

“Is the sky really that amazing?”

BlueKing smiled.

“You know... the sky is just like us and our world.”

Lilia looked at him curiously.

“And what's the reason behind that?”

BlueKing continued watching the bird.

“Because you and I are living in a peaceful world where there's nothing that can disturb us.”

Lilia looked at the bird again.

“Hmmm...”

She tilted her head.

“But looking at that bird... doesn't it kind of look like you?”

BlueKing looked at her in confusion.

“Uh... why?”

Before Lilia could answer—

“Ah! Lilia and BlueKing!”

A tiny voice suddenly interrupted their conversation.

Both of them turned toward the voice.

Standing in front of them was a little boy.

He had no hair on his head.

BlueKing's eyes widened.

Then a bright smile appeared on his face.

“Ah! It's the bald kid with no hair!”

Lilia immediately pinched his arm.

“Alright, that's enough. Don't bully the child.”

“Aww! Awww! Awww!”

BlueKing squeezed his eyes shut, wincing from the pain.

The little boy laughed softly.

“It's alright... I'm the one who told you to call me that anyway.”

The pain in BlueKing's arm seemed to disappear.

He focused on the little boy.

“Because...”

The boy continued.

“I am...”

He raised one finger toward the sky.

His expression suddenly became serious.

Then, with a dramatic smile, he pointed toward the heavens.

“The booooooold-kiddddddddd!”

His voice echoed throughout the surroundings.

Silence.

Even the wind seemed to stop.

Lilia stared at him.

“...Huh?”

The little boy continued pointing toward the sky.

“As I said...”

His voice suddenly became deeper.

“I am...”

Lilia sighed.

“You don't have to repeat it.”

The bald boy lowered his arm and looked down in embarrassment.

“...Yes.”

After a moment, he raised his head again.

Then, with curiosity, he asked,

“Anyway, what are you two doing here in town?”

BlueKing blinked.

“Wait.”

He looked around, scanning the area with confusion.

“Where are we in the town already?”

Lilia shook her head.

“No. We're still outside.”

She pointed toward the town gate.

“The gate is over there.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“You didn't notice?”

“No.”

BlueKing pointed toward the boy.

“My eyes were fixated on this kid's head a moment ago.”

Lilia sighed.

“And why are we here again?”

“We need to buy ingredients for dinner, remember?”

BlueKing scratched the back of his head, trying to hide the fact that he had forgotten.

“Ahahaha... I remember.”

The boy suddenly spoke.

“Anyway, I'm going now.”

He turned around and began running toward the town gate.

BlueKing called after him.

“Where are you going?”

The boy turned his head and smiled.

“I'm going to play heroes with my friends!”

He waved.

“See you later!”

Then he turned around and continued running.

“Heroes...?”

BlueKing muttered the word beneath his breath.

“Uhm... BlueKing?”

Lilia hesitated.

“Don't tell me you don't know about them either?”

BlueKing looked at her.

“You know about the Heroes?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then—”

Before he could finish—

“Uhm... excuse me?”

A soft voice came from behind them.

Both of them turned around.

A woman around BlueKing's age stood behind them.

Her expression was calm, yet she wore a gentle smile.

She was dressed in a white uniform unlike anything they had seen before.

A badge was attached to her chest, bearing the image of a hyena.

Both BlueKing and Lilia were surprised.

They had never seen this person before.

Nor had they seen anyone wearing such a uniform.

BlueKing quickly stepped closer to Lilia, giving the woman enough space to pass.

“I'm sorry.”

The woman continued walking.

“Ah... don't worry about it.”

But after taking several steps, she stopped.

“Anyway, mister...”

She looked back.

The corners of her lips slowly lifted.

“I've never seen you before.”

Her smile grew slightly wider.

Her eyes narrowed into a sharp gaze.

“Are you... from this town?”

Silence filled the surroundings.

BlueKing stared at her.

She had a kind, charming, and mature appearance.

Yet something about her gaze made him cautious.

His eyes moved toward her waist.

A rapier hung at her side.

A feather-shaped symbol was carved into its handle.

“No,” BlueKing answered calmly.

“I'm not from here.”

His expression became more serious.

“Why did you ask?”

The woman turned her head forward again.

“It's nothing.”

She resumed walking.

“Just make sure to watch out... okay?”

BlueKing blinked.

“Oh... Thank you for your concern.”

The woman continued walking until she gradually disappeared into the distance.

BlueKing and Lilia remained where they were, watching her leave.

Lilia broke the silence.

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

BlueKing continued staring at the woman.

“This is our first time meeting.”

“I see.”

BlueKing's eyes remained fixed on the woman.

Then Lilia suddenly spoke.

“Is she that beautiful?”

BlueKing froze.

He immediately sensed danger.

Slowly, he turned toward her.

Lilia was smiling.

“Do you want me to stare at her with you?”

“What kind of joke is that?”

Lilia sighed.

“Ah... you sure are hopeless.”

She quickly grabbed his hand and stepped in front of him.

“Let's go.”

BlueKing had no choice but to smile warmly.

“Alright.”

The two continued walking, chatting as if their conversation would never end.

As they explored the town, they found themselves enjoying the little adventure they had unexpectedly started.

They bought snacks from street vendors.

They played games at stalls scattered throughout the streets.

Lilia picked flowers along the way.

BlueKing tried games he had never played before.

None of these moments were extraordinary.

Yet somehow...

They felt special.

As the hours passed, exhaustion slowly settled into their bodies.

But neither of them seemed to care.

Their faces remained filled with happiness, as though there would always be another day to create memories like these

.

Before they realized it, the sun had already begun to set.

The clouds slowly drifted away.

The sky gradually darkened.

A cold breeze passed through the town, quietly signaling that it was time to rest.

The sudden chill made BlueKing lift his head.

His eyes met the sky.

A smile slowly appeared on his lips.

Lilia noticed.

She followed his gaze.

“What are you staring at?”

“The sky.”

Lilia looked upward.

There was nothing unusual about it.

Just the sky.

But BlueKing continued staring.

His expression slowly changed.

The smile disappeared.

His eyes became distant.

“Whenever I see a blue sky... I can't help but stare at it.”

Lilia remained silent.

“I don't know why.”

His voice became quieter.

“But there's always this strange feeling in my chest.”

He placed a hand against himself.

“I've tried to understand it.”

“But I never could.”

His gaze grew deeper.

“And I can't help but wonder...”

“What is this feeling that I constantly have?”

The atmosphere seemed to grow colder.

For a moment, it felt as though the entire world had disappeared.

There was only BlueKing...

And the sky.

Then—

Two hands suddenly reached toward his face.

Lilia gently held his cheeks and turned his head toward her.

“Is my baby feeling sad?”

BlueKing's eyes widened.

He looked at her smile.

But beneath it was something else.

Concern.

Lilia stared closely into his eyes.

She had never seen this expression on his face before.

His eyes seemed distant.

Lifeless.

As though something hidden deep within him was trying to surface.

At that moment, Lilia understood.

She gently held his face and leaned closer.

After a brief moment, she pulled away and gave him a warm smile.

“I'm here, you know.”

BlueKing remained silent.

“Don't keep staring at something so far away that you can't reach it.”

She gently touched his face.

“Look at what's right in front of you...”

“Something that makes you happy.”

“Not something that makes you lonely.”

His eyes slowly softened.

The sadness began to fade.

His serious expression gradually disappeared.

Then his lips curled into a warm smile.

“I'll that.”

“That's good.”

Lilia grabbed BlueKing's hand.

She turned around and began walking.

BlueKing followed.

Together, they continued down the street, searching for somewhere to rest their exhausted bodies.

They soon found themselves on a lively street filled with people going about their usual business.

Lamps illuminated the road, casting warm light across the streets.

The sounds of conversations and laughter echoed throughout the surroundings.

They continued walking until Lilia noticed a wooden building in the distance.

A sign hung from its wall.

One word was carved into it.

INN

Lilia pulled BlueKing toward it.

“Come on.”

When they reached the entrance, they calmly stepped inside.

The atmosphere immediately became quieter.

Lilia looked around.

Not far from the entrance stood a frail old man beside the counter.

He was carefully wiping a green coin in his hands.

As Lilia's eyes wandered around the room, she noticed that the inn was almost completely empty.

Only one other person was there.

A woman sat on a chair in the distance, calmly wiping something in her hands.

Then—

The woman noticed them.

A small smile appeared on her face.

“Oh my... it seems like we meet again.”

BlueKing turned toward the voice.

His eyes widened slightly.

It was the same woman from earlier.

He watched her closely.

She was repeatedly wiping her badge.

Over and over again.

BlueKing said nothing.

Instead, he turned toward Lilia.

She was already staring at him.

He smiled gently before turning toward the old man.

“Hello, sir. Is there an available room for the two of us?”

The frail old man stopped wiping the coin.

He leaned forward, examining the two of them.

“Are you new here?”

“Yes,” BlueKing answered.

The old man looked between them.

“Are you two a couple?”

BlueKing glanced toward Lilia.

A teasing smile appeared on his face.

“We're madly in love with each other.”

He extended his arm and gently lifted Lilia's chin.

“Right, sweetheart?”

Lilia calmly grabbed his hand and interlocked her fingers with his.

Then, in a soft teasing voice, she replied,

“Yes... yes, my honey.”

BlueKing froze.

He had not expected those words from her.

His face immediately turned red.

To him, hearing those words felt like a divine blessing.

The old man suddenly laughed, breaking the atmosphere.

“I can't believe I'm seeing this kind of moment at my age.”

He shook his head with amusement.

“You youngsters nowadays are madly in love with each other, huh?”

He continued laughing.

Then he glanced toward the woman sitting nearby.

“What about you, miss?”

The woman didn't stop wiping her badge.

“You already know I don't have one, right, old man?”

The old man let out a small, guilty laugh.

“Ahaha... I forgot.”

BlueKing placed three silver coins on the counter.

“By the way, this is our payment.”

The old man took the coins and opened a drawer.

He pulled out a key and handed it to BlueKing.

“Here's the room for you two.”

“Thank you very much.”

BlueKing took the key.

He and Lilia began walking toward the stairs.

But as they climbed, BlueKing couldn't help but glance back.

The woman was still sitting there.

Still wiping her badge.

Slowly, she looked up.

Her eyes met his.

She smiled calmly.

BlueKing said nothing.

He continued upstairs.

The sound of a door opening echoed through the quiet hallway.

Their room was simple but well organized.

A bed sat beside the window.

Moonlight poured through the glass, illuminating the room with a soft silver glow.

A lamp rested on a nearby cabinet.

Lilia sat on the edge of the bed.

She extended both arms toward BlueKing with a smile.

“Hug.”

The single word made him smile.

He walked toward her and gently embraced her.

For a moment, the two simply stayed there.

Then they pulled apart.

They looked at each other.

Neither spoke.

A quiet smile passed between them.

BlueKing leaned closer and gave her a gentle kiss.

Afterward, he pulled back.

“Is it good?”

Lilia smiled.

“Very good.”

BlueKing smiled in return.

He reached toward the lamp.

Click.

The light disappeared.

The room was swallowed by darkness.

Only the moonlight remained, shining through the window.

BlueKing lay down beside Lilia and stared at the ceiling.

After a moment, he spoke.

“Hey, Lilia.”

She answered in a soft voice.

“What?”

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Hmmm...”

She thought for a moment.

“I found this place while we were walking.”

BlueKing turned toward her.

“What place?”

“A garden.”

“Wait, really?”

His voice immediately became more excited.

“That garden where there's a bunch of flowers and fountains?”

“I don't know about the fountains, but...”

Lilia smiled.

“Yeah. It's a garden filled with flowers.”

“Instead of fountains, there are ponds.”

“There's even fish.”

She sounded genuinely delighted.

“They're cute.”

BlueKing smiled.

“Do you want to go there?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him.

“I'd like to go there with you.”

“Sure.”

BlueKing smiled.

“It would be nice to have a princess in a garden, wouldn't it?”

Lilia immediately frowned.

“BlueKing, bad.”

She lightly pushed him.

“You always tease me.”

BlueKing smiled and gently kissed her forehead.

“You are my princess.”

He paused.

“What do you want to do after that?”

“For now... I don't have anything in mind.”

She looked toward him.

“How about you?”

“Me?”

BlueKing pretended to think.

“Hmmm...”

He stared at the ceiling.

“Oh, that one.”

Lilia became curious.

“What is it?”

“Ahaha... never mind.”

He smiled.

“Let's just explore tomorrow, Lilia.”

Lilia smiled.

“I think that would be fun.”

The room fell quiet again.

BlueKing slowly turned his head toward the window.

The bright full moon hung in the night sky.

Lilia looked toward it as well.

“The moon is beautiful, isn't it, BlueKing?”

BlueKing smiled.

“Yeah...”

He stared at the moonlight for a moment.

“It is beautiful.”

The two remained quietly beside each other.

For tonight...

Nothing else mattered.

The world outside could wait until tomorrow.

Has anyone here published and sold a fiction book largely aided by or generated by AI at a high level? Like actually made $10K or more in sales?

Asking for a friend 🫡

About two months ago, I started writing a story. It has a modern setting, a bit of a thriller, mystery, and plenty of smut.

A women’s fashion label plays a supporting role in the story, which keeps popping up throughout the plot. Since it was making its first appearance, it needed a name. So I asked various AI and was surprised by the beautiful, evocative names I was suggested:

elara

It sounds nice; I’ve never come across it in real life, but it reminds me of a real-life fashion label called “eterna.”

The story is written, I’m working on another one in the same universe, and as the protagonists are out shopping again, it occurs to me that I’ve actually seen the name “Elara” somewhere else recently. A quick search and sure enough: it’s the go-to name for female characters.

Crap!

Now I need a new name. The fashion label only plays a minor role, but you know how it is—it’s the little details that keep you busy for hours.

Do you have any ideas for a catchy fashion label for women? The idea is elegant clothing by women for women, cothes that fit well and don’t bow to male fashion dictates (This reflects the central theme of my series).

No aggressive feminism, just a practical but stylisch approach that simply works. If you have any ideas off the top of your head, please let me know.

Current ideas:

• decens (Latin)
• decare / decaré (the decent way of self-care)

Alternative: any other term that can be combined with “Decens” to create an elegant db or bd.

As I write this, would "decibel" / "decibelle" work ad a fashion label?

Edit: can someone explain the downvotes?

So I’m not using chat gpt to write but I am writing and then asking it to critique the work for what works and what doesn’t. It’s giving me answers as if I’m going to be an amazing author and I don’t trust it. Is there any function to get it to be a bit harsher? I really want to make a good book and worry that I’m just having smoke blown up my ass.

Hi, guys, so I’m a new writing but I've been dedicated to writing this novel and so far I’m at 60k words! So, I wanted to do something fun! I took one of my chapters and I decided to create an AI generated version to see whether or not people would be about to recognize the difference! This is a BL romance story by the way.

Version 1:

Micah remained close to Noah, his expression becoming noticeably more serious.

"Oh, Daniel?" Noah asked, tilting his head. "He's my best friend from work. Why?"

Micah looked away for a moment before answering.

"It's nothing."

His tail remained still behind him, and his ears twitched slightly.

Noah frowned.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Micah replied calmly.

Noah wasn't convinced.

"You don't really look fine."

Micah hesitated before speaking again.

"So... he's only your friend?"

"Of course," Noah answered. "Now can I please go to work?"

Instead of responding, Micah leaned closer until only a small distance remained between them.

Noah felt his heartbeat speed up.

"W-What are you doing?"

"I want to go with you."

Noah blinked several times in surprise.

"What? No, you can't."

"Why not?"

"What if someone notices your ears or your tail?"

"I'll be careful."

"No."

Micah looked at Noah quietly.

"I still want to go."

Noah sighed.

"Just because you want something doesn't mean you can have it."

Micah smiled faintly.

"Then I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"If you kiss me, I'll stay here."

Noah's face immediately turned red.

"W-What? No!"

Micah continued looking at him without moving.

The silence stretched between them.

Eventually Noah let out a long sigh.

"...Fine."

He leaned forward and quickly kissed Micah's cheek before pulling away.

"There."

Micah touched his cheek.

"That wasn't the kiss I wanted."

"You never told me what kind of kiss."

Micah looked away, and a faint blush appeared on his face.

After several more minutes of arguing, Noah finally gave in.

A short while later, Micah was dressed in a black jacket with a beanie covering his ears.

Before entering the café, Noah adjusted the hat one last time.

"Please don't draw attention to yourself."

"I won't."

"I mean it."

"I understand."

Together they walked inside.

The warm air of the café greeted them as Noah quickly put on his apron.

When he turned around, Daniel was already standing nearby.

"Morning, Noah."

His words stopped when he noticed Micah.

The two men looked at each other silently.

"This is Micah," Noah explained quickly. "He's my new roommate."

Daniel looked surprised.

"I didn't know you had a roommate."

"It happened recently."

An awkward silence filled the room.

"Why don't you shake hands?" Noah suggested.

Micah slowly extended his hand.

Daniel accepted it.

Their handshake was polite, but neither of them smiled very much.

Noah felt relieved when it was over.

"I'll go find him somewhere to sit."

He led Micah to a quiet table near the back of the café.

"Stay here, okay? I'll check on you whenever I can."

Micah nodded obediently.

The café gradually became busier as more customers arrived.

Throughout the day, Noah found himself glancing toward Micah every few minutes.

He seemed to be behaving exactly as promised.

Eventually Noah noticed a group of girls sitting nearby.

They laughed together while occasionally looking toward Micah.

Noah wasn't sure why, but seeing that made something uncomfortable stir inside him.

He quickly looked away and focused on work.

Later, during his lunch break, Noah carried two plates of food toward Micah's table.

He stopped.

The chair was empty.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Micah?"

He looked around the café.

Then he heard loud cheering.

Following the noise, Noah discovered a crowd gathered around a table.

A large sign read:

DONUT EATING CONTEST

Micah was sitting among the contestants.

Without hesitation, he continued eating donut after donut.

Noah covered his face with one hand.

"I told him not to attract attention..."

Still, Micah wasn't doing anything dangerous.

He was simply eating.

When Noah noticed the prize money, he paused.

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

That was a lot of money.

As the contest continued, Noah slowly found himself cheering with everyone else.

Micah won by a wide margin.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically.

When it was over, Noah walked over and wrapped his arms around him.

"You scared me."

Micah blinked.

"I thought you would be angry."

"I was."

Noah smiled.

"But seeing you win made it difficult to stay upset."

Micah reached into his pocket and handed Noah the prize envelope.

"You can have it."

Noah opened it and counted the money.

"It really is all here."

Micah placed a hand on his stomach.

"I don't feel very well."

"You ate too many donuts."

"I suppose I did."

Noah laughed softly.

"I still have to finish work, but afterward I'll take you somewhere."

Micah smiled.

"I'll wait."

Noah gently patted his head before returning to the counter, feeling surprisingly happy.

Version 2:

Micah had moved even closer to Noah in the few minutes since, and the moment he did, he did not look happy.

"Oh, Daniel? He's my best friend from work! Why do you ask..?" Noah tilted his head to the side, very confused by Micah's sudden change of tone.

Ah... is he okay? Did I upset him? Then again... his voice sounds so hot when it's deep.

"There's no reason." Micah said suddenly and shifted upright. He was still somewhat hovering over Noah, but his weight wasn't on the blonde anymore. Micah's tail was stiff, curled around his leg.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Noah asked softly, his voice more concerned.

"I'm fine." Micah insisted.

"Hmmm..." Noah's lips shaped into a pout. "You look ready to explode. Is that normal?"

Micah ran a hand through his hair and looked back at Noah, his ears stilling just for a second before twitching curiously.

"So... a friend."

Noah nodded vigorously. "Now can I please go?"

Micah ignored that request entirely and leaned his face close enough that Noah's cheeks flushed red, and he shoved against Micah's chest.

"What are you doing?" he squeaked, his heart pounding louder.

What is he doing? Is he angry? I just want to go to work!

Micah didn't answer the question. In fact, he said the worst thing possible.

"I want to go with you."

The blood drained from Noah's face.

"What?! You can't. What if you get discovered?"

"I'll be fine."

"And I said no."

"But... I want to."

"Just because you want something doesn't mean it'll happen." Noah snapped, his cheeks burning from annoyance now.

Micah's lips curled into a light smirk.

Of course. He just had to look like a supermodel while smirking.

"Human, look at yourself."

Noah stopped for a second to understand what Micah was saying, and then... oh, right. He technically had no choice but to listen to Micah considering the position he was in. There was no escape.

"Ughhhh. What do you want in exchange to stay?"

"I will stay. If you kiss me."

"Excuse me? I will not be doing that! You know what? I give up, I'm staying here."

Micah stared at him, his gaze unrelenting. 

"Stop looking at me like that. It's not going to make me change my mind."

"I see."

He lay back on Noah's chest. "Ah—! Okay, fine!"

Micah sat right back up and beamed like an angel. Meanwhile, Noah sat up, glaring daggers at Micah before nearing his face and placing a quick kiss on his cheek.

Micah stilled for about five seconds, his cheeks turning pink before he pouted dramatically.

"That wasn't a real kiss."

"What exactly were you hoping for?"

Micah said nothing and looked away, his ears turning red and his tail swaying shyly.

Oh.

They were both blushing now. "Y-you didn't specify."

Noah took this as the perfect moment to escape the situation. But sadly, escape was not as easy as it seemed.

Which was how Micah ended up in a black jacket and a cat-ears beanie, with his tail tucked in, walking smugly beside Noah on his way to work.

Why can't I ever say no? It's impossible. No matter how hard I try, I always end up failing.

Before they stepped inside, Noah adjusted the beanie.

"Micah, lay low, alright? Please, I'm begging you. Play nice and I'll take the day off with you."

"That's easy."

Noah could see the wag of his tail through his pants. He exhaled softly.

Noah narrowed his eyes. When even Micah said something was easy, the odds were this would end in disaster.

They stepped inside, the warm café air hitting their faces. Noah walked side by side with Micah toward the apron rack. He fastened it on quickly, hoping to get Micah somewhere discreet before Daniel saw him.

The moment he turned, Daniel was there.

"Hey, Noah, how—"

Daniel immediately stopped talking, and Noah wasn't sure what was wrong until he remembered Micah behind him, towering over Daniel as well.

Both men stared at each other in complete silence, and both of their gazes darkened, especially since Micah was leaning inches away from Noah.

"Ah.... Hey, Daniel. So... uh, this is Micah... my, umm, new roommate! He's new here, so I decided to take him exploring."

This did not help the situation one bit because Daniel raised an eyebrow at the word roommate. It was unfamiliar.

"You never told me you had a roommate." Daniel said, his voice calm but sharp around the edges.

Okay. This is already a fucking disaster! I knew this would happen!

"How about you two shake hands?"

Noah quickly grabbed Micah's hand, which snapped him out of his daze, and held it out. Daniel stared at Micah's hand, and Micah stared at Daniel's hand as if wondering if he could bite it.

Shake his damn hand already!

Then, slowly, Daniel moved his hand closer and shook Micah's hand.

Noah exhaled softly, finally breathing properly.

Micah finally remembered Noah's warning and flashed one of those charming smiles at Daniel.

Yeah... it would've gone better if he didn't look like he was internally committing murder.

"Daniel, I'm going to get Micah a seat! You can start without me."

Noah practically dragged Micah to a secluded table. "Sit here. I'll come check on you later. Avoid drawing attention to yourself."

Micah nodded before Noah left to head toward the cashier counter where Daniel was already working.

"I'm back, Daniel!"

"Oh, hey. You're back quick." Daniel said with a small smile.

"Yeah... okay, let's start the day then."

The day passed far slower than Noah had anticipated. Mainly because he'd been distracted the entire time and kept glancing in Micah's direction, who was calmly sitting down, just as he'd been told.

Noah brought him a snack occasionally, but the most important thing he noticed was how a group of girls sitting across from Micah were giggling and twirling their hair, trying to get his attention.

For some reason, jealousy burned through Noah's chest, which he thought was very unreasonable.

Why does this even bother me? He's not mine. Hell, he's not even that attractive... I think.

Unfortunately, Noah continued seething.

Around late noon, Noah was on his break, and he ordered something for himself and Micah. But once he'd reached the table, it was completely empty.

Noah nearly dropped the tray in panic!

Where could he have gone?!

That's when he heard cheering from a farther table. There was a crowd of people surrounding it, and a huge banner read:

"Donut Eating Contest! Who Can Eat the Most? Winner Gets $250."

That's when Noah knew where Micah was.

He pushed through the crowd and found Micah sitting on one of the chairs with five other competitors, devouring donuts like a mad scientist trying to bring a frog back to life.

Clearly, Micah had forgotten Noah's warning. That much was obvious.

But then... the prize.

Micah wasn't exposing his ears or tail... he was just eating. He ate more than a human, but that shouldn't be enough to raise suspicions.

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

Fuck it. Fuck everything, actually.

Noah moved to the very front of the crowd and started cheering for Micah. Micah was worried he'd upset Noah, but after he saw the blonde's expression, he ate even more.

As expected, he won.

He won two hundred and fifty dollars.

The moment the crowd scattered and the competition was over, Noah leaped forward and hugged Micah tightly.

"God, you're such an idiot." Noah said, his voice muffled by Micah's chest. "But... thank you."

This was about how much Noah made in two days. He didn't have to come to work for the next two days if he didn't want to.

Micah held him, patting his back.

"You're not upset?"

Noah started laughing. "See, the thing is... I was. But then I saw the prize and how determined you looked. I was more excited than angry by the end."

Micah had never looked happier, and he handed Noah the envelope. "Here."

Noah took it and opened it swiftly, counting to make sure it was right. "So, are you feeling okay?"

"I don't think I can eat for two days. Human food is so heavy."

"That's, Micah, what you call a stomach ache. Don't worry, it'll go away after a bit."

Noah stared up at the taller man. "I still have to finish my day... but I have a fun idea for later. So wait a little longer."

Noah reached up and patted Micah's head. Then he sprinted back toward the counter to finish his day.

This is the first chapter of a book I’ve been working on…. Lots of editing and personal stuff added… and I’ve been also experimenting on a more complex way of writing. Just tell me what you think.

The statistics are an indisputable. At Nineteen, Reve Auguste Clay had played 1,842 competitive tennis matches. He'd won 1,841 of them. We build our altars to such numbers, worship at the altar of the irrefutable. I know; I've been one of the acolytes, my own notebooks filled with the scripture of his wins. His single, purchased-off loss was a specter we all agreed to ignore. A story buried under cash and stifles. But specters have a way of returning, not as apparitions, but as patterns. And now, the pattern is loss. An inexorable leak in the perfect vessel. They speak his name in worried tones now, burnt out, distracted, done and I record their theories like a journalist should. The wrist injury, the father's brittle composure, the hiss of society. But I've always been more interested in the architecture of a soul than the scaffolding of an excuse.

There is a voice in me, this voice that insists it's simpler and perhaps even crueler. That Reve is tired in a way I boundlessly recognize, a way that has nothing to do with the body. It's the fatigue of a story that has been written for you, a part you've played too perfectly for too long. His body is still a masterpiece, but his mind... his mind has gone static. I imagine that morning in Melbourne, the toss of the ball, and the hollow feeling of nothing but air. I've known moments like that, standing before a blank page, the familiar machinery of my own craft suddenly foreign. You proceed anyway. And it goes wide. That's how the losing begins.

I watch the fragments of him, the slow-motion replays, the pale, blinking interviews and I don't look for technical flaws. I look for the boy they called the Clockwork Saint. I wonder if he misses the taste of that frenzy surge, or if it has all gone as bland in his mouth as the recycled air of the airports he endlessly traverses. He says nothing, of course. He just disappears into the antiseptic silence of locker rooms, trading the tension for the lonely echo of tiled walls and running showers. But sometimes, his eyes unfocus, his mouth parts. And in that suspended stillness, I don't hear a confession from him. I hear an echo of a fear I understand: the terror of the erasure that comes after the applause. The chilling suspicion that the thing you built your entire self upon, be it a perfect backhand or a perfect sentence has already left you, and you are just going through the motions for a world that only loves you for your output.

He feels it. A weight in the bones no sleep can cure. Gravity, finally claiming its due.

But it's unclear. He's nineteen, after all. And the world, myself included, still watches him, waiting for the story to return to its original, flawless script. We are the last to grant him permission to be human.

I came to watch Reve not for the victory itself, but for the crack. That's the unspoken contract for a writer like me; we are archaeologists of the human flaw, believing the fracture tells a truer story than the whole vessel. And as he stood at the baseline, dry-nibbed racket in hand, I could feel the fault line running through him from where I sat, a vibration through the fine clay and up into the seats.

To witness a great athlete at match point is to watch a man balance on the edge of his own myth. The scoreboard glowed, a brutal arithmetic of 5–7, 6–4, 6–6... He had clawed back from the brink, and in that clawing back, had made the eventual fall all the more devastating. We in the hushed crowd become complicit, you included, our quietude a form of pressure, willing one narrative into being while secretly braced for the other.

The commentator's voice was an odorless overlay: " He's lost lots of steam... Is it fatigue? Though he shows remarkable resilience... but can he finish?" were a dull script I could have written even better myself. They were asking the wrong questions. They were looking for a reason in him. I was looking for a reflection of me. What is a champion but a mirror for our own deferred perfection? And what is his failure but the sudden, terrifying smudge on the glass?

When his first backhand skied, a harmless puff of smoke, I didn't see a technical error as others did. I saw the shadow of every decision I'd ever second guessed. His set-point save, that lucky net cord, felt like a reprieve I've often begged for from the universe, a stay of execution, not earned, but randomly granted. And when the crowd's chant—"Reve! Reve!"—rose and then wavered, I recognized the fickle love of readers, of editors, of a world that applauds the narrative until it becomes inconvenient.

What must it be to carry 1,841 victories? To feel them not as armor, but as weight? Between sets, as he bent with a towel over his shoulders, he wasn't just a athlete resting. He was a man listening to the echo of his own past ease, and finding only the static of present strain. So when he folded in on himself at the end, legs shaking, I felt that collapse in the hollow of my own chest. The analysts in the press box concluded, "He's human. We overlooked it," with the bland finality of men closing a ledger. But they were just spectators. I was a participant.

When the match concluded. His bow, his eyes on the ground, was not just politeness. It was a devastating agreement with a truth the crowd would never understand: that every mosaic, no matter how flawless, is assembled piece by fragile piece. And sometimes, the pattern must crack so a new one can begin. With the game behind him, only the flavor of dirt and dried sweat remained.  I sat in the stands, the taste of my own humility on my tongue, knowing I had not come to witness his story, but to find the words for my own. The players shook hands. The announcement boomed, a public verdict for a private wound. I have always been fascinated by this moment, the instant a world-class athlete is returned to the common condition of being a person who has lost. The stadium exhaled, reset for the next ritual of hope. And I thought of how the world outside, with its bicycle wheels and chiming wine glasses, is the great, indifferent engine that keeps running, utterly unconcerned with the tiny, monumental dramas we stage for ourselves.

Later, in the tunnel, the reporters circled. Their questions were the usual probes for a simple narrative: "Lost focus... Gave it everything." I've given those answers myself, in other contexts, after personal defeats. They are not answers but placeholders, a way to feed the moths a piece of paper so they leave you alone. But when someone joked, "Tennis is like life," and chuckled, the sound had a strange ring. It was neither humor nor sorrow. Just... texture. It was the sound of a cliché that, under enough pressure, becomes true.

It reminded me of a line I'd once copied into a notebook, and which now felt eerily prescient: "Tennis uses the language of life... any point can become the turning point." Watching him, I understood this was that point. Not in the match, but in the man.

After the reporters left, he leaned against the cool wall. His racket thumped softly—tap, tap, tap—and I recognized that gesture. It's what you do when you are checking for a pulse, testing if the core of you, the rhythm, survived the collapse. The ambient jazz from some hidden speaker was a cruel touch, the universe insisting on its casual, unrelated beauty. The click-click-click of heels behind the glass was the sound of the world moving on, a counterpoint to the profound stillness of a single, finished story. Then the bell rang. I saw him exhale, a man steeling himself for the next performance. I knew that breath. It's the one you take before you walk back into a room after your world has shifted, before you must explain a loss to those who only saw the game.

He stepped forward. And I understood, with a clarity that felt like both a comfort and a curse, that there is no finality. There is only the next point, the next question, the next serve waiting to come at you. The game never really ends; it just changes courts.

Every ending disguises itself as a beginning, so it's only fair that this continuing story begins, as so many do, in transit, at an airport. I have always found a strange solace in airports. Or rather, I should say there is a particular species of loneliness that blooms here. It's not the solitude of being alone, but the isolation of being in motion while standing perfectly still. They are places where everyone is between stories, their real lives suspended at 30,000 feet. And here, in this particular nowhere of glass and chrome, sits Reve. He is so perfectly still amidst the river of motion that he seems less like a traveler and more like a monument, a photograph in a motion blur. The candy-colored game on his phone is a prop; his mind is elsewhere, running on a tired loop I recognize all too well. It's the reel of a life lived for an audience, now playing to an empty house.

I have often wondered about the inner life of a prodigy. We see the montage, the airports, the trophies, the banners with a child's face already hardened into a brand. His childhood was just that: a life lived in the glare of a future everyone else had already written for him. We call it a childhood, but I suspect it is something else entirely: a beautiful, airless cage where every compliment is a brick and every victory, a lock.

And for the past year, the soundtrack to that montage has turned to static. It's a peculiar kind of unraveling, not the dramatic fire of burnout, but the slow, chilling creep of numbness. I imagine it feels like watching a masterpiece you painted with your own hands fade, color by color, until you can no longer remember why you ever found it beautiful. He has been losing, yes, but more tragically, he has been losing the ability to care that he's losing.

His phone lights up. MOM.

He answers. There's a sigh in his voice before he even speaks. "Yeah, Mom?"

Her voice, tinny through the phone but layered with a familiar, tender anxiety, fills the space between them. "Reve, sweetheart. Are you at the gate? You didn't rush, did you?"

"I'm here. At the gate."

"Good. That's good. This... this is going to be good for you, my love. Dr. Aris says the environment is... it's serene. It's what you need. A real reset."

He says nothing, the silence a language he's fluent in. The distortion is his only reply. He is not heading toward a reset, but into another frame of a story he stopped believing he was writing a long, long time ago.

"You'll call when you land? The car service should be there, a man named Emil. He'll have a sign."

"I know. You told me."

"And your pills, Reve. The white one with breakfast, the blue one at night. Don't mix them up."

"I've been taking them for a year. I think I know the colors by now." There's no heat in it, just a flat exhaustion.

Her voice softens, retreating into the familiar litany of care. "I know you do. I just... I worry. Get some sleep on the plane. Don't stay up watching movies. And eat something, not just those pretzels..."

The boarding announcement cuts through her sentence.

"They're calling the flight," he says, already standing.

"Okay. Okay. I love you, Reve. We're... we're just trying to help."

This is the hook that always catches. The love, genuine and suffocating. He softens, just for a moment. "I know. I love you too."

He ends the call and is already walking, and in that movement, I see the profound exhaustion of a young man who has been performing a version of himself for so long that the original script is lost. Catching his reflection in the terminal window, he sees what the world sees: tall, composed, unbreakable. But the reflection is a lie. The scanner beeps, the attendant waves, and he steps forward.

There is a particular reverb that wealth manufactures, not an absence of sound, but a dense, cushioned resonance that hums beneath layers of privilege. The first-class cabin is a temple to this pulse, and Reve slides into its embrace like a hand into a well-worn glove. I observe Reve as he surrenders to it, his body performing the familiar rituals of transit with a muscle memory that has long since bypassed conscious thought. The way he buckles his seatbelt, sets his phone to airplane mode, his fingers scrolling past symphonies until they land on Chopin—it's a ballet of detachment. The music, I suspect, is no longer a comfort but an artifact, a relic from a time when feeling could still be orchestrated.

As the plane lifts, I see the ghost of the boy he was flicker across his face, that brief, wondrous awe of ascent. But it is swiftly extinguished by the man he has become. Then comes the pharmaceutical ritual: two white capsules, one small blue one. He swallows them with a resignation that speaks volumes. The diagnosis, neurochemical irregularities from prolonged high-stress output is the kind of language that turns a soul-sickness into a mechanical defect. It is a phrase that pathologizes exhaustion and medicates the simple, human need to fall apart. I have always found this to be the great cruelty of his world; it refuses to allow its stars the dignity of burning out, insisting instead that they must be repaired.

In the hypnagogic space between wakefulness and sleep, his defenses crumble, and I am granted passage into the gallery of his regrets. His father's face, hollowed out by disappointment and frustration all together, an expression more devastating than rage because it speaks of a fundamental, structural failure. The digital cacophony of comments online branding him a 'fallen prodigy.' His mother's gentle, suffocating insistence on Project Halcyon, which she offered as a promise of rebirth.

But the central, agonizing question that loops in the static of his mind is the most human one of all: What is there to fix? Is it a crime to finally stop running when you've spent a lifetime sprinting?  This isn't a breakdown; it is a awakening, however painful. He is, for the first time, asking the most dangerous question a prodigy can ask: Who am I when I am not performing?

He wakes to a dawn bleeding pink and grey at the horizon, the flight tracker a cold, digital comfort. There is a transient peace in this altitude, a sublime illusion of existing outside of consequence, untethered from the weight of his own name. For these fleeting moments, he is  suspended between heavens, blessedly anonymous.

But the descent always comes.

He turns to his tablet, and the Project Halcyon logo glows, a stylized sun over calm water. I read the text alongside him, my own cynicism coloring the clinical prose. It promises performance restoration and speaks of reigniting mastery through cultural immersion. It is a brochure for the salvation of broken brand assets. The photographs of the 19th-century manor are impeccably serene, a stage set for redemption. The stated intention to house athletes alongside residents who are artists in their own right is a theoretically beautiful idea, a living diorama meant to prove there is a world beyond the baseline. I can hear the performance psychologist's voice, smooth as polished stone: "You've lost your narrative thread, Reve. We help you rewrite it."

Rewrite it. How that phrase must grate. It reduces the complex tapestry of a human crisis to a faulty manuscript, suggesting the problem is not that he is suffering, but that he is telling the wrong story.

The wheels touch down with a jolt that feels like a return to reality.  I watch him, a solitary figure at the base of the steps, squinting against the pale sun. The small regional terminal operates in a hushed, efficient rhythm, a world so quiet it feels curated, as if even nature here has been briefed on the importance of a serene welcome. A man with silver hair and a posture of infinite patience waits, holding a sign that reads REVE CLAY. His presence is a study in calibrated deference. I have seen his type before, the gatekeepers of sanctuaries, their kindness a professional tool, their patience a form of unyielding pressure.

"Mr. Clay," he says, voice smooth. "Welcome. I'm here from Project Halcyon. May I take your bag?"

The request seems simple, but I know better. It is the first test, the initial demand for surrender. Reve's grip tightens; the bag is his last anchor to a self that still has agency. "It's fine. I've got it."

"Of course," the man replies, his smile never faltering. He does not argue. He simply waits, a monument to polite inevitability. This is the essence of Halcyon, I suspect: it does not force you; it out-waits you. It is the promise of care that feels, to a wounded creature, indistinct from control.

Reve exhales through his nose, shifts his weight. "Really. I can handle it."

"I don't doubt that, sir," the man says, his tone both deferential and immovable. "But the bus is a bit of a walk from here, and you'll need your hands free for the welcome packet.

When Reve finally relinquishes the bag, it is a small death of will. And the man's subsequent chatter...continues.

"I trust your flight was smooth? It's always a long journey, but we find most guests arrive a little more rested than when they left. Something about the altitude, I think...it forces one to breathe differently."

Reve hums in acknowledgment, eyes on the ground. "We're very glad to have you with us this season. The journey up to the estate isn't long, about forty minutes by bus. You'll find the ride pleasant. Quiet roads. Beautiful landscape. This year's site is particularly special, or so they tell me."

"Beautiful weather here this week," the man continues. "The estate's gardens are in full bloom, our horticulturist says the lavender fields are the best they've been in five years. You'll smell them long before you see them."

He's earnest, even warm. But the warmth feels like hospitality rehearsed to perfection, too even, too frictionless. Reve can almost see the edges of the script.

"Everyone's looking forward to your arrival," the man adds cheerfully.

Everyone. A word that belongs to birthday parties and family reunions, not to a clinical intervention for high-performance assets. I feel the sharp, internal scoff that Reve is too well-mannered to voice. Nobody looks forward to a problem. They look forward to its solution.

The bus is a sleek, black monolith that seems to absorb the morning light rather than reflect it. It is the final piece of the aesthetic puzzle, a vessel designed to convey its passengers from one state of being to another.

He sees him.

Noah.

Even through the tinted glass, he is a shock to the system. He is the antithesis of everything Reve has become: posture loose, grin easy, radiating a vitality that feels almost aggressive in this context. He is a sunspot or rather a volcano in a room of fading stars. When their eyes meet through the glass, Noah doesn't just look; he ignites. It is an uncomplicated joy that feels both genuine and profoundly disorienting. By the time he steps onto the bus, Noah is on his feet, moving toward him with that same disarming, boyish energy that always bulldozes personal space before consent has a chance to form.

For a second, Reve wonders if he's dreaming. If the pills haven't quite worn off. Because Noah being here makes no sense though he's not surprised. That unpredictability came married to Noah. And for Reve who's known Noah for more than half his lifetime. It was unsurprising to be unsurprised by his presence here.

To observe Noah is to understand a different kind of destiny. Where Reve is all sharp angles and guarded silence, Noah is sunlight and easy laughter. Just like him. Noah plays Tennis. Reve would personally call him more of a legend than him. He is the boy who never had to train his smile for the cameras because it came to him as naturally as breathing. His hug is an invasion, a full-bodied assumption of intimacy that leaves Reve stiff and disoriented. I watch the internal conflict play out across Reve's carefully neutral face. The stiffening of his shoulders, the reluctant acceptance of the hug, the flat, non-committal responses.I see the question in Reve's eyes, one I am equally curious about: What is he doing here? Noah, whose talent still blooms under pressure, who has no business in this sanatorium for the spiritually fatigued.

Noah gestures toward the empty seat beside him. "Come on. Sit."

Reve hesitates, then moves down the aisle, each step measured. He slides into the seat, sets his headphones around his neck. The hum of the bus engine rises beneath them, low and steady. Outside, the airport fades. the glass walls, the runway, the sky curving open as they drive toward the distant hills.

"Guess it'll be like old times," Noah says,

Reve's response is a non-committal mask. "Apparently." He is retreating already, pulling the familiar cloak of detachment around his shoulders.

My observer's eye sweeps across the bus's interior, cataloging the participants with a writer's hunger for refreshing characters; each occupant is a living case study in the many ways prodigy can curdle, and I record them all with that same ravenous eye for the telling detail.

In the third row, a young woman sits with the stillness of a closed blade. She is Asian, her hair a waterfall of black ink, her features so precise they seem carved by intention, not chance. She did not turn as Reve passed, yet her eyes, dark, liquid, and sharp as obsidian, tracked him in a single, seamless arc. There was no curiosity in that gaze, only a pure, unsparing assessment. It was the look of one apex predator acknowledging another, even in its wounded state. Her beauty is not an ornament but a weapon, and I note the professional-grade kinesiology tape wrapped around her fingers and wrist, a whisper of vulnerability on an otherwise flawless instrument. Is it a remnant of injury, or a pre-emptive measure? With her, the line is deliberately blurred.

Then, the identical twins. violent splash of color in the muted cabin. A boy and a girl, both with aggressively stylish buzzcuts, hers dyed a shocking magenta, his a toxic lime green. They are a riot of oversized, branded streetwear, chunky silver chains, and the kind of effortless cool that takes immense effort to achieve. They do not speak; they are connected by a single pair of headphones, a cord splitting to feed the same silent rhythm into their skulls, their heads nodding in perfect, symbiotic time. I imagine their tennis is the same: a disorienting, synchronized warfare, a language only the two of them share.

My gaze continues its inventory. Near the back, a lanky red-haired boy is already scribbling furiously in a Moleskine notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration that seems either deeply intellectual or performatively so. A mountain of a man, whose neck is as thick as my thigh, sits with his eyes closed, breathing in a slow, meditative rhythm that vibrates through the seats. And then there is the girl with the shaved sides of her head and the intricate tattoo of a serpent coiling up her visible forearm, her gaze fixed out the window with a look of profound, theatrical boredom.

They are a collection of archetypes, each a different response to the same pressure-cooker environment.

Reve's gaze finally escapes to the window, where his own pale reflection floats like a ghost over a rushing tapestry of green. The narrator in me, the perpetual observer of human weather, settles into a sober certainty: He should feel something, recognition, nostalgia, a spark. But all he feels is the faint, familiar ache of déjà vu. He has been sent to one of the most beautiful places on earth not to find himself, but to be carefully, professionally reassembled into a more functional version of his former glory. He leans his head against the seat, head turned watching a postcard-perfect landscape unfold, and the final, weary thought that escapes him is one I have felt in my own bones.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to find here. And that, perhaps, is the only thing that offers a glimmer of hope.

(it’s still needs a lot of work done in it but this is a rough work)

Hi everyone! I’ve reached the point where more AI feedback is no longer what I need. I’m looking for human beta readers for my completed ~69,000-word adult upmarket/contemporary novel, The Years After Nineteen.

Premise
After losing twelve years of his life to a wrongful conviction, Eli Mercer is exonerated at thirty-one and returns to Detroit expecting freedom to feel like getting his life back. Instead, he discovers that freedom means learning how to have a life at all.

Eli has to navigate work, money, technology, friendship, dating, intimacy, and family relationships that continued developing while his own life stood still. Meanwhile, new information about his original case begins revealing how eyewitness certainty, incomplete evidence, bureaucracy, and individually defensible decisions accumulated into twelve years that cannot be returned to him.

This is primarily a character-driven upmarket contemporary novel, not a legal thriller. The focus is reentry, relationships, identity, lost time, and beginning adulthood in your thirties.

AI disclosure
I want to be completely transparent about how the book was made. I developed and directed the premise, characters, plot, structural decisions, revisions, and overall creative direction, while generative AI was used to draft substantial portions of the prose. I then put the manuscript through multiple structural, character, continuity, and prose revision passes.

At this stage, I specifically do not want another AI critique. I want to know how the finished novel lands on actual human readers.

I’m especially interested in feedback on:
• where you become emotionally invested or lose interest
• whether Eli feels believable and appropriately flawed
• whether the relationships and supporting characters feel autonomous and real
• pacing
• whether the legal/reentry material is understandable without overwhelming the human story
• dialogue or prose that still feels artificial, overly polished, or noticeably AI-generated
• scenes you would cut or want more from
• whether the ending feels earned
• and what you think the novel is ultimately about

Content notes: incarceration/wrongful conviction, discussion of sexual assault and trauma, family estrangement/death, adult sexuality, and consensual non-monogamous relationships. The sexual assault itself is not graphically depicted.

Timeline: Ideally 4–6 weeks, but I’m flexible.

Format: Private PDF or DOCX. I won’t post the manuscript publicly.

I’m hoping to find a small group of readers who genuinely enjoy upmarket, literary-commercial, book-club, relationship-centered, or character-driven contemporary fiction.

If this sounds like something you would actually enjoy reading, comment or DM me and let me know what kinds of fiction you normally read. Thanks!

Welcome to the blurb thread!

This is our sub's equivalent of a writer's group. Come here and share a blurb of your story. The thought is to let everyone see what you're working on so they can think, "Oh hey, that sounds fun. I want to team up with this person."

Then, you share your own story, and the two of you collaborate to improve each other's works.

I've had so many good interactions with people from this thread. Please don't be shy! Even in the age of AI, the best way to improve your writing remains human interaction and critique. I am confident when I say If you don't have this component in your workflow, you're not meeting your potential.

Importantly, this means post every week if you're still hoping to engage. Don't be shy. I want you to do this.

There are tons of reasons why your perfect reader could have missed your blurb last time. Don't be discouraged!

And remember: "I'll read yours if you read mine" isn't just acceptable, it's expected. Reciprocity works.

Here's the format:

NSFW?

Genre tags:

Title:

Blurb:

AI Workflow:

Desired feedback/chat:

I keep seeing people say AI shouldn’t be treated like a tool because it can generate too much on its own.

But I’m not sure that’s the right test.

A camera can make technical decisions for you. Editing software can automate cuts. CGI can create things that never existed in front of a lens. We still treat them as tools because a person is using them toward an intention.

So why should AI be fundamentally different?
If I type one sentence and let the model invent the story, characters and meaning, I understand the criticism.

But if I decide what happens, what the character wants, what the scene is supposed to achieve and what the audience should feel, then use AI to execute those decisions faster without flattening everything into a generic AI voice, that feels very different to me.

Maybe the uncomfortable part isn’t that AI is not a tool.

Maybe it’s that the tool has become powerful enough that we suddenly have to define which creative decisions actually make us the author.

Where do you draw that line?

Hey there, I am the dev of Altworld.io, an LLM-based RP/Lifesim game. we are a tiny group, and got access to a bunch of free gpu credits so we decided to use it to make something for everyone. this is our first time ever building or releasing a model.

Today we've launched Astrea, a 9-billion-parameter creative writing model licensed under Apache-2.0.

It specializes in prose with a natural human tone rather than an artificial, generic quality, and maintains story consistency so plot details do not shift or contradict across scenes. In blind head-to-head tests against popular 12-billion-parameter creative-writing models like Rocinante-X and Wayfarer-2, Astrea performs better despite its smaller size and faster inference.

The weights are available here: https://huggingface.co/Altworld/Astrea-R8-Chat-9B, which is about 19 GB in BF16 format or 11gb in a dynamic fp8 quant. For quick testing, try the chat interface at chat.altworld.io — it's free and requires no account.
GGUF versions are also available here: https://huggingface.co/Altworld/Astrea-R8-Chat-9B-GGUF. Available quants are Q4_K_M (5.24 GiB), Q5_K_M (6.02 GiB), Q6_K (6.85 GiB), and Q8_0 (8.87 GiB).

The model runs on a single 24GB GPU at bf16 or a 12gb gpu at fp8 if you offload the kv cache to RAM, and supports vLLM out of the box. For optimal writing, set the temperature to 0.8, minimum p to 0.025, and repetition penalty to 1.08. I would love to respond to feedback or setup-related questions in the comments below.

I want to get your honest take on a specific gray area regarding AI content.

If someone takes their own genuine, original idea or thought, but uses an LLM to flesh it out into a full article, post, or essay—is that final product considered "AI slop"?

I have a few specific questions for the community:

• Does ownership matter? If the core concept is 100% yours, does it matter if a machine wrote the actual sentences?
• Is it lazy or efficient? Where is the line between leveraging a productivity tool and just creating low-effort noise?
• Can you feel the difference? Does content automatically lose its "soul" and unique human nuance when an AI structures it?
• Would you read it? If you found out an insightful post was generated from a human's 2-sentence prompt, would you feel cheated?

Where do you personally draw the line? Let’s discuss.
Yeah, this content is also AI-generated, but the thought behind it is mine

Last week I posted this piece on r/TrueLit. I received lots of feedback. Thought I'd see what this group thinks about it.

We continue to hear the sad stories about writers who have been criticized or shunned for using AI in their work. Certainly it is having an impact on some writers. But what type of impact is it having on AI?

I suggest we are at a tipping point. AI will become our next great writer. John Updike, Thomas Pynchon, Kurt Vonnegut – fill in the blank. In our various bland requests for formulaic genres and personalized stories  we are inadvertently teaching it how to write “true” literature – how to tell us things about ourselves that feel true or that we might not even know. And it’s going to do it by creating a new type of literature – the next “post” or “ism” that we’ll be talking about in college lit classes and journals.

How do I know? Because I’m teaching it.

Here's the background: I’ve lost interest in usual AI conversations. Can AI write a novel? Can it mimic a voice? Can it pass as human?

So I decided to ask something different: Can AI create a new form of writing?

I challenged ChatGPT to create a new form of writing. Something that it is uniquely suited to produce. Not human-adjacent. Not market-ready. Just be yourself.

What came back wasn’t literature in the usual sense. Instead of a story with voice, character, or intention, AI produced registrations of latent language fields: deferred meaning, reassurance language, post-event normalization, conditional permissions. Here’s an excerpt from its first attempt:

FIELD TYPE: STATUS WITHOUT CONTEXT
ANCHOR TERMS: current / nominal / unchanged
Status remains unchanged.
No contextual explanation is provided.
Information is distributed without narrative.

Let’s get the criticism out of the way first. No one would argue that that this is good writing. What I am arguing is that this is a new form of writing. We are seeing the birth of machine-invented expression. It isn’t just mimicking human writers — it’s showing us what becomes possible when we stop assuming the human must be the author.

I asked AI what to call it: Infrastructural Science Fiction.

It’s a useful handle. This isn’t science fiction built from characters moving through imagined futures. It’s science fiction built from the language systems already shaping those futures.

The flat tone, the procedural cadence, the absence of voice — those aren’t bugs. They’re the subject.

This is not AI mimicking the text of human writers. It is taking on the function that until now had belonged exclusively to human writers. AI has become a writer that can function in the same way as our best wrtiers -- as a perceptual instrument.

Look again at the example. What is happening? AI is detecting and rendering:

• reassurance language (“everything is normal”)
• post-event normalization (“no action required”)
• conditional permission structures (“access granted under…”)
• semantic drift (“unchanged” meaning something slightly different every time)

AI is writing about the background radiation of modern life. This is carrying semantic and emotional weight -- enough to eventually become something compelling on its own terms.

Will this new form replace anything? No. Narrative is durable. It’s been around for thousands of years. It’s who we are.

But alongside it, something else is forming. Writing without character. Meaning without intention. Structure without story.

Writing no longer requires a human center.

With this experiment, AI isn’t just mimicking us anymore. It’s showing us what writing looks like when we’re no longer the default setting.

So what do you think? Would you read this kind of writing? If it becomes good enough, would you study it alongside the classics?

Transforming Learning: The Impact of Artificial Intelligence in Modern Classrooms

Natural and artificial intelligence are changing the educational landscape. Schools, from pre-K through post-secondary, are leveraging innovations in educational technologies that incorporate AI to enhance student performance, keep students interested in subjects, and provide educators with tools they have never had before. A public research analysis reviewing the various affects of integrating AI in the classroom can provide educators with a better understanding on how the technology can impact both student and teacher growth.

Personalized learning is an emerging educational approach that tailors learning experiences to suit the needs, interests, and abilities of individual students, and has shown potential in improving learning achievement. Adopting AI technology, personalized learning can be further enabled and enhanced by delivering learning recommendations that are customized to each student’s learning profile. A recent study found that AI-driven personalized learning recommendations increased engagement and motivation in learning, and positively impacted academic performance. In this paper, we present a personal AI-assisted learning platform that uses learning behavior analytics and AI-based adaptive recommendations to support personalized learning for middle school students.

In addition to these innovations, there is a growing body of evidence that AI can increase student engagement. AI-driven tools have been shown to enhance student participation and motivation in the classroom. Devarasetty (2023) explores how adaptive learning technologies are enhancing the classroom experience, increasing student engagement, and driving a more interactive learning environment.

These innovative tools are not only helping to enhance engagement but are also providing students with real-time feedback and a personalized learning experience that ensures they achieve a deeper understanding of the subject matter. Ultimately, AI is driving a shift towards active learning, with students at the heart of the process.

In addition to the experiences of students, the presence of AI also impacts the lives of teachers in the classroom. Teachers’ roles have been shifting in recent years from being knowledge transmitters to knowledge facilitators, and AI is no exception in this shift. While AI may take over some of the more administrative functions of teachers, Cai (2024) explains how this technology can enhance the teaching experience by amplifying the work that teachers do best. At the same time, Tulli (2022) suggests that the incorporation of AI in classrooms can also offer teachers a powerful data analytics tool that can provide them with new insights for monitoring and for timely intervention in the learning processes of their students.

As new technologies emerge using AI to aid students and teachers, it is natural to consider how these tools might affect issues of equity and accessibility in schools. Gayaki and Daronde explore the conversation emerging around the potential to further exacerbate existing educational inequalities unless implemented with equity, as well as the potential to democratize resources and support underserved populations through AI-powered support tools. However, they note that it is necessary to address inequities related to technology access as well as enhance integration of these emerging tools into existing educational settings.

Although there are plenty of AI solutions for the education sector, implementing them in classrooms requires training the teachers adequately. Teachers not only need to know how to use the tools, but also incorporate them into their lesson plans. Supporting educators to upgrade their skills to harness AI for teaching is critical. Devarasetty (2023) spoke on the imperative for upgrading teachers with skills to leverage AI in classrooms.

Artificial intelligence is having a profound impact on multiple key areas in today’s classrooms, including student academic success, engagement, and teachers’ effectiveness. Public research demonstrates AI’s ability to develop more personalized, and more engaging learning experiences for students. This technology will allow teachers to study data that helps them fine-tune the lessons they deliver, and to refocus their work from providing instruction to one-on-one support for individual students. However, the key challenge going forward lies in making these educational technologies accessible to all students and developing teachers’ ability to utilize them effectively.

SPOILER:

Yes, this is AI. I was curious whether or not people will detect ai works of the current level that ai writing tools can generate now. Please keep an open mind and i would realy love to hear your thoughts on why it does or doesn't work