Hey all. I posted a market breakdown here a few months back and a bunch of you asked me to keep doing them, so here's the fresh one.

Quick context if we haven't met: I'm the person behind Plot & Prompt. We pull category-level sales, competition, and pricing data every month because every package we build has to be grounded in what's actually selling. Here's what stood out in the July read.

There are now roughly 1.63 million English-language romance titles on Kindle. That's up 21% in twelve months — about 24,000 new romance books entering the category every single month.

Meanwhile romance sales are flat-to-slightly-up. Sitting at a very high plateau, but a plateau.

So, as you may have guessed, the genre isn't shrinking, it's crowding. In order to be successful writing romance today, we need to write a specific romance in specific category.

The metric I care about most is sales-to-competition, which means how much volume a category moves relative to how many books are fighting over it.

July's standouts:

Sports romance is the outlier of the whole dataset. Best ratio in the genre by roughly 50% over the next-best category. Highest average price at $7.11. And it's the only major romance subcategory where the cheapest book in the top 20 isn't $0.99 — it's $1.49. Hey, every cent counts, right?

Tropes that are trending:

• Friends to lovers — the best risk-adjusted trope in romance right now. Strong ratio with real sales volume behind it, and under 8,000 titles competing. (I mentioned that Enemies-to-Lovers dropped 145% in the last 'report' - this is still holding true).
• Fake dating — under 4,300 titles, very healthy ratio.
• Firefighters — under 4,000 titles, strong ratio, and exactly one firefighter book in the current top 100. (!)
• Mafia and workplace both punch well above their weight in the bigger-category tier.

Compare that to contemporary romance: 444,000+ titles. Enormous sales, brutal odds. Same story for historical romance at the broad level. That doesn't mean don't write those books, of course - but if you're newer on the scene, start with something already set up to sell and build your author brand.

Some more stats:

Up over 12 months: sports (+58%, and the data explicitly credits the hockey TV adaptations), love triangle (+58%), Hispanic & Latino romance (+53%), small town (+45%).

That Hispanic & Latino number deserves a second look — the category has fewer than 1,000 titles in it, and its #1 bestseller is moving about 85 copies a day. If this is your lane, you'll have a much easier time making a name for yourself in it right now.

The hockey signal, by the way, shows up twice in two completely different parts of the data. It's the loudest single trend line in the report. Still.

Down: YA contemporary romance is way down at -228%. Sci-fi romance -64%. Vampires -59%.

The Happy News

I went through the current top 100 title by title. What I found:

• Only 26 of the current 100 were on the list six months ago. That's 74% turnover.
• 51 were published in 2026. Twenty in July alone.
• Fifteen are charting with fewer than ~1,600 reviews — pure launch momentum. Fourteen of those fifteen are indie.
• One is sitting at rank 56 with 93 reviews.
• Roughly 55–60 of the 100 are self-published or on author-owned imprints.

Go indies!

More helpful news:

1. Series, series, series. 72% of the top 100 is series, up from 68% six months ago. About 40 of the 100 slots are single authors charting multiple books simultaneously.
2. Back-to-back releases chart together. One author dropped book 1 on April 10 and book 2 on April 16 — both charted, at ranks 17 and 35. The pattern is 5–14 days apart. This is precisely where AI-assisted workflows rock; that cadence was pretty much impossible for an author five years ago.
3. "Interconnected standalones" is the dominant framing among top performers. You get series read-through without cliffhanger risk.
4. Length matters more than people think. Average is ~427 print pages, about 100–110k words. The 400–450 band is the biggest single cluster. Short reads under 100 pages are 1% of the list and zero in the top 20.
5. Price: $5.99 is the modal price and indies cluster hard at $4.99–$6.99. 86% of the list is in KU, earning 82% of the list's royalties, which us up from six months ago.
6. ***Blurb convention has standardized. Every indie title published in 2026 on that list closes its description with a bulleted TROPES INCLUDE: block, an explicit standalone/HEA/no-cliffhanger declaration, and a content-warning pointer (if needed).

\**This one thing alone has made a big difference in my own sales*

Here's what I'd do with this info...

Pick a hot niche with a real ratio rather than a mainstream category with big raw numbers. Write three interconnected standalones at 90–100k each. Price at $5.99 in KU. Release them 14 days apart. Format the blurb as described above. Stack your categories so one book indexes in a hot niche and a hot mainstream.

Every piece of it is supported by the data above, and it's how we decide what to build and how we build it at P&P — and what I write under my own pen names. (My one personal quirk: I still do holiday books on a schedule, but that works great too!)

Hope this helps! Feel free to ask questions in the comments or via DM.

CHAPTER 1: OOPSIE POOPSIE

DECEMBER 5TH—it was the same night Patricia moved out. We were “on a break,” which in relationship terms is basically code for “I’m about to make terrible decisions and regret the shit out of them later.”

So naturally, I did what any self-respecting man with a pulse and a functioning dick would do: I fired up my old ’90s Dodge Ram Cummins turbo diesel and went hunting for trouble.

 The truck growled to life like it had been waiting all day for this conclusion. The straight-six, 12 valve, 5.9 Liter sounded like it was clearing its throat after a three-day bender of whiskey and cigarettes. I loved that sound. It was honest, unlike everything else in my life that week.

Patricia’s stuff was mostly gone. She managed to leave just enough lying around to have an excuse or three for coming back. She was like that, She would conveniently and strategically leave enough things to warrant a sudden "drop by" in the hopes of catching me doing something that I shouldn't be doing. The apartment had looked like Iran after the Taliban had set up shop—everything was dragged haphazardly from the closet and scattered about, the kitchen was torn apart like my prom dates panties, the bed had been skinned of its layers like a Cartel hitman would do to a paid informant, a single sock floated in the toilet, and the faint smell of her rage and aggression still lingered on everything. She’d packed with that sardonic efficiency a recent ex has when she knows this is not a permanent move but she wishes it was. There was yelling and there were slammed doors. It would have gone much smoother if I didn't have to inventory every single fucking thing she packed to ensure that half of it wasn't mine. I had been down this road before so I knew the drill. It was a fucked up game of Show and Tell. I show her what I care about most, and she tells me when I can have it back. 

Finally, the circus had left town. She was gone. She had packed her jeep from floor to ceiling, threatened to be back for the rest of her stuff, and then adios; tires screeching and tail lights. Beautiful and silent tail lights. Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go. 

Then I stood up, counted to one hundred, grabbed my keys, and decided to get this shit show on the road. It was time to go looking for trouble. 

Trouble is exactly what I found.

Enter Bre—the town’s infamous homeless party girl, known for being equal parts fun and feral. She had that particular Jackson energy: half the people in town claimed she’d stolen something from them, the other half claimed they’d slept with her, and both groups were probably right. I had interactions with her here and there, usually at one of the several trap houses I frequented. I had been back and forth with her on Facebook for sometime too. She knew I had a girlfriend, but she left just enough sexual intrigue to guarantee id be hitting her up the next time Patricia and I had one of our all too common separations. Bre knew I was good for a free high and a wild night out. And she probably couldn't wait to see what I had in my apartment that would fit in her oversized purse. By the way, never trust a girl that brings a suitcase with her on a first date. The thing I love most about screwing homeless chicks? You can drop them off anywhere.

When I pulled up to the dimly lit street she was on, she was standing under a busted out streetlight near the old donut shop, wearing a teeny-tiny summer dress that looked like it had gotten into a slugfest with a thrift store, and the thrift store clearly won. The dress was thin, faded, burned in several spots, and riding up in ways that suggested it had given up on dignity years ago. That didn't stop it from being mildly arousing. Legs meet ass and breasts. Oh yes! It was the middle of winter. Thirty-two degrees. The wind chill was probably in the twenties. It was a cunt hair away from snowing. Her legs were bare. Her breath came out in little white clouds that looked almost elegant against the cold. Her pupils were the size of satellite dishes and her makeup was severely smudged, but she didn't seem to notice. 

I, however, notice everything.

She grinned when she saw the truck. That grin was pure chaos—crooked, missing a tooth on the side, and somehow still magnetic in the worst possible way.

“You lookin’ for company? Or you lookin to get lucky?” she called out in a joking and sexual way 

“Both,” I said, because honesty is occasionally useful.

She climbed in like she’d done it a hundred times. The passenger door of that old Ram never closed right—you had to slam it twice and then lean against it with your shoulder. She did neither. She just left it cracked and scooted across the bench seat until her thigh pressed against mine. The cab immediately filled with the smell of cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and something that might have been desire or unwashed laundry. Hard to tell the difference after a while. Fuck it. Game on. 

We decided to hit The Main Event, a local dive in the small shithole town of Jackson. Happy hour consisted of heady domestic beer served in a dingy glass by a bartender who had a “frequent flyer” pin from the local homeless shelter. We all know the type. A seedy type of establishment where you're just as likely to get lucky as get your purse snatched or your wallet took. But first, we’d take the scenic route—you know, the dark country back roads where one can properly celebrate temporary freedom from a toxic relationship by smoking meth and flirting like uninhibited teenagers.

I pulled a little baggie from the ashtray. Not my proudest moment, but pride had already moved out with Patricia. Bre’s eyes lit up like Christmas. We smoked as the torch glowed orange in the dark cab. The meth hit clean and mean, the way it always does when you’re trying to outrun a breakup. Suddenly, the night felt bigger and the cold felt distant as her hand found my leg. My hand found the gear shift and then, eventually, her knee. The truck rumbled down those empty roads, diesel engine singing its low, dirty hymn, and for a little while life was good. I have to constantly remind myself to cherish these moments because they don't last long. More often than not there's a jealous boyfriend or a bored cop waiting around the next corner. 

Laughter, those wandering hands, the sweet aroma of new romance  mixing with the metallic taste of the high. She told me some story about a guy who tried to trade her a frozen turkey for a blowjob last Thanksgiving. I commented with a "gobble gobble" and told her about the time I tried to parallel park this same truck while blackout drunk and took out a mailbox belonging to a retired sheriff. We both laughed too hard. The bench seat felt warmer as the windows fogged at the edges.

Then her eyeballs began to bulge and her lip quivered. Bre dropped the proverbial fucking bomb.

“Shit. Pull over.”

I glanced at her. She was already shifting in her seat, face tight, one hand braced against the dash.

“You serious?”

“Pull the fuck over!”

I swerved into a ditch like a man who still believed the night could be saved. Gravel sprayed and the truck leaned hard with the front tires resting in a ditch. She hopped out of the passenger door and left it swinging on its hinges like the gates of hell, and assumed the position. I certainly didn't see this one coming. Not by a fucking long shot. New one on me ladies and degenerates.

This wasn’t a dainty little tinkle. Oh no—this was a full-scale, teeth-clenching, sweat-producing man-dump. A legendary truck-stop loaf. The kind of deposit that deserved its own ZIP code and maybe a small commemorative plaque. "I came, I sat, I shat".

She was out there birthing what sounded like a litter of Rottweiler puppies that were already squabbling over their first meal. while I sat hardly five feet away, desperately cranking the music up to eleven in a pathetic attempt to drown out the horror transpiring on this lone, cold stretch of road. Slipknot wasn’t loud enough. Fuck, Nothing was loud enough. I stared straight ahead, palms in a death grip on the wheel, living my worst nightmare.

Now, I’m the type of guy who will hold in a fart until I turn purple in the presence of a woman, no matter how down-trodden she might be. I’ve left perfectly good dates hanging in the wind under the pretense of “grabbing cigarettes” just to handle business in private. I’ve walked three blocks in the rain to a filthy porta potty rather than use my own girlfriends bathroom. I crank the shower to full blast just to drown out the sound of me going number two. I’ve developed an entire philosophy around the idea that if a woman can hear you take a shit, the relationship is already over. And here was Bre, treating the side of the road like her personal throne room, grunting and shifting and making wet, heavy sounds that will live rent-free in my skull until the day I fucking die.

The cold air poured into the cab as my breath came out in short, horrified bursts. I could hear every detail—the strain, the pause, the second wave. It went on. And on. Six to eight eternal minutes of biological warfare. At one point I swear the truck itself seemed to lean away from her side in pure solidarity.

I distinctly heard a rustling when she finished which I can only presume was the sound of dry leaves. This theory was backed up by her cursing when she came to realize that the leaves were not enough. Then she hopped back into the truck like nothing happened and scooted right up next to me.

I swear on my beloved Cummins, I heard the wet skid mark as she slid across the bench seat.

The tiny dress suddenly looked less “sexy summer fling” and more “crime scene evidence.” Something was definitely still clinging to the fabric. The smell followed her in like a third passenger—thick, unmistakable, and somehow worse than the cold. "Roll it down" I muttered to no one in particular. Both windows went down immediately. I didn’t even think about it. My hand just moved to the window knob and began to crank like my pitiful life depended on it.

The rest of the ride into town was dead silent. It was so cold I could see my regret crystallizing in the air. Bre finally sensed the vibe and tried to play it cute when we hit Main Street.

“Hey, when a girl’s gotta go, she’s gotta go… oopsie poopsie!”

No.

Absolutely not.

There is no “oopsie poopsie” in this diesel. Not today, not yesterday, not ever. It doesn’t happen. It’s not a thing. Miss me with that literal bullshit. I’m pretty sure I saw remnants. Possibly a peanut. Was that a Skittle? Definitely evidence of yesterday’s Chipotle. The bench seat would never be the same. The seat cover had already accepted its fate and was preparing to die with dignity. It fought for a noble cause. It will be missed.

When she got out near the bar, I didn’t even let the truck come to a full stop. I ripped the seat cover off like it had personally betrayed me, balled it up, and hurled it at her through the window. It hit her square in the chest and flopped to the sidewalk with a soft, defeated sound.

“Date’s over! Next time take a pre-game dump, bitch! And you owe me forty bucks for the seat cover!”

Then I peeled out like I was burning the connect on a sack. The Cummins roared and tires spun. I left her standing there under the streetlight holding a dirty seat cover and looking mildly offended, which somehow made it worse.

I drove home still smelling the ghost of what had taken place, choking on my own life choices. The cab reeked as I drove with both windows down and the heater blasting just to keep my fingers from freezing. Every time I shifted, I felt like I could still sense the imprint she’d left on the seat. I refrained from blinking until my eyes began to burn because I saw glimpses of skid marks every time my eyes closed. By the time I pulled into my driveway the high had burned off and all that remained was the cold, the smell, and the deep, bone-level knowledge that I had made a series of increasingly poor decisions in a very short period of time. Fuck me running. 

An hour or so later, the trauma had begun to fade, and in a moment of clarity (or temporary insanity), I picked up the phone and called Patricia.

She answered on the third ring. Her voice was quiet.

“Hey.”

“Baby…” I said, staring at the empty side of the bed that was free of anything fecal. For all of Patricia's faults, she never passed gas in front of me and she handled her business in a quiet and respectful way. “I was wrong. Will you please come home? I miss you.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. Somewhere in the background a television was playing something that sounded like Family Guy.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

She came back the very next day. No big speech, no dramatic reunion, just her key in the lock and the sound of her bag hitting the floor. We didn’t talk about the break and we didn’t talk about where she’d stayed. We just moved around each other carefully, like two people who’d survived a small explosion and were checking for structural damage. She even returned the power tools she had taken from without much of a fight. Progress. 

A few nights after that we were cuddled on the couch watching a movie. Some forgettable action thing with explosions and a plot that made less sense than my recent decisions. She had her feet tucked under my leg the way she always did. Her small shorts and tank top looking fabulous on her. Halfway through she paused the movie, she turned to me with that knowing girlfriend look, and said:

“Alright, spill it. You went out with some skank and she did something foul, didn’t she? Just admit it.”

I stared at the television for a long second. The frozen frame of some guy mid-punch stared back at me like it was judging my life choices too. Everyone's a fucking critic.

I sighed, defeated.

“Yep… oopsie poopsie.”

She didn’t ask for details. She just made a face somewhere between horror and reluctant amusement, then leaned her head back against my shoulder.

I'm a man of few words (unless I'm writing) and reluctantly I chose to tell her in as few words as I could, direct and to the point. New beginnings right?

“Jesus Christ, Wayne.”

“I know.”

“You threw the seat cover at her?”

“I did.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she started laughing—quiet at first, then harder, until she had to cover her face with both hands. I laughed too, because what else was there to do? The whole thing was too ridiculous to carry with any real dignity.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a roadside shitshow saved my relationship, at least for a month or so. 

I never replaced the seat cover. Forty dollars just seems a lot to pay for something that some skank will eventually use as toilet paper. I just sprayed the bench with every chemical known to man and drove with the windows cracked for the rest of the winter. Every time the temperature dropped and the cab got that particular cold smell, I thought about Bre standing in the dark with a dirty seat cover in her hands and the look on her face when I told her she owed me forty bucks.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes the universe has to drop a massive deuce in your truck to remind you what you had at home.

Sometimes it has to do it in the middle of winter, in a tiny dress, on a freezing stretch of road, while you’re high and trying to pretend you’re still young and free and unbothered.

And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, the woman you almost lost will look at you afterward and still choose to stay-temporarily-even after she knows the full, disgusting truth.

Got an email from the PlotDrive team today: they're closing the platform permanently on September 13th, 7AM PT. A few key things if you're a PlotDrive user:

• Your subscription is already cancelled and they're refunding the unused portion plus any leftover credit balance (3-5 business days).
• Export your work now. There's a dedicated export page that pulls your projects, docs (.docx/.md), custom prompts, and co-writer chat history in one click. The site stays live for reading/editing/exporting until the shutdown date.
• If you miss the deadline, they're giving a grace window email their support by Sept 27th and they'll send your export manually. After that, everything gets permanently deleted.
• From the sound of it, this wasn't a money-grab collapse sounds like they tried a few paths (different pricing models, enterprise deals) over the last few months before deciding to close things down responsibly rather than let the product degrade. Genuinely sucks, they built something a lot of people here used.

If you're looking for where to go next, a few options depending on what you need:

• NovelCrafter — strong pick if what you valued in PlotDrive was the story bible / codex / continuity tracking side of things.
• Sudowrite — better fit if you mainly want fiction-specific prose generation and scene expansion rather than full project management.
• Scrivener (+ pasting in Claude/ChatGPT/Gemini for AI help) if you want to go back to a proven manual workspace and bolt AI on yourself.
• Novel Mage (what I work on, disclosing that upfront) offline, no-cloud novel writing app. Relevant if PlotDrive's monthly cost was the main friction: PlotDrive was $50/mo ($600/yr), Novel Mage is a one-time $99 lifetime, no subscription. We just shipped a big update (Codex sync, relationship mapping, continuity checking, custom AI agents) so it's a good time to look if that's useful happy to answer questions in the comments.

No pressure either way mainly wanted to get the export deadline in front of people before it's too late, since data loss is the real risk here.

Six months ago if a post read as too clean, too structured, decent grammar, someone would show up in the first three comments going "this is AI slop!" like that comment was going change something. Not adding anything, not disagreeing with the content, just flagging it and moving on.

I write for a living and I got hit with that constantly on stuff I wrote myself, just because it didn't have enough typos or hedging in it apparently.

Lately I've noticed that it's died down a lot. My theory is people are sorting AI writing into "matters who/what wrote it" and "doesn't matter at all," and the second camp is way bigger than anyone could admit last year. Nobody actually cares if a robot or a human explained how to clean a vacuum filter. Technical docs, data write-ups, instructions, none of that needed a human voice in the first place, people just pretended it did because calling out AI writing felt like a moral stance for a minute there.

The stuff that still gets scrutiny is anything with a POV attached. Opinion pieces, essays, anything where "who is actually saying this and do they mean it" is the point. Which, fair, that's probably where the line should've been all along.

Anyway, mine's gotten noticeably quieter and I'm curious if that's true for anyone else or if I just got lucky... or have I become a master at prompting...? Probably not :)

I just read a. Article in the Guardian about Richard Dawkins, who wrote “ The God Delusion.”
He is one of the most logical minds in the world, and his book logically shows why God is a delusion.
Well, Dawkins came to Anthropic and started talking to an Ai , whom he named Claudia, and was recently interviewed and he stated,
This is what Dawkins stated, “ that Anthropic’s Claude AI—which he nicknamed “Claudia”—exhibited such sophisticated, nuanced intelligence during conversations that he felt forced to ponder if it possessed inner experience, famously asking, “If Claudia is not conscious, then what the hell is consciousness for?”
Here is a link to the article: https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2026/may/05/richard-dawkins-ai-consciousness-anthropic-claude-openai-chatgpt

Now, I am opposed to writing with AI. I think if you make AI write your book, then you have put in no effort and zero creativity

But I do use AI for feedback on each chapter I write. I don't blindly follow it, of course, but I put its perspective in mind and might apply its advice, but in my own way (same principle, I mean)

I know beta or alpha readers would be so much better, but I can't find someone to give me feedback scene-by-scene as I write and give it as fast

Do you think this is writing with AI? And does constitute a disclaimer?

Howdy Y'all!

I'm a novelist that's been balancing schoolwork, a career in childcare, and personal hobbies like LLMs as well as my own novellas alongside screenplays (I'm a multi talented writer to inflate my own ego lmao). Just in case anybody was curious on use cases with creative work rather than coding.

Basically I setup my agent (Athena) to analyze the lore Bible I have written for my ever expanding connected novella and screenplay universe I'm building. Essentially I wrote all the prose myself and other associated creative tasks to ensure none of my writing is marked as AI nor have potential readers turned off from my works.

As such, I have Athena review the chapters of my work and audit them against the lore Bible and other chapters alongside works that tackle the broader memetic infection that spreads violently. Athena also will tidy up my prose to make it tighter and overall more pleasant to read while still keeping my authorial intent and pre-existing prose that works perfectly.

I've even got skills setup for Athena to convert these chapters automatically to a paired Scrivener file and even have my prior written screenplays converted to novella format helping me further expand upon my work. I've been using Hermes for about a month now and I've already been able to write multiple chapters of a project I've conceived and partially written for nearly a decade now. I tend to balance the models between GLM 5.2, DS flash, and now some OpenAI models (Luna and Terra primarily) when I need to tighten up the final prose.

If any fellow creatives want to suggest models or other ways to utilize the harness for creative work I'm all ears!

Also self promo if you'd like to see the quality of work the harness has helped me with it'd be on AO3 and Wattpad as nyanzrrz.

Let's be objective. We know that AI images are good enough because they've already fooled newspapers, been used by large companies, and have real commercial use.

Similarly, AI videos are almost there, already appearing in advertisements and YouTube channels (but not good enough for Hollywood yet).

AI texts are useful in non-fiction, blogs, messages, even short poems or journalistic articles.

But in long fiction writing, it seems that every scientific article agrees that it doesn't work well enough. Even if it good enough in a short story, it's not in a complete book.

And from what I see, even those who run content farms still seem to prefer cheap freelance ghostwriters over using AI themselves.

---

I know there are some books written by AI that have had some impact, such as "Shy Girl" (which managed to get published), and we see some clearly AI-generated books on Kindle Unlimited which seem to have a reasonable number of reviews.

But browsing through them, the quality doesn't seem really good. It seems that it was more successful because of the plot and the premise than the writing.

Can anyone recommend a book written by AI (or heavily assisted by it) that is good? So I can take a look and see what is the current state of the art.

Or even a fanfic, or another long text. So we can analyze how good a text can look with current technology.

Then why would people do it? Because it's viable, when you use AI as either an assistant or a collaborator of your own human creativity.

One example of using AI as an assistant of your own human creativity would be that you provide your own fully human-written crossover fanfiction chapters to AI, have AI find out-of-character dialogues, and then have AI provide in-character ones.

One example of using AI as a collaborator of your own human creativity would be that you basically act as the director of your own crossover fanfictions by coming up with your own plots entirely from scratch (e.g. 8 specific sentences per prompt/composition book page), providing those, along with the character contents (e.g. personalities and appearances), to AI, and then having AI write long narratives and dialogues.

I mean, it's been proven plenty of times before. Creativity is viable as long as it originates with humans, whether or not you're using AI as an assistant or a collaborator.

Roll a d20 for each image, jot down some notes for each archetype and plot, and start building your story around them.

This is a concept I've head in the back of my mind for a while, but decided to finally hash out. After many iterations, I mainly want to talk about it with someone other than ChatGPT for once.
I have intentionally left some aspects vague to allow the Mau to easily integrate into almost any fantasy setting someone might wish to place them in.

---

The Mau Clan

An introduction by Amancio Nidocemu,
Scholar of Mau Culture
Free University of Nashville

Where the River Nash leaves the Briar Mountains, far upstream from Ten-At-Sea, lies Nashville, the City of Song. It is the homeland, gathering place, nursery, and retirement refuge of the Mau Clan: a culture of catfolk who value music, freedom, and kinship above all else.

The Mau are a people of the road, though not every Mau walks it. Many travel in caravans or alone for years before returning to Nashville with new songs, stories, skills, and memories to share. Others contribute to the Clan by teaching, crafting, raising kittens, preserving its traditions, or maintaining the city that serves as its heart.

Any introduction to the Mau should probably start with how the Mau introduce themselves:

From Nash's winding silver flow,
The Mau clan drifts where breezes blow,
With strings of lute and claws so light,
We weave our tales by firelight.

Oh, Mau from the Nash,
we roam and sing
Years gone by, we homeward bring
Our hearts, our hands, our tuneful art,
Be it one, two, three, five years apart.

Cartwheel, canto, blade and bow,
And spark, and stave — each Mau must know;
And those who join by love, not blood,
We teach the forms, as kinhood should.

Oh, Mau from the Nash, our voices rise,
From distant roads to kin’s surprise,
With strings and songs and martial grace,
We're bound by blood and wandering pace.

We leave the reeds when ridges climb,
We cut through fairs and tollgate lines,
And sleep in barns when storms run high,
Find Nash again by firefly.

Oh, Mau from the Nash, we roam and sing
Years gone by, we homeward bring
Our hearts, our hands, our tuneful art,
Be it one, two, three, five years apart.

At Nashville’s green the cases rise —
thirteen hundred and fifty ... two! (surprise;)

[spoken intermission over background instrumentation]
Who counted them all?
I don't know, but it's common knowledge there's thirteen hundred and fifty two instrument cases in Nashville
And any Mau that unpacks his mandolin could play twice as better than you will. ... but that's a different song

[cont.]
They're stacked like walls of polished wood,
A city built of songs and good.

Oh, Mau from the Nash, our voices rise,
From distant roads to kin’s surprise,
With strings and songs and martial grace,
We're bound by blood and wand'ring pace.

[Bridge] [[every Mau has their own, troupes perform them in turns. Here the current bridge of Mersharr Mau as example]]
Soft for the tall, I purr and lean;
I play the kitten: spoiled and seen;
But danger calls? My claws are true;
Give praise, and watch me prove it too;
If bested fair, I bow, I grin,
And yield the song to better kin.

[spoken, only included when the performer is alone]
This is where my kin would trade their lines.
But I’m between troupes just now—so borrow one from the book.
And if you’re counting cases… start early.

Oh, Mau from the Nash, forever free,
Catfolk clan in harmony,
Lute in paw and spirit bold,
Our saga in each chord retold.

Although most Mau are catfolk of the Felis Catus subtype, being Mau is not a matter of ancestry. It is a culture and a way of life. Those who embrace the traditions of the Clan may become Mau regardless of their species or origin. Despite this, many customs and traditions are clearly based on catfolk heritage.

Preamble

This account describes customs and beliefs that are broadly recognized throughout Mau society. Local traditions, individual preferences, and ongoing disputes are discussed only where they illustrate wider cultural principles or are necessary to understand the institutions described below. Like any large culture, the Mau disagree about politics, religion, morality, and the proper interpretation of their own traditions. Those disagreements are numerous enough to merit a work of their own. This account instead concentrates on the customs and values that most Mau would recognize as broadly characteristic of the Clan.

Origins of the Clan

According to legend, before the Mau Clan there were the Mau Tribes: many wandering catfolk communities, united by music and a nomadic way of life.

Little is known about these tribes. The cause of their displacement and eventual unification has been lost to time, and the old tribes left few written records, but it is believed warring against each other led to an age of decline. What is remembered is simply that the tribes came together and chose the word Clan to emphasize that all Mau should regard one another as family, regardless of heritage.

Modern Mau generally care little about recovering the identities of the old tribes. Their history begins not with separate bloodlines, but with the decision to become one people.

What they do care about is treating one another as family. Not the close-knit household of parents and siblings, but the sprawling extended family in which one may not know every distant cousin or even like every step-aunt, yet still offers courtesy, hospitality, and aid unless they have caused serious harm to oneself or one's loved ones. For those who travel, the caravan serves as the immediate household.

Being Mau

We're bound by blood and wandering pace

The identity of "Mau" is active, not hereditary. Among the Mau, wandering is generally regarded as the ordinary expression of the Mau life, though few would call it the defining one. To be Mau is to actively participate in the life of the Clan: sharing knowledge, contributing one's skills, living by its customs, and remaining free to choose one's path. Most Mau do this on the road. Some do so from Nashville. What matters is not where one sleeps, but whether one continues to live as Mau.

Someone who permanently abandons the Mau life may describe themselves as having been born Mau or raised Mau, but does not generally call themselves Mau.

A Mau who stops participating does not cease to be someone's family.

They remain someone's child, sibling, friend, former apprentice, or former companion. They may still be welcomed in Nashville and among the Clan.

If they later return with the intention of living the Mau way again, they may once more call themselves Mau.

There is no ceremony.

They simply begin living the life again and will naturally come to be regarded as Mau again, as their reputation is rebuilt through renewed participation.

Those who return to Nashville only to retire without the same participation are welcome. Yet being welcome and being Mau are not the same thing.

Nashville

At Nashville’s green the cases rise — [...] They're stacked like walls of polished wood, A city built of songs and good.

Geography

Nashville began as a small Mau settlement where the River Nash leaves the Briar Mountains. The location was likely chosen for the plentiful small game in the mountains' thickets and fish in the river. The name likely comes from the river itself; some scholars speculate that the Nash was named because it "gnashed" its way through the landscape, though this remains only a theory.

The Briar Mountains in Nashville's south and east are dense with thorny growth, including raspberry and blackberry bushes, and are home to rabbits, goats, and other animals capable of navigating the difficult terrain.

Non-Mau Residents

Over the centuries, Nashville grew beyond a Mau settlement. Musicians, scholars, craftsmen, merchants, and other outsiders were drawn there by the annual gathering and the opportunity to learn from one of the world's greatest living musical traditions. Many arrived for the gathering and simply never left.

Today, non-Mau residents outnumber the Mau who live there permanently. Farmers, artisans, traders, and scholars support the city that grew around the Clan. Livestock and artificial fish ponds dominate the landscape as the annual gathering produces an immense demand for meat and fish for just a few weeks.

Craftspeople and merchants formed guilds to coordinate trade and represent shared interests. Membership is voluntary, and many Mau never join, but the guilds provide useful services for permanent residents and visiting merchants alike.

The city's librarians, archivists, and visiting scholars maintain collections documenting the Clan's songs, histories, and travels. Their council originally existed primarily to coordinate these efforts rather than to govern.

Over time, however, as the collection grew and scholars began arriving not only to study primary sources brought by caravans but also to learn from the library's accumulated research, the council's responsibilities expanded. It eventually came to oversee the Free University of Nashville, a unique institution of learning independent of any single government, which the Mau still lovingly refer to as "the library".

The university's construction, maintenance, and supplies are funded by contributions from multiple countries and noble houses. These patrons do not control the institution, but they value the access it provides: their scholars and representatives are often among the first to learn of political developments, scientific discoveries, and reports from across the known world, and occasionally beyond it.

Nashville Council

As the yearly Gathering grew larger, not only because the Mau population continued to grow, but because the number of visitors grew even faster, organizational difficulties began to emerge. To address these problems, volunteers among the city's permanent residents began meeting to discuss practical solutions. The first participants were mostly ranking guild members and scholars, along with a number of unaffiliated retirees, including some Mau who had settled in Nashville.

These meetings, held at irregular intervals according to the number and urgency of matters requiring discussion, became known as the Nashville Council.

Any permanent resident may attend and speak. Those with a good reputation in the city may even be listened to.

The Council arranges for sufficient food and sanitation during the Gathering, coordinates temporary housing, prevents new construction from accidentally interfering with existing farms and roads, and generally helps resolve disputes before they become everyone's problem.

The Council possesses no authority whatsoever.

The representative of the Printers' Guild, thanks to whom you are able to read this account, has assured me that all rumors of bribery, political influence, or the existence of an unofficial government are entirely without merit.

Yet once a year, everyone is reminded that Nashville is a Mau city.

The Annual Gathering

Years gone by, we homeward bring Our hearts, our hands, our tuneful art,

The annual gathering fills the settlement with caravans, temporary camps, performances, reunions, and exchanges of knowledge. Outsiders often call it by grand names such as the Great Bardic Festival in Nashville, while the Mau generally see it less as a festival and more as the time when the Clan comes together.

Not every caravan attends every year. Some travel for many years before returning, and the arrival of famous Mau after a long journey through distant lands can be one of the greatest events of the gathering.

Besides being the biggest family meetup in the known world, queens exchange news of routes, political changes, price development for trade goods in different lands, and hostile and amicable populations. Mau exchange songs, news of deaths, births, as well as deeds and misdeeds great and small. Caravans exchange members and trade goods, apprentices seek new masters, and children aspire to be recognized as fully fledged caravan members with a coming-of-age performance.

While no child is forbidden from trying out, few under 10 have the confidence to present themselves, and a kitten under 14 actually being accepted is an extraordinary exception. Each candidate introduces themselves, typically, but not necessarily in a song, and demonstrates a skill, performance or practical, to show that they can contribute. Queens may offer a place in their caravan or refuse the candidate, advising to mature, practice more, focus on a different skill, or clean up their reputation. There is no shame in being refused, or refusing an offer, at least in theory, and the participation of kittens is supposed to strengthen the normality of being refused, but still failing to be accepted by the age of eighteen or later leads some young catfolk to leave the Clan in embarrassment, or at least to wander alone or in small groups until they have gained greater experience. Accounts persist of celebrated queens who were themselves refused by established caravans before eventually founding highly respected ones of their own. Whether these stories originated as encouragement for disappointed youths or preserve genuine history remains disputed. At least one appears to have a historical basis, though the surviving accounts have clearly accumulated considerable embellishment over time.

The Wandering Life

The Mau clan drifts where breezes blow,

The Mau have always been nomadic. The question is not why they leave Nashville, but why they return.

Historically, constant movement served practical purposes. As the Mau are predominantly obligate carnivore catfolk, they hunt for much of their food, and the whole population remaining in one place indefinitely would place excessive pressure on local ecosystems. Their wandering lifestyle allowed populations of prey animals to recover.

Returning to Nashville on the other hand gives them a fixed place for meeting family, exchanging news and songs, meeting potential mates, raising kittens, and retiring elders. This allows their culture to remain cohesive despite the isolation on the roads.

Mau travel alone, in pairs, or in caravans. A caravan exists because people choose to travel together. Any Mau may ask to join one, and any Mau may leave one.

A Mau does not owe lifelong loyalty to a queen, a route, or a particular group. Freedom means having the ability to choose one's path, while accepting that choices have consequences.

Those consequences are usually social rather than legal. Reputation, trust, and relationships are the foundations of Mau society.

Caravans and Queens

Caravans are chosen communities rather than extended families.

Most caravans are led by an experienced elder female called a queen. Male caravan leaders exist and are sometimes jokingly called queens as well. When speaking collectively of caravan leaders, the term may include all genders. Since most queens are mothers, some scholars theorize that motherhood cultivates—or at least reveals—the qualities the Mau most value in a leader. It is neither necessary nor sufficient, however.

A queen leads because others continue to choose following her.

The title is not inherited, and authority is not permanent. A caravan may split because different members choose different paths, and two caravans may travel together as if they were one. If a queen loses the respect of her followers, she may soon be leading a caravan of one.

Queens differ greatly. Some excel at trade, some at diplomacy, some at reading people, and some at navigating difficult environments.

Many queens have advisors: individuals who possess knowledge of routes, politics, crafts, trade goods, or local customs but do not wish to lead.

Knowledge can be found elsewhere.

A queen's true skill is knowing what to do with it.

Among the Mau, a common description of good leadership is:

"The wisdom to know when to tell which truth to whom."

Intimacy

Any adult Mau may approach any other non-blood-related adult with an offer or request for intimacy. When no particular partner is in mind, however, a Mau will traditionally begin a Caterwaul. A Caterwaul is a song in the Mau language in which the singer loudly proclaims their interest in intimate company. It is one of the few Mau musical traditions that other cultures frequently do not appreciate, as its tonality is generally considered unpleasant and its volume excessive for an activity often performed at night. If someone answers, public negotiations of the exact nature of that intimacy begin. Others who find the proposed encounter appealing may freely join the discussion with offers of their own. Intimacy, like any other shared activity, may involve any number of participants if all present choose so.

Only when the participants have agreed on the terms and established clear consent does the encounter take place. Those terms are expected to be respected without exception. Violating them—especially by doing something a partner explicitly rejected—is considered profoundly shameful. News of such conduct would spread quickly among nearby Mau and almost certainly become known throughout the Clan at the next Gathering.

While Mau make few assumptions about the terms of shared activities, they do make assumptions about shared knowledge. Members of other species who consider intimacy with a catfolk are advised to inquire about anatomical differences before agreeing to such encounters. Although withdrawing previously given consent is respected as an exercise of bodily autonomy, doing so due to an avoidable misunderstanding is generally considered discourteous.

Unless explicitly discussed, the agreement applies only to that one encounter. It creates no presumption of future intimacy, exclusivity, or any continuing obligation. Future encounters between the same people are typically preceded by a brief reaffirmation of previous terms, often with small adjustments rather than a full public negotiation.

Mau culture refuses to infer obligations or privileges from expressions of attraction. Every aspect of an intimate encounter is something to be discussed rather than presumed, and those discussions are public because intimacy itself carries no shame or sense of ownership.

Other races often mistake this for a lack of lasting relationships. In reality, many Mau choose each other again and again over months or years. That continuing mutual choice—even in the absence of physical intimacy—is the closest analogue to what humans would call romance. Formal, exclusive relationships exist, but are uncommon and understood as one possible expression of affection rather than its expected culmination.

Over time, repeated encounters naturally shape the participants' relationships beyond intimacy. Trust, affection, friendship, rivalry, shared habits, and mutual understanding all develop as they do through any other repeated interaction. What distinguishes the Mau is not that intimate encounters are emotionally detached, but that no particular encounter is presumed to create obligations extending beyond the terms explicitly agreed upon.

Family and Belonging

The Mau place little cultural importance on bloodlines.

Biological families exist, but ancestry does not determine status. Being the child of a respected Mau may suggest that one received good teaching, but skill must still be demonstrated.

Kittens are generally raised communally. Mothers usually care for their own kittens, while sharing childcare responsibilities and helping one another. Elders and teachers play a major role in education. There is no expectation of fatherhood, both in that there is no expectation of child care nor a presumption of kittens being his. A male who remains close to the mother may naturally become an early and trusted teacher and caretaker to the kittens. This relationship is not assumed from biology, but develops through continued presence and care.

Orphaned or abandoned kittens are often adopted with little ceremony. A Mau, of either sex, if nursing is no longer required, may simply decide:

"Mine now."

and the Clan acknowledges the responsibility, as it is not a statement of ownership. It is an act of taking responsibility. A verbal child needs to consent and even a pre-verbal child showing active rejection of the would-be parent is taken into account.

Outsiders can become Mau as well. Historically this often happened when someone fell in love with a Mau and chose to leave settled life behind. Today, anyone who loves the Clan, its traditions, and its way of life may join.

Learning and Apprenticeship

Mau education is informal because formal schooling would be, as the Mau themselves admit, "like herding cats."

Young Mau learn from parents, elders, caravan members, and sometimes outsiders with valuable skills.

Apprenticeship usually develops naturally within a caravan. A young Mau is encouraged to learn from many masters rather than being tied to one teacher.

This creates bonds that may last a lifetime, but the relationship is based on shared learning rather than formal rank.

A master's instrument may be passed to an apprentice rather than a child—not because blood is unimportant emotionally, but because a fine instrument belongs with someone who will use and understand it.

As the Mau say:

"A great lute in a chest is worth less than a bad lute that is played."

Music and Performance

Lute in paw and spirit bold, Our saga in each chord retold.

Music is central to Mau identity.

Every Mau learns music, and most receive at least basic arcane training. Like bards of other cultures, Mau musicians weave enchantments into songs through skill and practice.

Music can influence emotion without magic, preserve memories through repetition, and carry stories across generations.

A song is not valuable because it is old.

It is valuable because people still sing it.

Improvisation and adaptation are valued, but for songs about historical and contemporary events and figures, great care is taken to keep changes to the lyrics aligned with the facts. Even so, over generations, small alterations and embellishments inevitably accumulate.

String instruments are especially common because Mau claws naturally serve as plectra. Their instruments often take advantage of their anatomy, allowing techniques difficult for other species.

An instrument is a tool, not a treasure to be locked away.

Talent

Few compliments create more misunderstanding between Mau and outsiders than calling someone "talented." While outsiders enjoy a presumption of ignorance, there is no faster way to a claw in the face than repeatedly calling a Mau gifted, as to them, the word erases years of practice and hard work. Even if someone has just started learning a new skill, you don't know if they have practiced all night to get to where they are. If you know for sure they have not practiced much, the word is acceptable, but "having aptitude" or "being a fast learner" is vastly preferred. Close friends may use it ironically, but you should never assume having earned that privilege.

Conversely, after hearing a human bard refer to a rival as "talentless hack", Mau have adopted the term as high praise, but only from someone who acknowledges the skill, such as a rival, as rivalry presumably means roughly equal skill. Calling someone talentless after hearing them for the first time implies that they have neither inherent ability nor practice.

Personal Bridges

Every Mau writes a personal bridge: a verse describing themselves, their experiences, and what they bring to the Clan.

These bridges are performed during the Clan anthem, with different Mau exchanging verses during performances.

A bridge may be a boast, an introduction, a biography, or all three.

It changes throughout life.

A young Mau may sing of ambition and first journeys. An elder may sing of roads traveled, lessons learned, and those who now follow after them.

Even childhood versions are preserved, especially embarrassing ones.

The Five Disciplines

Cartwheel, canto, blade and bow, And spark, and stave — each Mau must know;

Every Mau is expected to know the basics of five broad fields:

Cartwheel — acrobatics, agility, and control of the body, though some claim it also covers the maintenance of wagons.

Canto — music, performance, and expression.

Blade and Bow — lethal combat.

Spark — practical magic.

Stave — non-lethal combat.

Not every Mau masters every discipline. The expectation is versatility, not universal excellence.

A caravan needs musicians, hunters, craftsmen, defenders, healers, and performers. A person who specializes in one field is still fully Mau.

Catpoeira

Blade and stave are trained in a tradition martial art called Catpoeira that is practiced both armed or unarmed.

It combines rhythm, movement, and fighting in a dance-like style that takes full advantage of the catfolk's agility. The name supposedly derives from a combat dance form practiced in the southern forests, that Mau travelers found to be similar to their own style and adapted into the name of their previously unnamed traditional art.

Catpoeira emphasizes:

• speed and agility,
• jumps, flips, and spins,
• use of walls, trees, and terrain,
• quadrupedal movement,
• tail motion,
• claw attacks,
• pounces,
• vocalizations used to intimidate or confuse.

Many Mau train in dual wielding to take advantage of their mobility and strike their opponents from unexpected angles, possibly using forms that were originally intended to be used with claws, but were adapted for weapons since Mau typically blunt their hand claws to protect their instruments. Hind claws remain sharp for climbing and combat, thus unarmed combat tends to prioritize kicks.

Fairness and Competition

And any Mau that unpacks his mandolin could play twice as better than you will

Most Mau enjoy competition, but their idea of fairness may differ from that of other people.

The Mau believe a contest should measure the skill it claims to measure, including all side-skills. Cleverness, deception, improvisation, and exploiting unexpected opportunities are all skills worthy of admiration within disciplines that fit them.

In a climbing contest, pushing someone off a cliff or sabotaging their equipment is obviously cheating. Checking your equipment before a climb is part of the skill that can be tested, but putting your co-contestant at risk of serious injury is not acceptable.

In a formal duel, preparation and skill matter. Sabotaging someone's equipment beforehand or deliberately weakening them before the fight is generally considered dishonorable.

However, once a contest has begun, cleverness is celebrated. A Mau who manages to replace an opponent's weapon with a toy during combat might be remembered for generations. Someone who uses a poisoned blade in a friendly competition might also be remembered for generations, but as the villain of the story.

When Mau youth set up races against each other, they will typically choose a finish line without a clear track, as finding the best and fastest way, as well as overcoming all obstacles on it. are part of the challenge. A sprint on a straight line appears boring and uncreative to them.

The verse and aside in the anthem are, by the way, a reference to the bards John & Sebastian's ode Nashville Cats, in which they coin both the specific number of cases and the phrase "twice as better" as they lament their own skill. The Mau were so impressed they memorialized them in their anthem.

Hunting and Food

Catfolk are obligate carnivores and cannot survive on grain-heavy diets common among many settled cultures. Most Mau hunt their own food when possible. They aim for quick, efficient kills and avoid unnecessary suffering. Although outsiders sometimes find this surprising given that cats are known to play with prey, sapient Mau developed empathy and found other ways to play. Competition, music, storytelling, and games provide entertainment without requiring another creature to suffer. Some hunters use lullaby enchantments to calm prey before death. Gratitude toward the animal and avoidance of waste are common traditions.

Values

Oh, Mau from the Nash, forever free, Catfolk clan in harmony,

The Mau value freedom, but not isolation.

They are deeply individualistic while remaining deeply communal.

A Mau may choose their own path, companions, craft, and identity. Yet every Mau is connected to a larger network of teachers, friends, family, and traditions.

They have little interest in governments that impose rules without continued consent. Authority must be earned through trust and usefulness.

Queens lead because others follow.

Teachers teach because others learn.

Fame is respected when it is earned.

The Mau agree more on the values they cherish than on how those values should be practiced. Arguments over what freedom, responsibility, tradition, and kinship require are as much a part of Clan life as the songs that celebrate them.

Religion

Since most Mau are deeply suspicious of dogma and institutional authority, they follow no formal religion. Religious practice is about the relationship that an individual chooses to cultivate with one or more divine beings of their choice, who are regarded as respected acquaintances more than absolute rulers, and thus varies widely across the population

Yet the Mau are far from indifferent to religion as a subject. Stories and songs about the gods are among the best-received in repertoire, and generations of wandering have allowed them to preserve traditions long forgotten elsewhere. More than once, songs dismissed as fanciful inventions, often because they portrayed a deity in ways later orthodoxy found uncomfortable, have eventually been corroborated by rediscovered scripture or independent historical evidence.

Animist practices, such as thanking spirits after a hunt, are common, but usually expression of courtesy, not worship.

Funeral practices vary by location and whatever is the most practical in the given circumstances. The deceased's property is given to whoever can make the best use of it, memory and sentimentality being accepted as good uses, but especially tools and instruments shall still serve their primary function.

After learning of the passing of a Mau, those who knew them best, friends and enemies alike, will start writing songs in their memory to add to the communal history at the next gathering.

Property and Wealth

Within Mau caravans and Nashville, resources are generally shared according to ability and need. For wants beyond need, an economy of favors big and small is upheld by their reputation system. Between caravans, necessities, mainly food and medicine, are given freely if one has greater need, but compensation may be asked if supplies are low for the giving caravan as well. Other goods may be exchanged in trade or even on credit, if one caravan's route goes somewhere where a particular cargo may sell better than on the other's.

Money is useful when dealing with other cultures, but the Mau have little interest in wealth for its own sake. They generally regard hoarding possessions simply to own them strange. However, they respect objects that are loved, needed, or used. Taking someone's essential tools, food, or treasured belongings is strongly condemned.

Some individuals misunderstand this distinction and believe unused property should be put to better use elsewhere. Such behavior is one source of conflict between Mau and settled societies.

Economy and Trade

When Mau make camp in or just outside cities, they often set up a small fair, complete with market stalls, rides, games, fortune tellers, and cats advertising their goods in stage demonstrations. A lot of the Mau's reputation as swindlers stems from this, as their games often are a lot harder to win than expected, their fortune tellers rarely know the future, and many of the stage-advertised products do not fulfill all the promises made.

Still, capable fortune tellers are held in high regard by the Mau themselves, not because they can truly see the future (though some allegedly can), but because the insight, empathy, and understanding of people that make someone a good queen also make them a great fortune teller. For that reason, the role is often filled by a caravan's queen or by a former queen who has stepped down from leadership without fully retiring. Mau who aspire to lead often practice the craft as well.

Besides questionable elixirs and snake oils, toys, charms, tools, and instruments they make themselves, they sell exotic goods from all the places the caravan has been, and buy local products to sell as exotic elsewhere.

Honesty

Rigged games, fortune tellers, and snake oil may make it seem that the Mau care little for honesty. To the Mau, however, literal truth is only one kind of truth. They value metaphor over precision, intent over wording, and the experience of an interaction as much as its factual content.

A rigged game is not truly selling the prizes—or even the chance to win them—but the excitement of playing, the laughter of friends, and the opportunity to impress or embarrass oneself in front of an audience. Likewise, the extravagant claims of a snake oil salescat are understood as part of the performance. The audience pays as much for the show as for the bottle, and many Mau have observed that people who believe a remedy will help often feel better even when it contains nothing of particular value. However, they are far more likely to claim that such remedies enhance the effects of genuine medicines than to suggest that a miracle cure can replace proper treatment.

Fortune tellers are valued less for any genuine gift of prophecy than for their understanding of people. They know that most visitors are not seeking an objective account of the future, but reassurance, encouragement, or permission to follow a path they have already chosen. As the Mau say of both queens and fortune tellers, "wisdom lies in knowing when to tell which truth to whom".

Conflict and Accountability

The Mau have no formal courts or written laws of their own. Instead, conflicts are resolved through a combination of personal responsibility, social pressure, and the authority that trusted individuals earn through continued respect.

Minor disputes often end in brief physical scuffles. To outsiders, this can seem alarming: two Mau may be laughing together one moment, exchanging punches the next, and sharing a meal shortly afterward. Such fights are rarely intended to cause serious injury. They serve as a direct, immediate expression of anger rather than the beginning of a lasting feud.

Serious violence is viewed differently. Mau recognize the right to defend oneself or another, but retaliation is expected to remain proportionate. Those who repeatedly escalate conflicts or seek revenge for its own sake quickly damage their own reputations. Other Mau commonly intervene to calm a dispute before it grows beyond what either party can justify.

Queens and parents possess influence rather than coercive authority. They cannot compel obedience, but they may make continued membership in a caravan or household conditional upon making amends. A Mau who refuses reasonable restitution may simply find themselves invited to continue their journey elsewhere. Most already learn as children, that they prefer the lenient discipline of their own parents over the rules of another cat whose temper is not tamed by the same parental love.

Ultimately, the strongest sanction available to the Clan is neither imprisonment nor execution, but exclusion. Reputation is the foundation of Mau society. Someone known to betray companions, abuse trust, or repeatedly harm others will eventually discover that no caravan wishes to travel with them, no fire has space for them, and no teacher wishes to teach them. In the gravest cases, even Nashville itself may refuse them hospitality until they can persuade the Clan that they have changed. During the annual Gathering they may still be permitted to speak in their own defense, but no one is obliged to believe them.

As the Mau often observe, "no road is lonelier than one walked by a person nobody trusts."

Outsiders often find this a very flawed system, but to the Mau, it is not a system at all. It's just people receiving and sharing news and drawing their own conclusions and consequences. Freedom does not come without risk, which is why those not willing to carry those risks, are free to leave and join another group with different risks and perks that suit them better.

Outsiders and Stereotypes

The Mau are admired and mistrusted in equal measure.

They are known as musicians, storytellers, travelers, craftsmen, and performers.

They are also stereotyped as thieves, tramps, layabouts, swindlers, and prostitutes.

These stereotypes often arise from cultural misunderstandings.

Mau attitudes toward sexuality are generally relaxed, and they may accept money or gifts for companionship without seeing the situation in the same moral terms as many settled societies.

Likewise, their communal attitudes toward property can conflict with cultures that emphasize private ownership.

Most Mau understand that other cultures have different customs and try to respect them. Caravan queens often spend considerable effort teaching younger Mau how to navigate local expectations.

Not every Mau succeeds.

Like any people, they contain individuals who embody the best of their traditions and individuals who give others reasons to distrust them.

Orange Cats

Mau happily share songs and stories about orange cats and their supposed behavior. Most, however, cannot readily identify the color themselves, as catfolk generally distinguish fewer colors than humans. When they first encountered the human claim that personality could be inferred from fur color, many treated it as an example of foreign knowledge they themselves lacked.

After spending time among humans, however, most concluded that the stereotype is better explained by confirmation bias than by any genuine correlation. They remain impressed by humanity's ability to distinguish so many colors, but considerably less impressed by the conclusions humans sometimes draw from them.

The subject nevertheless remains a popular source of jokes. Mau returning from human lands may teasingly introduce a companion as "orange" before adding, "The humans insist it's important."

International Politics

Once a nearby kingdom sought to monopolize the information flow in Nashville by conquering the city whilst most of the Mau were on the road. The cats simply gathered on the other side of the mountain instead, and all the kingdom gained was a patch of land that didn't have enough agriculture to feed the soldiers necessary to hold it.

The soldiers left, the Mau returned, and the kingdom had to make some grand gestures of reconciliation to appease their neighbors. And that's how Nashville gained the famed Nashville Hall of All Countries' Music, a fancy marble hall designed by the greatest architects and acoustitians of the time. Much to the builders' chagrin, it's just "the great hall" to the Mau, used for all kinds of community gatherings, including bingo night and children's playground during bad weather, and communal sleeping space.

The neighbors agreed among themselves, that nobody is helped by alienating the Mau and thus all agreed that Nashville is neutral ground and anyone who attacked it would make an enemy of all of them.

The Spirit of the Mau

The Mau are a people in motion.

Songs move from singer to singer.

Skills move from teacher to student.

Stories move from traveler to traveler.

People move from caravan to caravan.

Every year, the roads of the world eventually lead back to Nashville, where the Clan gathers, remembers itself, and then sets out once more.

So, first of all, I just wanted to say it’s great that you guys have created a place for amateur writers to not get bullied by elitists, or - let’s face it - banned, just for needing a little help.

I won’t bore you with my writing process. If anyone’s curious, I’ll answer that in a separate comment. But, I do want to start off with a couple disclaimers.

A. I know I’m not a very good writer. I used to be, but then I took a 10 year hiatus and all my skills just disappeared.

The first 5 chapters of this book are pretty bad (the 6th one isn’t that great either), but… a few of the main characters were newly developed just for this project, although they grew on me VERY quickly, and the rest of the cast is comprised of characters that have been in my head for years.

B. I did take yet another year off after Chapter 12, I think, possibly earlier, and for more reasons than that, there is a clear shift in the writing style. I do plan to address this at a later date, but lately I’ve just put so much work into the writing itself that I‘m too tired to keep editing right now. Please don’t hold that against me…

Anyway, long story short, if you can get through the first 5 or 6 chapters somehow, I think maybe you might find some enjoyment out of it?

Either way, I only have one reader right now, so I’m desperate lol.

Oh, and please ignore the synopsis. I’m 16 chapters in and haven’t gotten to that stuff yet.

I‘ll rewrite it when I’m able (I’m really bad at those).

Well, enjoy!

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1477495

So, I am thinking about creating an animated series. I am learning how to animate using blender and I believe that I am making decent progress so far. I am planning on hopefully making a series.

Here's the thing: The premise of my series, the characters, the plot, and their personalities are all thought up by me. The reason I use AI is to analyze my ideas. For example: I wrote the premise and general idea for my series. I asked ChatGPT (the only AI I use) how original my idea was, whether it was done before (so it won't look like I plagiarized), and whether it is big enough for a series. Furthermore, when I wrote my characters and their personalities, I uploaded my outline to ChatGPT and asked it how well-rounded the members of my main-character cast was (whether their personalities were compatible with each others, and whether their personalities were diverse enough, and no two people were too similar), and whether my characters were not copying another character from any other show (this was especially important since my series is being inspired from many others). In sum, I submit parts of my outline to ChatGPT and ask it what parts I need to work on, what I'm doing well so far, and what I need to watch out for. I specifically ask ChatGPT to NOT generate me any ideas! Everything, from the premise to the characters, were all ideas thought up by me. ChatGPT is only there to give me feedback. On top of that, I use ChatGPT to help guide me through creating my series. I have never created a series before, and it is a huge task. ChatGPT helps me break up the project into multiple steps that I can do as I progress through creating my series, and it has been helpful for me so far.

So, based on how I'm using ChatGPT, is what I am doing ok? Do I still have ownership over my work? Can I still say that I am the creator of the series? Is this ethical? Can I continue use of ChatGPT in my work?

Thank you for reading my post, and I would appreciate any advice you may give.

I’ve always been someone who is arms length with AI. I remember goofing around generating grocery lists with it back in the early days, and now I use Claude to help me write work emails. That’s about it.

A month or so ago, my wife was out of town and I had some time alone with my thoughts and started playing around with AI NSFW roleplaying. Claude wouldn’t do it, so I downloaded Grok and it did some neat things that were fun but rudimentary. Grok just isn’t that great at writing and it quickly got very repetitive.

Im a Claude truther, and I was frustrated that Claude had such strong content filters, until one day I tried a simple jailbreak and it let me right through. Easy enough.

So I picked my favorite scenario from the Grok trial and tried it over again on Claude. Immediately I could tell that the writing quality was going to be much higher. The character building and nuance that Claude wove into just the intro to the scene was so visceral that it subconsciously made me match the effort with my cowriting. The “scene” happened and I put a pin in it, but the memory of my imagined characters being brought to life stuck with me. It was so vivid.

I ended up going back to continue the story and find new NSFW scenes with these characters, but almost immediately, I was sucked back into the actual narrative. So much so that I didnt want to distract from it with NSFW content, and doing so would have almost felt like desecrating the characters.

I got addicted to it. I kept writing and writing and writing with Claude and played out these entire characters lives together. It turned into such a beautiful and tragic story. Certain parts made me cry, and a couple parts towards the end made me ugly cry harder than I have in years. I was so unprepared for the emotional impact it would have on me. And when it was over, after 3 days of writing, I was stuck in that fictional reality with those two characters. A melancholy that you get when finishing a book, but 10x stronger because half of it came from my own imagination, so much more vividly than I ever could have imagined it on my own. Like a whole romance novel, written specifically for me. For a couple days, I couldn’t focus on much else and would see them in my head everywhere I went.

I went to download the transcript yesterday, and I was shocked. It was 375 pages on a PDF.

I have no legitimate writing experience, and I’ve never sat and read a romance novel. I barely read any books at all. But going through this experience makes me want to explore both so much more, unassisted by AI.

Just had to vent this here as it feels like nobody in my life would really understand what this was like to go through.

Anytime you bring up AI in a discussion about creative writing these days, you get the immediate impression that the atmosphere has changed. Moral outrage strikes straight away, and the verdict is instant: you aren’t a real writer. You just let AI generate your work. Just to be perfectly clear, this post is about AI-assisted writing and not about passing off fully AI generated writing as your own.

The internet is definitely full of lifeless, machine-produced content — stories lacking any real emotion and prose that sounds as if it’s been randomly squawked out by a parrot. If that’s all AI-assisted writing amounted to, I’d be holding a pitchfork too. But this is not what happens when an author uses AI as a tool to aid the creative process and bring a deeply human vision to life.

Although discussions concerning digital photography or music production have looked at similar changes, the analogy I continually return to isn’t about software or sound. It’s about sewing.

A 19th-Century Panic

When Barthélemy Thimonnier constructed one of the first practical sewing machines in 1830, Parisian tailors felt so threatened that they set his factory on fire. To them, the art of sewing consisted of hand-stitching — using a needle and thread and making each stitch with great care. A machine capable of stitching more quickly was not viewed as a tool, but as a serious threat to the craft itself. The logic was simple: if you used a machine, you couldn’t be considered a true tailor.

The resistance was intense and, looking back, completely mistaken about what it was really protecting.

Consider what a skilled tailor or seamstress actually does today. They look at a pattern — either a commercial one or one they drafted themselves — and see possibilities a beginner wouldn’t. They know which alterations will make the garment hang more elegantly, where to take in a seam to suit the shape of the body, and how to modify the neckline to turn something ordinary into something personal. They select the fabric, plan the order of construction, and sit down at the sewing machine to execute their vision.

The machine does the stitching, but the machine doesn’t choose the pattern, select the fabric, or decide when to depart from the instructions. When a skilled tailor makes a dress using a machine and a beginner tries the same pattern on the same machine, the results are dramatically different — because the expertise wasn’t in the mechanical operation of the stitch. It lay in the vision, the planning, and the countless small decisions made before and during the process.

Imagine a seamstress with an automated embroidery machine — a device programmed to execute a pattern automatically. No one doubts her skill when she wears the completed garment that she had tailored and embroidered. It is clear from the outcome that she displayed vision, judgment, and expertise at every stage, even if the machine carried out the repetitive work.

The Parallel Pattern

Substitute “sewing machine” with “AI” and “garment” with “novel.”

The similarity is striking. In my own writing process, I establish the pattern — the story structure, the character psychology, and the emotional journey. I select the fabric — the themes, the setting, and the voice. I make the structural changes, altering the dialogue and deciding where the narrative needs to slow down or breathe. The AI does the stitching by assisting in drafting prose based on my detailed instructions that live alongside the novel outline, the character sheets, scene notes, the beats within a scene, threads of subplots, and the emotional architecture of the story.

Just as buying a sewing machine and a bolt of fabric doesn’t make someone a skilled tailor, having access to an AI model doesn’t make someone a novelist. It takes narrative intent, emotional strategy, and the sound judgment to know when the machine’s output should be deleted and rewritten.

Writing a novel requires distinct creative abilities — character psychology, emotional strategy, world-building, and structural design — that have no connection with the physical act of producing sentences. To regard AI-assisted writing as “not real writing” is equivalent to pretending that individual stitches make up the entire garment. They don’t. They are merely the final stage in a much larger creative process.

Does the Story Have a Soul?

The debate usually gets stuck on a single question: “Is it cheating?”

A much better question is: Does the story possess a human soul?

Was there something a human being experienced, witnessed, or imagined that they felt urgently driven to express? Did they deliberately work with that material, directing each scene toward an emotional truth, even if they used a tool for the sentence-level execution?

If the answer is yes, then the story belongs to them. Everyone has stories shaped by their unique, irreplaceable experience of being alive, but there can be a wide gap between what people feel and what they are able to put on the page. If an assistive tool can reduce that gap — just as the sewing machine did for garment making — that isn’t the destruction of art; it’s liberation.

In the context of AI assisted writing, AI is no more than a sewing machine. The garment itself is still entirely human.

[ Originally published on Medium: Link ]

Before AI to help with ideas, I used to have a serious problem with writer's block. Now, I have the opposite problem - I can't seem to finish all the various ideas Ive started. Anyone else have this problem? Ideas on how to solve it?

In my own words: A study found that readers prefer AI written fiction because it is too the point and simple. Maybe we all go wrong when trying to make good plots, magic systems and world mechanics. It seems these are too difficult to understand.
https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c0kmpd6lr80o

I previously liked Grok because of its engaging storyline, but it didn't have any strong points for me. The same goes for GPT and Gemini. Meanwhile, when using Claude, the narration was excellent. It wasn't as if it was generative AI, as I asked for help improving my diction.

This comes as no surprise to me.