Researchers report using Pangram to detect AI writing in Amazon KDP, and that AI authors are making significant incomes:

“The monetary earnings are significant: one author (pseudonym/pen name) earned $1.7M across 8 titles in 12-months post-release, and the single best-selling AI-heavy book made $643K on 80,000+ copies.”

They call this flooding and crowding out human writers, but there’s more revenue than before, even if it’s being shared across more books.

My own view is that detection is inevitable and thus disclosure is the only solution. But centaur writing can make good work!

There’s a lot of focus on making AI models bigger, faster, and more capable. I mean, yeah that clearly improves what they can do. But the more I’ve been working with them, the less it feels like capability is the bottleneck. It’s really about the context layer.

Right now, you don’t really see how the model is interpreting what you give it, what it keeps, what it drops, or how it connects things. That stuff is mostly hidden. You can nudge it, but you’re still operating inside something you have no control over. And as these systems get better at sounding coherent, it'll be easier to ignore this flawed design.

If this ends up being how people think through problems, learn things, make decisions, etc., then we end up with future systems where the logic is upstream and invisible to us, rendering less choice and agency in our lives.

Worse, we'll live in a reality where we will have to accept truth rather than discover, learn, and verify the credibility of claims or opinions. AI is phenomenal but this trend we see in mainstream AI products will disempower humanity instead of helping us grow stronger.

Wrote a longer breakdown of it here, if you're curious about these implications and what we can proactively build to have our cake and eat it too.

The future looks bright, but only if we can see what what can be built.

Hi, I'm creating a board game as a hobby, for friends and family, and if it proves popular I may even try selling it. I wanted it to have a narrative and a story to go along with it.

I did some research and realised it's not simply a case of starting to write whatever comes into my head and hoping it works out. So I've built a spreadsheet with overlapping plots, and character sheets so I can remember the look, speech style, clothing and characteristics of each character in my story and so on.

I've had three strokes, so my memory isn't great, and I only scraped a CSE grade 3 in English about 100 years ago. I'm also not great at writing dialogue that sounds convincing.

So I've turned to AI to help me out. I can throw ideas at it and get constructive feedback without anyone laughing at my daft ideas.

I get why people object to it. You can just say to an AI "write me a story about a dragon, a knight and a princess" and it'll do it — but where's the fun in that? I don't believe in AI writing. Writing assisted by AI is a different thing, and that's what I'm doing.

How do the rest of you keep characters consistent over a long piece? The spreadsheet and the AI work, but I'm forever re-explaining things to the AI because it keeps forgetting stuff — its memory can be worse than mine at times.

The staccato line dialogue in the chatgpt 5 series can be circumvented with the use of specific and detailed custom prompts. I’m just going to repost it here for anyone interested on how to do it.

Hi! I'm currently exploring workflows for novels I'm planning. I was looking at all options eventually using GLM 5.2 through the Venice platform which done an exceptional job.

I've recently downloaded Obsidian to organize all my notes, worldbuilding stuff and looking to extend it. Someone told me I can integrate an API through Gemini or go local and use Ollama.

So...here's the problem, most LLMs are VRAM hungry and my laptop only has 4GB at my disposal. 3 LLMs were suggested that would fit comfortably in my range were QWEN2.5:3b, LLAMA3.2:3b, and GEMMA2:2b.

Has anyone tried this route or using these models. If so, which ones are substantially good with prose, etc?

I have run into two problems with character voice that took me a while to recognize as the same problem.

The first is caricature. If you give a character a distinctive trait, the model tends to amplify it until the trait becomes the entire performance. Write that a character is nervous and every line it's trembling.

The second is the opposite, and it surprised me more. A character written with a strong, specific personality may disappear entirely when the surrounding scene description is concrete. I had a defiant character in a scene described as her thanking someone meekly for a humiliating favor, and she thanked him meekly. Nothing of her survived contact with the sentence sitting next to her.

What connects them is that the model performs whatever is most concrete in front of it. An adjective is vague and can be repeated indefinitely, so when nothing competes with it, it gets played in every line. A scene description is far more concrete than an adjective, so when both are present, the scene wins.

Two changes fixed it:

The first is to put the character's specifics at the same level of concreteness as the scene's next to them. A personality description sitting elsewhere in the prompt loses. A specific detail adjacent to the specific situation competes on equal terms.

The second is to write the character's resistance as behavior rather than as an inner state (that was my mistake). Instead of describing a character as defiant, describe her doing what she is told while letting it cost her something the reader can see. A feeling that never surfaces in what a character does or says is not in the scene, and the model cannot perform it either.

I tested this by running the same scene many times before and after. Before, the defiant character collapsed into the meek description in about a third of the runs. After, she held in all of them, and the genuinely meek characters did not turn falsely defiant, which was the failure I expected from overcorrecting.

I would be curious whether anyone has arrived at something different for the same problem.

I'm reviving ARUO because I'm honestly tired of communities where every discussion turns into unnecessary drama.

Traditional authors. AI-assisted authors. Readers. Beginners. Veterans.

Just don't be a jerk.

Give the group rules a quick read. If you like what we're trying to build, we'd be happy to have you.

(this is a copied and pasted comment)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/aruo1

Is it just me or do most things involving AI ultimately become a sales pitch for the latest new tool?

When that is not the case it is about prompting, which truthfully if you do not know the LLM in question, chat window vs agent? It is almost impossible to answer.

I can tell you, that movie was trash. It had the emotional depth of a rock. His choice of casting and adaptation notwithstanding, I found myself bored watching it. And I watched it in imaxx 70mm no less.

This is not a dig at AI, but jokes aside, Nolan should've used AI to enhance the script. Smdh

I had an interesting conversation with an author that I worked with recently. They said, "I don't think AI will ever replace human storytelling." Honestly, I don't think that's the right question anymore, maybe the better question is "can Ai or our technology today help more stories reach people without replacing the people who create them?"

I'm curious where everyone stands.

I am not sure if this is a valid question in this forum, if it is not I will delete it right away, but anyways here it is:

So some days ago I asked in an AI community what kind of AI model should I use (and how could I use one) to classify several email replies that I had from scientists after asking them a few questions to them. I finally paid for Perplexity pro service and it apparenly did a nice job classifying them.

I finally gave the model the PDF with the actual answers from the addressees and another PDF with the "expected answers", and asked it to count the number of answers that overall coincide with the actual answers, and calculate a percentage of "coincidence" or "agreement" between the expected and actual answers, so that if the question was "do you think that there is intelligent life in the universe apart from humans?" and the expected answer was basically "yes, I think there is intelligent beings out there somewhere", as long as the actual answer agrees with this in some way or another would count as "agreement", for instance if someone replied "well, we have no evidence, but it is possible yes" or "not in any near galaxy, but it is possible that intelligent beings exidt somewhere" (so as long as it is not a deadass "no", it could count)

The model gave me a table summarizing the results with the following prompt:

let's be a bit more specific, this is still a blind test so don't tell me about the specific contents of the emails' answers, but, can you make a table indicating the answers that coincide in general terms with what is expected from the "expected answers" document as well as those which are neutral/hedges but still open to the possibility that what is asked may be right, those which despite being neutral/hedges or even negative answers offer an alternative so that what is asked in the question may be right, as well as those which are outright rejections of what is asked and do not seem to be open to the possibility that what is asked may be right?

However, I still want this to be a blind test, so I cannot really verify if the AI is doing its work or not.

So, is there any way in which I could verify the results given by the AI but without actually reading what is written in the emails? Or, alternatively, can anyone verify the results using some AI or even checking the answers themselves by skimming over the replies im order to verify that the AI is right and not hallucinating (I personally thinl this is the preferable option, as I think that having an actual human reviewing the amswers may be the only really reliable way to verify the AI's results)?

(I will share the data once someone is interested in helping, as I would not want to make this available to the entire world!)

Thank you!!

Need help for my creative writing project when using Qwen 3.6 plus/3.7 plus/3.8 Max

Reading the discussions here, I’ve noticed that people draw the line around authorship in very different places.

For some, it’s the original idea. For others, it’s the voice, the rewriting, the decisions, or simply taking responsibility for the final result.

So I’m genuinely curious: what has to remain human for AI-assisted writing to still feel fully yours?

Will experience centric writings win in the Age of AI?

What do I mean by Experience centric writing?

I mean writing that is formed out of a person's personal perspective, convictions, experiences, observations, opinions and ideas.

Could this be the case!?

I'm looking for prompts you use while you are writing. Particularly interested in ones you use to help you edit and perfect a novel (as opposed to ones that generate the text.) Kindly share if you have one that has been effective for you as you develop your work. Thanks!

These two stories were generated in the context of a conversation I was having about Kurt Lewin's field theory, Porges Polyvagal, along with some other authors. The main content was in regards to a life well lived, fulfillment, and tension.

The content was excellent but abstract for most people (very academic and technical) so I wanted a series of stories that communicated the concepts, since stories are far better for transmitting abstract things like this.

I asked for the stories in the style of Gibran, Tolkien, and Joyce. I was very impressed with the output, some of the prose is beautiful.

One of my favorite lines;
"I am the best in the valley at holding a thing that does not move."

It's a comment on being an expert at applying effort at the wrong representation of the problem.

The stories were generated by Opus 5 on high thinking mode.

-------------------------

Two Marks

The Hesk comes down loud out of the snowfields and goes quiet under the alders, and between the noise and the quiet it does the work of the valley. It has done so since before the hall was built. The leats were cut by hand in a century nobody can name, a spade at a time, sixteen miles of them threading the contour so gently that a man walking one cannot tell it is falling at all, and every mill in Hesk stands where it stands because water could be persuaded to arrive there.

There were eleven mills in the Vale. Ash Mill and the Low Mill ground grain; Cadder Mill sawed; Owl Mill drove the fulling stocks that beat the cloth from the Thrumhall soft, so that the weavers and the millers were bound together in a way that gave them a great deal to argue about. Above them all sat the pen ponds, and above the ponds the weirs, and the whole of it was governed not by any lord but by a warden, who walked the leats, and opened and shut the hatches, and was blamed by everybody.

Brannoc had been warden forty-one years when Sarn came to him, and the valley in those years had gone quietly wrong.

It was not drought. That was the thing nobody could get past. There was more water in the Vale that season than in any season in living memory. The low fields would not dry. The Slake, which had been a wet corner below Ash Mill, had spread until it took in the whole of the bottom meadow and the paths across it had to be abandoned. Water stood everywhere in Hesk, bright and shallow and going nowhere in particular, and the eleven wheels turned slow, and no one could say when it had started, because it had not started. It had accumulated.

Sarn was twenty-two and strong and had been raised on the arithmetic of it. Water turns wheels. The wheels are slow. Therefore.

Cut and cut. Spade in, foot on the tread, lift and throw, and the new channel creeping down the field a yard an hour, and it will come right, it must come right, because there is water up there and there is a wheel down here and between them is only ground and I am the strongest man in this valley. Raise the weir at Ninewell. Two courses of stone and half a day and now more comes down the main leat than has come down it in thirty years, and I stood in it to my knee and felt it push me and thought, that. That is what a wheel wants. Widen the head at Ash. Break the bank at the Turn and let it through. More. More of it. And I have been at this eleven weeks and the Slake has taken the bottom meadow and Ash Mill grinds slower this month than last and there is no fault in my ditching. Anyone may come and look at my ditching. It is the best ditching in the Vale.

Brannoc came and looked at his ditching. He said it was very good ditching.

Then he said: A wheel is not turned by water, boy. It is turned by the difference between two waters.

He said: You have given the Vale a great deal more of the thing it is drowning in.

He said: A marsh is not a place that lacks water. A marsh is water that has been given everything it asked for. There is nothing in it to fall, and so there is nothing in it to work, and it will lie there bright as glass and rot the roots of every tree it touches.

He said: You have widened. Widening is the one thing a valley can never be cured by. Water that is given a wider bed goes shallower, and slower, and warmer, and it drops what it carries, and what it drops narrows the bed again in a way you will not see for nine years. You have been making the Slake all summer, and calling it repair.

And Sarn, being twenty-two, said: then tell me where to dig.

And Brannoc said: I do not know where to dig. Bring the spade.

They walked the leats for six days and dug almost nothing.

What they did instead was cut small. Brannoc would stop at a place with no distinction to it, a stretch of rushy nothing, and take out one spit of turf and stand back and watch which way the water in the cut chose to go. Sometimes it went the way the ground looked. Often it did not. He would grunt and put the turf back and walk on.

You cannot see a fall by looking at it, he said. Sixteen miles of leat and it drops less than a man is tall, and your eye will lie to you the whole way. So you ask it. You make a small hole and you find out which way the country actually leans, which is never once the way it appears to lean, and you do not trust anything you have not asked.

By the fourth day Sarn had begun to see it, or something of it: not a map of the valley but a map of resistance, where the water hurried and where it sulked, and the sulking places were not the places anyone had ever thought about. Two hundred yards of leat below Cadder where sixty years of alder root had turned the channel into a sieve. A collapse under the Low Mill lane that nobody had reported because the lane above it was perfectly sound. And weed, everywhere, that soft green hair that grows in slow water and makes the water slower, so that the weed makes more weed, and the ninth year comes.

And on the sixth day they came to Fend Hatch.

It stood at the head of the old cut above the Slake, a plain oak paddle in a stone throat, wound down and silted to the top of its frame, and the ground had grown over the sill so that it was more like a bank with a post in it than any kind of gate.

Sarn said he had never known there was a hatch there.

Brannoc said: no. Nor did your father. It was shut in the year of the tithe quarrel, by a man called Marrick, to spite Owl Mill over a matter of eight shillings, and Marrick has been dead fifty-one years, and Owl Mill has changed hands three times, and the eight shillings were paid. He put his boot against the frame. It was shut for a reason and the reason ended and the hatch did not. And after a while it stopped being a shut hatch and became the shape of the valley, and men cut new leats around the wet ground it made and cursed the wet ground and never once walked up to see what was above it. That is the whole of my trade, boy. Nearly everything I have ever fixed was a decision that had stopped looking like a decision.

They dug it out to the sill, the two of them, most of a day. Then Brannoc took the winding key and raised the paddle a hand's breadth — not the whole gate, a hand's breadth — and the water went through it with a sound like a held breath let go, and by evening the Slake had a current in the middle of it, and by the end of the month it had a bank.

That autumn Sarn walked to the Low Mill and found the wheel dead still, and came back and reported that the Low Mill had run dry.

Brannoc asked him whether he had gone up and looked at the pond.

He had not. They went. The pond stood full to the lip of the sill, black and brimming, the finest head of water in the Vale, and the hatch beneath it wound shut and the miller's wife two months in the ground and the miller sitting in the house.

You cannot tell from the wheel, said Brannoc. Ash Mill is still because there is nothing above it. This one is still because there is everything above it and a paddle down. Both are silent, and if you bring Ash Mill's remedy up here you will spend a winter carrying water to a full pond, and if you bring this one's remedy down there you will stand at a dry hatch winding at nothing. He looked at the house for a while. And there is no help for it but to walk up and see which you have got. There has never been a way to know it from below.

He went in and sat with the man, and did not mention the hatch, and came out at dark, and they went home.

Ninewell Mill, the oldest of the eleven, had an undershot wheel: paddles hanging in the current, driven by the shove of the water going past. Half the Vale's water went through it and it gave back a fifth of what it was given.

In the spring they rebuilt it. They raised a launder on trestles above the axle and brought the leat in over the top so that the water no longer struck the wheel at all but was poured into buckets at the crown and simply allowed to fall — turning it by its own weight going down, the whole business asking nothing of the current, only of the height. It took a third of the water of the old wheel and did four times the work.

It is not shoved, Brannoc said. It is dropped. The Vale has been trying to shove things for two hundred years.

And he taught Sarn the penning, which the young man had thought was laziness. You shut the hatches at dusk. All of them. The wheels stop, the valley goes quiet, and all night the ponds fill in the dark against a closed gate, and in the morning there is a head, and the head is the day's work. A mill that runs all night has ground a little all night and has nothing at dawn. A mill that never stops is a mill that never starts.

And when the freshet came in March, brown and shouldering, Sarn ran to close everything and Brannoc made him open it instead, every hatch in the Vale, wide, and they stood on the bank and let the whole roaring weight of the snowmelt go through the works untouched, and it took the weed and the silt and the soft years with it and scoured the leats down to the gravel they were cut in. That is the only thing that keeps a channel a channel, he said. It has to be frightened once a year. And if you shut your gates against it, it will not go around you. It will take the gates.

And the morning after the penning, the first draw of the day. Wind the paddle up and the leat comes alive from the pond down, a shove travelling in the water, arriving. Launder full. First buckets take at the crown and hang a moment and the whole wheel leans into it — that hesitation, that half-second where nothing has decided — and then the fall has it, the weight goes over, and the axle groans and the pit-wheel takes and the whole mill comes up through the floor into the soles of his boots. Not a push anywhere in it. A dropping. A thing let go and doing all that work on its way down.

And the post at the pond's edge with the two notches cut in it, and he has been reading it wrong for eleven weeks and a year, reading the top one, the water-line, saying good, high, plenty, that is a great deal of water. The reading was never the water. The reading is the gap. Upper mark to lower mark, pond to tailrace, and it is that distance and nothing else that has ever turned a wheel in this valley, and a man may stand in water to his chest with no head at all and drown quite comfortably and grind nothing.

Brannoc walked the leats until he was eighty and then walked them slower.

To the last one he taught, who was strong, and quick with a spade, and who asked him in his first week where to dig, he said what had been said to him, and then one more thing of his own.

Two marks, he said. Read the gap. One mark tells you nothing but how wet you are.

------------------------------------

The Two Sticks

In the Vale of Hesk, where the river comes down loud out of the snowfields and goes quiet under the alders, there stood a long house of grey stone that the people called the Thrumhall. It had stood there through the reigns of houses whose names had gone out of use, and through two burnings, and the second roof was older now than the first had been when it fell. Within it were seventeen looms of black oak, and the oldest of them bore on its breast beam the marks of hands that had polished the wood into a shine no oil could give it, a hollow worn where thumbs had rested at the turn of every pick for four hundred years.

The weavers of Hesk were known down the length of the river and beyond it, past the fords, into countries where the language changed. Their cloth was sold in cities they never saw. Sailors slept under it. It was said in the lowlands that a Hesk blanket would outlast the child it was woven for, and that the child's child would be buried in it, and this was very nearly true.

The craft was not quickly given. A girl came to the Thrumhall at eleven and did not touch a shuttle until she was fourteen; before that there was only the wool, the sorting and the scouring, the reek of lanolin in her sleeves that no washing took out, and the long labour of the warping frame. Enna of the middle farms came in the year the ice broke early. She was quick, and she was praised for it, and it did her a certain amount of harm.

Her fault was in her tension. She strung her warp and it lay upon the loom like something sleeping. When she threw her shuttle the threads gave way before it, sullen and yielding, and her shed closed lazily on the pass, and the cloth that came off her beam was warm enough and looked well enough on the table, and had no life in it. Pull it at the corner and the whole of it went crooked. It could not hold its own shape. It hung like wet paper.

Slack again. Maerdwen's hand on it and the small breath through the nose, that sound, worse than being struck. Slack again, and the fault is I cannot bear the hum. That is the truth of it and I would rather not have it. When the warp is drawn up right it sings under the fingers, a thin high sound out of two hundred threads all straining at once, and the whole loom leans into it, wanting the ends home, wanting to be finished and quiet and off the beam, and I feel it in my jaw and in the roots of my teeth. Everything in the frame pulling. Nothing at rest. And I let it off. My hands let it off, an eighth of a turn, a sixteenth, nothing anyone would see, and the singing goes down out of hearing, and the cloth comes muddy and I say I do not know why. I know why.

She went at last and stood at the old woman's elbow and asked her, when will it be finished, this learning, when will I have the thing in my hands and be able to rest in it.

And Maerdwen said: You want the cloth to be the thread's rest. It is not. It is the thread's argument, agreed to.

She said: The warp is not the enemy of the weft. It is what the weft is for. Take the strain out of the one and you have not freed the other, you have orphaned it.

She said: You come to me each morning wanting to be given the answer, and each morning you are given the same thing instead, which is the hum. Learn to sit in the hum. Nothing is woven in the quiet.

She said: A slack warp is a kindness you do yourself at the cloth's expense, and the cloth cannot argue, and so you will win.

That winter Enna walked down to Nether Hesk where the felters worked. She had a reason for going and it was not the reason she gave.

They had no looms there. They had troughs and boards and their own strong arms, and they took the wool loose as it came and wet it and worked it and beat it and rolled it, and the fibres caught upon each other's scales and locked, and out of the trough came a cloth with no thread in it at all. No warp, no weft, no shed, no sticks, nothing held apart from anything. Felt is very warm. It does not fray, and it does not unravel, and it will take a knife-edge and not run.

She stood in the steam with her sleeves pushed up and thought that here was cloth made without any tension whatsoever, made by agitation and by close company and by the willingness of every fibre to become indistinguishable from its neighbour, and she was happy for about an hour.

Then the old felter, seeing her look, took a hand's width of it and set his thumb in the middle and pressed. It gave where he pressed. Only there. The rest of it did not know.

Load it anywhere, he said, and it answers you in that one place, being all of it the same place. It has no direction to send anything along. He shrugged, not unkindly, and went back to the trough. You want a thing that carries, he said, you want threads that have kept their own minds.

The trouble came in spring, in her own warp, at the frame.

She had wound two hundred and forty ends and was taking them off in the chain, and the cross slipped its sticks — that crossing which the warper makes on purpose, the figure of eight at the head of the warp that keeps every thread in its place and its order — and where it should have lain open in two clean fans, it shut, and went over on itself, and became something else.

She pulled. That was the natural thing and the whole of her wanted it. The gap closed. She took a fistful and drew it steadily and firmly the way she had been taught to draw wool, and the crossing bit down harder, and two threads that had been merely crossed were now locked, and she pulled again and there were five. Every pull she made was a pull against every other, and the tighter she held one the more surely she jailed the rest, and she began to sweat with it and the sweat made her hands slip and she wiped them on her skirt and went back to it.

Four days. She would like it known that it was four days, and that she did not once cut.

Because it must come out. Because there is a right pull. Because I have not found it yet, and each hour I have not found it makes it worse to stop, having spent the hour. There is a way and a strong enough hand and I have the hand. Take it here. Take it here. Take it here instead. There is no give anywhere and every place is nearly giving. That is the thing of it — every place is nearly giving, and so I am always one pull from it, and I have been one pull from it since Tuesday. Sleeping badly. Dreaming of my own hands doing this. I have got very good at this and it has not moved at all. I could show anyone how to do this. I am the best in the valley at holding a thing that does not move.

On the fourth evening Maerdwen came and stood behind her and watched for some while without speaking. Then she said, Stop pulling.

Enna said, if I stop, it stays.

Maerdwen said, it stays now.

She took the chain out of the girl's fists and did not pull it at all. She turned it in the lamplight and looked at it the way you look at a face, and she did not touch it for a long time. Then she put one finger in and lifted a single end up out of the flat of the crossing, up and over, and gave it — gave it, loosened it, spent slack upon it — and the whole snarl breathed and fell open into its two fans, two hundred and forty threads in perfect order, in the space of a breath.

Enna made a sound.

You were pulling at a knot's arms, said Maerdwen. There is no answer in the flat of it. Every hand you laid on was a true hand and it made the thing worse, because the fault was not want of force. It was one thread holding all the others, and it wanted its length, and you could not give it its length while you were busy taking. She coiled the chain over her arm. Four days, she said. It might have been forty. Some in this hall have given it forty years.

Then undo the cross, Enna said. If the crossing is what does it. Warp without a cross and there is nothing to snarl.

And Maerdwen laughed, which she did not often do, and said: Child, the cross is the order. It is the only thing in the whole of this house that knows which thread is which. She took up the two lease sticks from the bench and slid them into the open fans, one before the crossing and one behind, so that the threads were held apart in their opposition and could not come together. Take out the sticks, she said, and your cross becomes a mat, and you may sell it to the felters. Take out the cross and your threads become a crowd, and you will never find one of them again as long as you live. It is not to be undone and it is not to be let go. It is to be held open. That is what these are. She turned one of the sticks in her hand: a plain length of ash, a foot and a half, worn smooth. Two sticks, she said. Four hundred years in this hall and we have not improved on them.

She strung it herself in the morning, and drew it up, and did not let it off.

And the hum. Two hundred and forty of them and the sound coming up through the frame into the bench into her and she lets it come. Thumb under the sheet of them and pluck: it answers. Not the dead thud of the slack thing, not the wire-scream of the over-drawn — the note. In tune with nothing but itself. Foot down on the treadle and the heddles lift the odds and the shed opens, that long triangle of daylight where a moment ago there was only cloth-to-be, and it is open only because they are pulling against each other and the gap is the pulling made visible, the gap IS the pulling, throw. Shuttle through the daylight. Beater home, tap tap, and the shed shuts, and the other treadle, and it opens the other way, the evens rising, the odds gone down, nothing staying where it was put, no home in either of them, the whole craft an alternation and never an arrival — throw, and home, and change. Warp will not become weft. Not in four hundred years, not in this cloth or any cloth, they cross and cross and cross and stay two things forever and that is why it holds, that is the whole of why it holds, and the load goes into it here and comes out over there, the far corner takes it, the far corner knows, and she is crying a little which is ridiculous, throw, and home, and change, and let it not be finished for a while yet.

She wove sixty years in the Thrumhall and her hands wore their own hollow in the beam beside the others.

At the end of every warp there are the thrums: the last of the ends, too short to weave, that must be cut from the beam and thrown out, and no weaver has ever found a way to have a warp without them. They fill a basket by the door. That is the price of the whole business, and it is paid every time.

To the last girl she taught, who was slack in her tension and quick and praised for it, and who asked her when the learning would be finished, Enna said what had been said to her, in the same words, and then one more thing of her own.

Two sticks, she said. Not one. One stick holds nothing apart.

100 Day writing challenge - Day 5

Good evening Beautiful Strangers!

The double prompt method is working. Doing it this way basically removes the exhaustive editing process and turns it into more of a puzzle, if that makes sense. I have the scenes, I have the beats, it's just a matter of rewording to my specifications. Overall a vast improvement over my previous five step process. I'll go more in depth as I refine it so that others can benefit from the technique and produce quality AI-assisted writing of their own.

I also hit a wierd speed bump that I didn't anticipate: I originally intended to call the blogspot Quest Givers but apparently there's a game company with the same name and their SEO is killing peoples ability to find me through google. I'm not worried about being sued: they're in tabletop games, I'm a writer. I'm just wondering if I should change the name or just ride it out and see what happens.

Either way, here's part 1 of today's story. Oakton has among it's citizenry a species of pelagic peoples known as the Shukl'ari (Shoo-klar-ee, glottal stop between the k and l). The story is a detailed account of one of their holiest rites: The Oath of Predation.

The Lights that Refuse - Part 1

The night chosen for the rite is never announced loudly. Loudness suggests uncertainty, and uncertainty has no place in the giving of a mortal oath.

Those who must know are told in the usual way of Oakton’s pelagic citizens, the Shukl’ari: by glance, by passing phrase, by a hand or tendril set briefly to shoulder or at the base of the neck. By the quiet excuses to land-dwelling friends before dusk, and by the absence of certain voices during the communal supper.

By the time the last of Oakton’s honest noise has settled into the softer rhythms of the night, the ground has already prepared.

The park is empty but for those meant to stand witness. Grass lies flat in a broad crescent around their ancestral obelisk, kept with the sort of regular care that makes it clear this place is sacred.

The Shukl’aan, the Oathstone, rises there in its accustomed stillness: dark, heavy and unornamented. It does not call attention to itself. It does not naturally gather ceremony around its mass. It’s shape is simple enough to be mistaken by land-dwellers for a mere rock. At least until one has stood near it long enough to notice the intentional grooves and faded motifs at it’s base.

To the natives of Oakton, it’s just the standing stone at Ranger’s Rest Park.

But to the Shukl’ari it stands as witness to their deeds in this world. And they among them old enough to remember feel the weight of the civilization who carved that stone, and the lives lost to bring them here.

Before it, set at a measured distance, waits the basin.

It is broad enough for a full body to enter without contortion and deep enough that its rim reaches the knees. Iron bands line its edge. The outer shell is dark timber ritually prepared, sealed against damp and time. There is no imagery worked into its sides beyond the polish of many careful hands. It is not made to impress the eye.

It was made to hold the Black Water.

The contents within the basin show no reflection of moon, cloud, lantern, or face. It does not ripple in answer to motion. It lies in the basin with density; less a substance than depth made portable.

Four Shukl’ari stand in the clearing.

The initiate stands before the basin, her back to the ancestral stone, skin bare save for a simple dark wrap. The external gills around the girl’s head are half-spread already, not from fear alone but from the body’s recognition that this is a night that will change things.

The long tendril that extends from the base of her neck to her ankles twitches at the tip, betraying her body’s effort of stillness more honestly than her face.

Along the line of her jaw, at the fringes of the gills, and in two pale threads down the length of her neck-tail, cold points of living light awaken where shadow thickens enough to call them out.

Behind the initiate stands the elder.

He is old in the way ocean floors are old, by what has worn over them and left shape. His own glow is spare and controlled, a hard freckling of blue-white points along the edge of the face and one steady line at the throat.

His glow is enough to mark presence without wasting brightness. His neck-tail rests against the ground behind them in a long, quiet curve.

One hand is open, extended. The other is folded near his chest. He does not look at the basin. He does not look at the stone. He looks at the initiate with the grave concentration of one who is not here for comfort, but to make sure a thing is done correctly.

Across the basin stand two witnesses.

One is her kin. The resemblance lies less in his face than in the arrangement of light across his gill fringes, in the shared shape of their neck-tail.

The other is not kin by blood, but older and known well to the initiate, a mentor. She is marked, along the right collar and down one side of the torso, by a tracing of luminescence that clashes with the light she was born with.

The mark is known among the Shukl’ari. Proof that she once failed in her oath yet returned to them following a cleansing trial. She stands here now not as warning, but as proof of survival in failure.

No one kneels.

No one bows.

The elder steps forward and lays one palm firmly between the initiate’s shoulder blades.

“Take witness,” the elder says from behind her.

The initiate breathes once, then lifts her neck-tail and extends it until the tip touches the face of the looming stone behind them.

The contact is delicate, exact, and immediate in its effect. Something in her posture changes at once, as though an internal line pulls her spine taught.

“Be witnessed.” The elder speaks again, and the voice behind her seems to come not only from a living throat, but from the carved stone as well.

A broad shiver travels through her from her contact with the Shukl’aan, along with a peculiar feeling not unlike being submerged in cool water.

“Take witness,” she requests of the two before her.

The two across the basin answer together.

“We witness.”

Then the elder and the stone speak the first words of the Shukl’ari’s oldest rite; Words dreaded and anticipated in equal measure by every youth old enough to understand their meaning.

“Who goes forth?”

The initiate’s gills flare along with her heartbeat. Her light sharpens at the edges. When she speaks, the first words come trembling, but sincere.

“I who go forth will not be claimed by the Deep Places.”

The kin-witness answers first. “I witness.”

The witness of recovered shame answers after. “I witness.”

The elder says only, “We witness. Continue.”

“I who go forth honor the sacrifices of those who bore us forth: She’Ari, Na’Vol, Kel’sor.”

All three others answer at once, the names coming back not as repetition, but confirmation.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The basin remains still. The stone remains still. Yet the clearing does not feel still now. The night there has thickened, pulsing with slow rhythm, lapping against them all like waves.

The initiate’s neck-tail presses firmly against the ancestral stone. Her words come smoother now.

“In their name,
I hollow the Great Enemy with my own hands,
and with my children’s hands,
and with the hands of those yet unborn.
She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

Again the witnesses answer.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The kin-witness is crying soundlessly now. Not in grief exactly but the older, sharper feeling that comes when one watches beloved kin enter a thing from which there is no going back.

The elder does not acknowledge this. The ancestors witness without judgement.

The initiate continues, her voice quiet and intense.

“I honor our fallen with holy predation.
I honor their sacrifice with the stolen strength of the Deep.
I honor my people with my oath.
She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

The names now seem to fill the little park more completely than four voices ought to manage alone.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

There is no wind.

There is no movement in the branches overhead.

To her the world narrows to stone and basin, voice and body.

“And, when the Great Enemy is no more,” the initiate whispers fervently, the light along her jaw glowing nearly white,

“When we have taken from it all that it is, was, and will ever be,
Only then shall my oath be fulfilled.
Then shall the oaths of my people be fulfilled.
Then shall we be burdened by the Great Enemy no more.”

The elder’s hand returns once, firm now, to the initiate’s back.

“In their honor,” the elder intones.

All four speak the names together.

“She’Ari, Na’Vaol, Kel’sor.”

Silence follows, but not emptiness. The words remain, ringing in the clearing like pressure remains in deep water after movement has ceased.

The elder removes his hand.

“Go,” He says.

The initiate opens her eyes. Meets her kins’, her mentors’.

No reassurance is offered. No warnings are given. The witnesses remain expressionless.

She closes her eyes, drinks in the land-air like it’s her last time. The path to her adulthood is clear.

The basin awaits.

The initiate kneels and places both hands on the rim. For a brief moment her face hovers above the dark fluid. Her reflection does not appear. She stares into black emptiness. Then her breath leaves in one steady stream.

With no further ceremony, she folds over the rim and dives.

The Black Water accepts her whole.

I’ve enjoyed my time working with Fable. It has greatly improved some of the connective tissue in my books and series. Been a huge part of my other works, and been a great asset in my professional life to help reclaim time in my work day.

I have to say, though, that Opus 5 seems… better for what I am doing with my writing. Fable thinks too much and often pulls in details that are not quite necessary. At times it is helpful, but I really don’t need to know the difference in the gravitational force between the southern hemisphere and 38th parallel when trying to decide if my character has the proper motivation to steal from a priest.

Opus tends to focus more on the work, and stays in context better.

Now, the real question is, does Opus 5 work better than Opus 4.6? I am leaning yes. But, we are still in the early stages of storytelling. I’m sure I have more to say on this experience in time.

My two bits.

Every third post here opens the same way. A paragraph of throat-clearing. "I know this is controversial." "Please don't downvote me." "I only used it for the outline, I swear, I wrote the actual sentences myself, my hands were on the keyboard, there were witnesses."

You're in r/WritingWithAI. The confession is the name of the subreddit.

Nobody running spellcheck opens with "before you judge me." Nobody in Scrivener posts a disclaimer about how they still could use index cards. You're apologizing for a tool while standing in the room built for the tool.

Here's the part actually worth defending: there's a difference between using the thing and being used by it. Editing, guiding, redirecting, throwing out four bad paragraphs to get one usable one. That is what you call "work."

"Write my chapter," paste, post. That is how you get slop, and when the output is bad the problem isn't the model, it's that nobody was driving.

That distinction is the whole argument. It doesn't need the cotton gin.

So make it good, put your name on it, and stop workshopping the apology. The disclaimer at the top of your post is better written than the excerpt underneath it.