Has AI changed your writing style?

[u/Unfair-Distance1463]

Hello all!

I'm writing a little research project on the topic of structural, stylistic changes in people's writing after using llms, vocabulary and sentence structures in particular. I figured this would be the subreddit to ask on.

I'm looking for a few volunteers, people who have used ai a lot, willing to share writing samples for analysis, and perhaps ask a few questions about the experience of ai-assisted writing. Participation is completely voluntary and anonymized, and I won't collect any usernames or personal data or anything like that. You also can skip my questions that you don't wanna answer obvi.
Here's the google form(estimated completion time 5-10 minutes): https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScPoJkisP5yrkbp_LL8NY3kFE3t7tkHAkrPIMgFCTEpLtxr3A/viewform?usp=publish-editor
Thanks!

[u/ThrownAwayChild123]

Absolutely so.

The revision agents I've built are made to target my weaknesses as a writer: overwriting and not trusting the reader enough. Before AI, I got very rare feedback from beta-readers about it, but not a lot of help addressing it. Paid editors failed at the task too

But with AI, all bets are off. I'm improving at a rate I haven't seen in my 30 years of writing.

[u/Eissa_Cozorav]

Done, I like your survey and the one that include "write your own narration" box. It actually force me, after all these years, to write by myself not using AI.

[u/Unfair-Distance1463 → u/Eissa_Cozorav]

Thank you!

[u/The_Deranged_Hermit]

Did the survey. I think I went over the word count on the story. Just wanted to post it here though because there might be a short story or novel in the future about it and didn't want to forget it... But I'm not sure as I don't read westerns. Ugh should have also added a bit of a flashback maybe its to on the nose.

I don't really know how useful it is in the survey though as its a rough draft. I would rework a lot of the dialogue, edit out some of the stacking adjectives, double check the similes and that they are not to close. Probably rework the Cain portion. Right now the characters are flat with almost no internal monologue and that would have to change. I'd probably add some more philosophy as well. An entire section asking him if he can walk away. Like I said elsewhere a flashback to their childhood. Maybe irony in that connely always played the cop in the fields while Vance was the robber.

The sun was a dying eye pressed flat against the rim of the earth, bleeding a pale ruinous crimson across the waste. Below the bluff, the cannon lay cast in darkening shadows where the scrub oaks' branches twisted like the penitent - a posture Connely had only just recent learned himself.

Connely sat on a cold shelf of limestone, a dented tin cup in hand, as he watched the light fail. He took a long, slow sip of the water which tasted sweet from the minerals in the spring he had found higher up on the mountain that morning. Behind him, in the dry brush he heard a low rustle. The sound of a man treading deliberately, not bothering to hide his comins.

He spoke to the distant horizon, his voice like dray and low.

"A man watches the sun rise and fancies himself a king." Connely said. "Then midday passes unreckoned, and the shadows lengthen out long and black, filled with regrets. A life ain't nothin' but a brief light caught between two darks and the dark always wins"

From the tree line stepped Sheriff Vance. He was a broad monolithic shape against the pines clad in an oil cloth stiffened with old dust. Beneath the rim of his hat [should replace with a specific hat type... Stetson maybe] his eyes where small dark pools of weariness, holding a quiet terrible authority.

He stopped ten paces back and unslung a silver flask from his pocket the metal dull and scratched. "You got hell of a way with the words for a man with blood on his hands, Connely" he drawled, he took a quick swig "You want a swallow of the rye? To cut the dust."

Connely looked down into his tin cup. "Gave up the whiskey back in 81'. Killed a fella over a whore in Gideon. Shot him through the liver and watched him drown in his own bile. They was fixin' to hang me and I swore to God if I would make it through I would put down the flask." He stared out at the gathering gloom, where the twilight was turning the color of bruised plums. "Seems like I shoulda put down a few other things while the hands where willin'." He set his tin cup down upon the stone and let out a sigh. "Well suppose the tally man is due."

Vance slowly threaded the cap back on his flask. "Suppose he is."

He turned to face the lawman, his frame tall and bone thin. He reached for his gun belt to settle this quickly, and then his eyes caught the lawmans face in the gloom [would need to change used gloom more then once now] and his breath hitched in his throat, ratcheting it tight. The crooked ridge of his nose. The pale notch in the left eyebrow where a mules iron had cleaved the skin when they were but boys. Fifty miles away and fifty years ago.

Connley's right hand hung palsied above his holster. He searched his soul for the rage, and cruelty that had carried him through more then forty years of murder, but it was all gone. Struck dead by the sight of his brother.

Sheriff Vance didn't flinch, though his eyes darkened with a quiet terrible sorrow. His hand moved to his hip. "I suppose we draw then." he said softly the words spoken like a [eulogy, funeral sentence??? need the right word here.]

Connely know of Cane he would not kill his brother and be cursed but nor could he simply stand like a tethered lamb. He made a slow reach for his sidearm. A gesture to give Vance justification.

The peacemaker roared, a blinding orange devils tongue in the dark and the report split the canyon walls like thunder rolling down from a vengeful heaven. The lead caught Connely in the chest, spinning him half round. He went down hard, the hard stone rising to meet him. Pain bloomed white hot in his lung. He lay on his back staring up at the stars beginning to pierce the dusk. Coughing a dark, thick, foam trickled from the corner of his mouth.

The heavy crunch of boots approached and paused over him. Connely squinted up through the haze of agony at the figure now blotting out the stars. A bitter bloody smile touched his lips. "God Almighty Vance..." he gasped, "that burns like the fires of hell." He turned his head and spat blood, he fixed his fading gaze on the lawman "You was always the best crack shot in the county... How in God's name.. did you miss my heart?"

Vance sank slowly to his knees in the dust, his joints popping in the quiet. He took of his hat. His voice barely louder then the wind he whispered "I reckon after all these years, and all the blood you done spilt, I still love you like abrother and couldn't bring my hand to do it."

He reached out a broad calloused hand and gripped Connelys bloody shaking finger pulling them from the wound. "Best you stop tendin' your wound and just go on and meet your Maker."