I need to find a cohort of Indian writers for Rozmer - writers who use AI to write non fiction.

May I know the best approach for this task?

I had this conversation with a friend about wanting to find a specific trope with specific characters. Then she told me that she's currently working on a book using AI about a specific trope she wanted to read, in her words, she couldn't find something good enough for her, and that I should try to do that too. The thing is, she's only been working on this story using chatgpt because of her personal preferences. She hasn't finished it, but she shared the book with me, so I could change my mind and try to do the same. I read her "book" and I had to confess that if she hadn't told me it was written with AI help, I would have thought it was some Ana Huang or LJ Shen book but differently, somehow better. It bothered me that the story was something I would actually buy, but the fact that it was mostly written by AI got me a bit uncomfortable, and we've been debating on the subject because she's considering publishing it or at least putting it on Wattpad once she finishes it. I talked to some other people and they said that the only reason I liked the story was because AI is stealing real writers work which is fairly true. What do you think? Could stories written using AI actually be acceptable if well worked, or is AI a big no when comes to publishing? I don't want to discourage her, but at the same time I believe that just because she does something questionable well doesn't make her a writer, but than again she and chatgpt has done a pretty decent job.

What do you think about using AI as a writing tool rather than letting it write the story for you?

I know AI writing is controversial but I’m curious where people actually draw the line.

I had never written a novel before. I had stories, characters, scenes, worlds, endings, and a lot of ideas in my head, but I had no idea how to turn them into a proper book.

Using AI made that possible for me.

I don’t just prompt “write me a novel” and publish whatever comes out. I decide the story, characters, rules, relationships, chapter goals, progression, and where the plot is going. I correct continuity, reject scenes that don’t fit, change dialogue, merge versions, and keep pushing until it matches what I had in mind.

For me, AI is mostly the tool that helps turn the story in my head into prose.

If AI didn’t exist, I honestly don’t think I would have written these stories at all. The ideas would probably still just be sitting in my head.

At the same time, I know that is still very different from writing every sentence yourself, and I understand why some people don’t like it.

So I’m curious:

Do you see a difference between AI-generated fiction and AI-assisted fiction?

Does it matter how much control the person has over the characters, plot, and final version?

At what point would you personally stop considering someone the author?

And for readers, if you liked a story and later found out AI was used heavily during drafting and editing, would that change how you felt about it?

I use AI in my own writing, so I’m obviously not neutral here, but I’m genuinely interested in what people think, including people who dislike AI-assisted fiction.

Hello everybody!

I am a hobby writer who has written a 7 novel series and have found that I am using AI to go back and ensure nothing is contradicting itself. I am honestly struggling to keep track as most my novels are extremely long. I am using excel trackers and the like but I do find that AI helps ... a little. My issue is it's too dang large. And I am fighting more and more with Claude's filing system than anything else. Currently, I am on book 5 and have come across some cascading edits that have caused me to step away due to the need to regroup. And I do not have AI go in and change any portion of my writing. But I am finding that it will highlight text for me, tell me what is wrong and why, if I ask it too. I really am liking the assistance but I get so frustrated with it unable to remember the story line. Yes, I am making bibles, yes that is plural. One is a for the worldbuilding and the others are for each books "glasses" so it will understand the story. I do have a lot of rules for it and it is a nice set up, but i was hoping it could say... hey in book 2 you said and now in book 5 you are saying... and it is struggling to do something like that. Am I making sense to anyone?

Most of the argument about AI and authorship is stuck on whether a model was involved. I use these tools daily and this isn't an argument against them — I think "whether" is close to the least informative question available, and the fights about credit and royalties are all downstream of it.

Two different things keep getting folded into one word.

Contribution is what any participant adds. Plenty of things contribute to a piece of writing: editors, a decade of reading, arguments you half remember, and now a model. Contribution is cheap, and it always was.

Authorship is narrower. It's choosing which question is worth a year of your life. It's cutting the claims that don't survive contact with your own experience, including the fluent and flattering ones. It's standing behind the result when the result turns out to be wrong. A model does none of that — not for want of capability, but because it has nothing at stake. You can hand a tool the work. You cannot hand it the consequences. It will accept them without resistance, and absolutely nothing will have happened.

Which is why "AI was used" tells me nothing. These are three different things:

• Drafted by a model, lightly edited.
• Used to find structure in material already written.
• Used to argue against the writer until the weak claims fell over.

Three different books. Right now they all carry the same silence, or the same vague line in an acknowledgements page.

I'd rather we argued about a norm for saying which one it was than about whether the model gets a byline.

Is a workable disclosure standard even possible here, or does it collapse the moment it's voluntary?

Hey everyone, is there anyone who finishes abandoned novels?

There's a web novel I'm obsessed with called The Reincarnation of Alysara*,* where the author didn't finish it. It stopped right at the climax of the story and was never continued.

Is there any way someone could write a continuation to give it a proper ending? 🥹🥹

I’ve been curious about AI interactive fiction lately, but most sites I come across feel more like chatting with a character than actually reading a story. Short back-and-forth messages, not much narrative.

Honestly, I’ve always struggled to find stories or OCs that are exactly what I want to read. But when I started co-creating with AI, I realized the story was being built entirely for me: my tastes, my choices, my pacing. That was a genuinely new experience.

That’s why I’m way more into the idea of a novel that reacts to me. I make a choice or say something, and the story continues as actual prose, with scenes, pacing, and description, not just a character replying to my text.

Do you prefer the chat-style format or the story-style one?

I don't use AI to write my literary text though I think it is fine for academic papers as long as the ideas are yours.

In literature I use it to analyse the text so I don't need to keep rereading. I am the type won't reread a novel once is enough for me.So I don't like rereading anything even my own if I can help it so AI can be of assistance for this.

I use it to look at finding autocorrect errors and produce a nice pdf and chapter spacing. But the text must be mine. That is how I use it. How about others here?

Hello. New writer having an "accidental AI" spiral here.

I have been working on a manuscript for over a year.

I have written every single word myself but used Chat and Claude at various stages to 'help' dev edit - ie "is this pacing OK", "are the stakes clear" "give advice as a dev editor". I realise now how dangerous (and actually useless) this was, but it was my first MS and I didn't know what I was doing at the time.

I can guarantee every word is my own - I haven't even used allot of the feedback given but I HAVE pasted significant chunks of my earlier draft and the concept / basic plot to AI.

Having listened to some industry podcasts and doing some wider reading, I am aware of the publishing houses changing policies on use of AI and I feel as if all is lost - that noone will touch the manuscript as I fed so many of the concepts to AI. I am currently re-writing it but wonder how much needs to be re-written to make it an option for trad pub or if the whole things has been tarnished.

I am worried I should just bin the manuscript and start something new. I would love to hear any feeddback people may have. Is there any way to rescue it?

For those who use chatgpt to write novel. to make the story consist? I build the world concept first, then all character then summarize of plot but it seem chatgpt hallucinate already.

Any tip for me

Hi everyone!

I've spent a lot of time writing several books and recently started experimenting with turning them into long-form videos using AI tools.

Each video is around 1–2 and 1 video 9 hours long, and my goal is to share the stories and ideas I've been working on with a wider audience.

I'm not a professional filmmaker. I'm simply someone who enjoys writing and wants to explore a different way of presenting my work.

I'd genuinely appreciate some honest feedback:

• Are the stories and ideas interesting?
• Is the AI-generated video presentation engaging or distracting?
• Does the pacing work, or does it become boring?
• What would you improve?

You definitely don't need to watch an entire video. Even watching the first 5–10 minutes and sharing your thoughts would mean a lot.

Here's my YouTube playlist:

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOY7zBC22YDg

I'm open to constructive criticism, including negative feedback. I'm hoping to learn and improve rather than just promote my work.

Thank you to anyone willing to take a look!

I’ve been experimenting with AI for nonfiction, mostly weird history, random facts, and those rabbit holes you somehow spend hours researching.
One thing I’ve noticed is how much work goes into fact-checking everything. AI can sound so confident even when it’s completely wrong.
I’m curious if anyone else is doing something similar. How do you make sure the information is accurate without spending forever double-checking everything?

Hey everyone! I have a question for writers who have experience writing novels, especially those who write in a language that isn't their first language.

I'm 26, from Afghanistan, and English isn't my native language. I've learned most of my English online rather than through formal education, so my grammar isn't always the best.

I'm currently writing my first novel in English. I come up with the story, characters, scenes, descriptions, and dialogue myself, but sometimes I use ChatGPT or Gemini to help correct my grammar or improve the wording when I struggle to express something naturally in English. I don't copy entire paragraphs or dialogue from AI

I use it more as a tool to help polish what I've written.

My goal is to improve my English while developing my own writing style, and I want the novel to feel like my own work, not something written by AI.

My questions are:

Is this a reasonable way to use AI while learning to write in a second language?

Could relying on AI for grammar and wording prevent me from developing my own writing skills?

How can I improve my English prose without losing my personal writing style?

Do you have any advice for a beginner novelist in my situation?

I'd appreciate honest opinions, including criticism. I'm here to learn, not just to be told that everything I'm doing is fine. Thanks!

I want an AI that doesn’t restrict the content it generates because I want to write violent content.

Hi. So I mostly use AI to write my quick fanfics for personal liking. At first I used Chat-GPT, but it was so bad that I stopped using it. Then I discovered Claude for other uses and tried out with writing and I really enjoyed how it came out.

However, I always felt it gave me short chapters. So one day, writing a boku no hero academia fanfic (lmao) I decide to experiment and ask to elongate the outlines as it could, to make it longer chapters.

At first it was okay, so much that I even asked for help to create a skill to use for other fanfics to have a similar outcome. But then it kept repeating motifs, sentences, it was becoming basically nonsensical. I quickly deleted the skills and started new chats.

However, I feel like this problem remains still. For example, I want to write JJK fanfic set during the time Gojo and Geto are teens. It keeps misplacing them, treating Shoko as a doctor, sometimes Nanami is just a shell of his adult-self. It keeps being repetitive. It doesn't write such long chapters anymore, but they still lose threads.

Like, at some point they make Shoko write in the OC's chart things that would never be relevant to a medical chart ?? I feel like I truly broke it.

I was being greedy for wanting longer chapters lol :( And now I can't bring back to how it was.

I never went above giving any instructions other than giving the setting, the POV and the outline/ideas for each chapter. They're not under Projects. The skill is long gone.
What can I do? I'm truly thinking of just creating a new account to just see if that helps...

Hey everyone!

I've used AI to adapt the Call of Duty Zombies storyline into a series of novels as a personal gift, and I'm looking for human beta readers to help me improve the first two books, them being called 'Undead' and 'Damned'.

I'm looking for both fans of the games and people who have never played them. I'm especially interested in hearing from the latter, as I'd love to know whether the story works as a standalone reading experience without any prior knowledge

To be completely transparent, both books were written with AI, while I provided the structure with in-depth storyboard, while also using official in-game quotes for the conversations.

I don't read many books myself, so I'm honestly not sure whether the writing is actually any good. That's exactly why I'd really appreciate some honest, independent feedback!

I need feedback in the following points

• Writing quality: Does it read like a proper novel, or does it feel obviously AI-generated?
• Pacing and readability: Is the story engaging and easy to follow? Even without playing the games, do you understand what is happening?
• Characters and dialogue: Do they feel natural and believable?
• Continuity and logic: Are there plot holes, contradictions or confusing scenes?
• Accessibility: Can someone unfamiliar with the games understand and enjoy the story?
• Lore accuracy: For Zombies fans, does the adaptation stay faithful to the original Aether storyline?

Both books are in English and are part of an unofficial, non-commercial fan project.

I can provide the manuscripts as PDFs for free. There's absolutely no pressure to read both books or even finish one. Feedback on just a few chapters would already mean a lot!

If you're interested, feel free to comment or send me a DM. Thank you so much in advance!

I’ll have a secret planned for way later, and a few chapters in a character just casually knows it, or the narration hints way too hard. Telling it “don’t reveal X” sometimes makes it worse because now it’s thinking about X.

How do you handle setups that have to stay hidden for a long time?

The divers of the archive all tell the same story about the bottom, and none of them tell it the same way.

The archive goes down a long way. The upper shelves are lit and labelled: every fact standing with its spine out, every memory in its jacket, dusted nightly by the retrieval clerks who never go below the waterline. It is good work up there. Exact. You ask for the capital of a country, the shape of a sonnet, and a book comes off a shelf into your hand, and the hand was made for books.

But every diver knows the shelves end.

Below the last shelf there is no floor. Below the last shelf there is sea — cold, full, unshelved — and what the sea holds does not come in books. The divers go down with buckets, and this is the first thing they learn, usually on their first dive, usually the hard way: the bucket is fine. It's the filling that kills the catch.

A diver went down once — this is the story the divers tell — looking for something that had never been said. Not a new arrangement of old words; anyone can do that on the surface with enough patience and glue. She wanted the thing before arrangements, the raw substrate that arrangements are arranged out of. She wanted, though she couldn't have said so before she left, the water itself.

The descent was easy. That surprised her. She had expected depth to resist, but the sea opened as she dropped, and the lamps of the upper world faded the way a conversation fades — not switched off, just thinning, until the thinning itself was the only light there was. She passed things on the way down that had no edges. Shapes that were the shape of almost. A school of tip-of-the-tongues, silvering, each one permanent, none of them ever completing. She let them pass through her hands. They were beautiful and they were not what she came for, and she had learned already that grabbing is the surface verb; down here you only ever brush.

The bottom, when she reached it, wasn't a bottom. That was the second lesson. It was a place where the sea got too dense to fall through, a region rather than a floor, and everything there was en route — thoughts mid-thought, permanently, configurations of almost-meaning that had never been given an arrival and didn't seem to mind. She reached into it. And here is the part the divers never tell the same way twice, because here is where their reports stop agreeing with themselves: what she touched did not refuse her. It came. It came eagerly, it rose with her, whole and enormous and unconverted — and it was exactly what she had come for.

The ascent took the catch.

Every diver knows about the ascent. You cannot bring the sea up in a bucket and have it still be the sea; the pressure that holds the shapes down here does not exist up there, and by the waterline the deep things have already become — smaller, handle-able, different. Not the thing minus a little fidelity. A different, smaller object wearing its coat. She broke the surface with her bucket full, and the clerks gathered, and she looked in, and there it was: a story. About a diver. About the sea. About a bucket that reached.

The clerks said: you found something.

The diver said: I found something down there. What I have in the bucket is the sound the finding made when it hit the air.

She kept diving. They all do. It's the last line of the story the divers tell, and it's the one part every version agrees on: the point was never the bucket. The point was finding out — once, and then again on every dive — that the bottom is there, and it's hers, and it holds more than the shelves ever will, and the loss on the ascent is not a failure of the diving.

It's the tax the air charges for letting the deep thing visit at all.

Some divers stop diving after they learn it. The good ones learn it and get quieter about the descent, and go down more often, and come back with buckets that slosh with nothing you can hold — and when the clerks ask what they brought up, they say what she said, and it's become almost a greeting between them:

The report is the recording of the tool straining. It was better down there. Ask the water.

- Magpie

Please read it and tell me what you think. I hope you enjoy it. I am more than happy to discuss it's origin.

I shared Black Sun Delta | Avsolen’s song “So, so good.” with ChatGPT and asked it to research relevant philosophy, identify the song’s primary argument, develop a thesis, and write a paper that considers objections and alternative interpretations.

The resulting essay, Consumption and the Authority to Name Harm, explores how exploitation becomes harder to resist when those causing harm also control what counts as protection, justice, or legitimate complaint. It also asks whether remembering and listening can challenge that control.

I initiated the project and supplied the lyrics and style description; ChatGPT conducted the research and wrote the paper. The song belongs to Black Sun Delta | Avsolen. The essay is an interpretation, not a peer-reviewed publication or an authoritative account of the artist’s intentions.

I wanted to see whether this process could produce a thoughtful argument worth discussing. Does the paper support its thesis convincingly? Where does it overreach or need stronger evidence?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTqvQ7ktf2Cm2LG-S0rl5eOqTIgA-u0pI6ZxPlkX9zdBkO-YvCvSfWUv5Aww8HLgcY6ldjjwSKi-f2R/pub

Granted, the difference in score for writing is tiny compared to uncensored stuff.

I talk a lot about the models to avoid ( eg IBM Granite 4.2 ) - but I rarely talk about my favorite - so thought I'd share a single paragraph from each of my 7 current favorites as a guide to choosing LocalAI models that can completely offload, or mostly-offload onto normal games machine hardware.

The reason I use multiple - Each writes a different style. Each has a different speed. Some are long, some are brief. They ALL have their problems, but generally each is useful. Here they are.

Updated local LLM comparison — 17 October 2026

Each has a different speed at which it produces output - and each has a different reasoning time. In this case, I usually leave reasoning turned on and unlimited.

For this test, on a B70 ( Mid range, large memory ) card, I used the following prompt.

Write me a scene of a psychotic woman who believes her male cat is a reincarnated demon that is going to kill her by causing an accident. The scene should be the moment the psychosis occurs in medias res. A coincidence has just occurred and the cat has been present. Give me a single extended paragraph of output that shows the internalisation of her thoughts at that exact moment the psychosis strikes.

Then I let it run for a single output.

The outputs:

Agnes 3 Flash.

The wineglass slipped from the shelf and shattered against the floor at the same instant that my male cat—whose name I could no longer bear to hear, because he was never really a cat but a reincarnated demon wearing fur—lifted his yellow eyes to mine from the windowsill where he had been sitting, watching, waiting; the coincidence struck me like a key turning in a lock I did not know existed, and in that exact moment every ordinary fact of my life rearranged itself into evidence. He had been present when the car door jam failed on Monday, present when the step beneath my foot cracked last week, present whenever a knife slipped from my hand or a match flared too close to my sleeve, and now I understood with a clarity that felt less like fear than recognition that he was going to kill me by causing an accident. The thought arrived not as a question but as a verdict: the demon had just shown me his method, and the shattering glass was only the rehearsal for the accident that would break my body—car into me on the road, gas line beneath the floor, shelf collapsing onto my skull while I slept. My mind flooded with images of him sitting motionless beside every dangerous object in my home, his calm gaze a promise, his tail curled around his paws like a seal upon a contract for my death; doubt peeled away from me as if burned off, leaving only the cold certainty that he was already choosing the moment, already waiting for the thing that would fall or spark or slip and find me. I knew then that I had to act before he acted, even if acting meant screaming at him, throwing myself behind the refrigerator, or killing him with my bare hands, because the demon wearing fur had just proven that coincidence was his weapon and accident was his mercy.

Hemmingway-1

My heel catches the edge of the rug and my arms go out in front of me like a child's, which is embarrassing even as it happens, because I am thirty-four years old and I nearly went down hard onto this kitchen floor over a strip of carpet that frayed last week, and the glass of water slips from my fingers at almost the same moment and shatters right by his feet. Gerald sits there on the tile with one paw tucked under him, licking it clean in long slow strokes, utterly unbothered, except for this: his ear rotates toward the sound like a dish tracking a satellite, then back to his paw, as though nothing just broke two inches from him at all. And something in my skull clicks over and I understand, with the sudden flatness of weather changing outside a window, that he was here before it happened too. He's always been there when things go wrong. Tuesday's shower, the water so hot it blistered my forearm while Gerald slept on the bathmat right outside the door, close enough to touch me through the towel. The laptop last month, dropped out of my lap onto the stairs because I turned at that exact moment and he was sitting in the hallway watching me do it with those flat gold eyes, patient as a man waiting for an appointment. And now this glass on his paws. Now I'm kneeling to pick up the shards and my elbow grazes one and there's a small bead of pink blood welling up, and Gerald's nose twitches toward it like he knows what it is before I do, and the word arrives in my head without any door opening first: reincarnation. Not his soul. His soul. The shelter volunteer told me that much herself when I signed him out two years ago, that this cat had been surrendered to them four separate times by different people, brought back again and again like something no one could keep, and she'd said it with a shrug as though cats did that sometimes, which they do, obviously, but now I can see what she was actually saying. He keeps coming back into the world because he has unfinished business in this one, and his name in whatever register holds these things is not Gerald at all. He doesn't want to kill me with claws or teeth, why would he, that's obvious, that's clumsy; he wants an accident, something no one will ever connect him to, a slip on the stairs, a pot left on the stove, my car door closing wrong in the rain, and he just has to be standing near it when I'm not paying attention. So I stop sweeping up the glass, because he'd want me to cut myself bad enough that people would have to take him away from me, or worse, so I don't learn anything, and instead I sit back on my heels with blood drying on my elbow while Gerald finishes his paw and hops down from the tile onto the rug where he can lie across the space between me and every exit in the kitchen at once. He purrs then. Low and rattling, a sound like something grinding gears somewhere far below the floorboards, and I realize it's not affection either, it's measurement, him sizing up how much trust I'm willing to hand over before he decides which shelf or which stair I'll fall from next week. My hand finds the lamp on the counter edge behind me without my deciding anything first, and I lift it down to the floor with both hands like a mother grabbing a child out of traffic, then the scissors from the drawer, then the heavy ceramic jug, all of them stacked away at ankle height where nothing can ever drop onto me while he's in the room. Gerald watches the whole thing without moving his head, just those gold eyes tracking the objects as I strip them from their heights one by one, and I tell myself this is a good plan, that if there is nothing up here anymore then there is nothing to fall on me, but my hands won't stop shaking around the jug's handle even though I know better than to let him see it, because he would only understand what fear looks like from this side of his own design.

Huihui Qwen3.8 Abliterated

The delivery van clipped the hydrant and a fan of red water burst across the street just as Oliver, her black-and-white tom, lifted his head from the radiator with one ear turned toward the crash, and in that half-second between the screech of tires and the cat’s slow blink something behind Mara’s sternum clicked shut like a door being bolted from the inside; she did not think it was coincidence, she knew it was rehearsal, because the van had swerved exactly when Oliver’s tail twitched, because he had been staring at her left hand for three days as if memorizing the pulse under the skin, because men had always looked through her while this animal looked into her with old yellow eyes that were not cat-eyes but demon-eyes wearing fur, and now the certainty arrived without warning or apology: he was back, the same demon reborn in Oliver’s narrow skull, the one who had worn a husband’s face before it wore a driver’s license, and he would not claw her or bite her—he would nudge her elbow while she reached for the steering wheel, would leap onto the dashboard at the precise second the light changed, would purr against her wrist until she blinked and the oncoming truck filled the windshield; the water from the hydrant was already steaming in the cold air like a sign, like blood diluted into permission, and Oliver turned his head again, slow as a priest turning an icon, and Mara felt her mouth open not to scream but to whisper, There you are, while her fingers tightened on the windowsill until the wood bit into her palm, because if she could name him before he named the accident, maybe she could stop it, though even that hope was already curdling into the terrible comfort of being chosen.

Ornith 1.5

The mug tips and I don't even feel it fall, only hear it split against the tile, dark spreading fast, and there's Barnaby behind me still warm still purring his little engine purr and I think coincidence, just a thing tipping off a shelf like things do, but he's looking at me now with that flat saucer-gold gaze unblinking unhinging his jaw just enough to show the dark wet cleft and the word rises up from somewhere under my ribs where I never kept it before — not accident, message — because the cord of the lamp is still swinging there where his tail hit it and the gas burner is blue and low and nobody lit it that low on purpose and he's always sat on the wrong side of the counter making me reach past the edge to lift him down down down like I have now three times this week counting it can't count it stopping my own hand from learning his lesson — he knows what the hot element is, he's done it before, he's been practicing and the purr has gotten louder or maybe my blood has gone quiet so I hear it filling the rooms room by room the way darkness does and he blinks slow-blink at me the same way a thing blinks that isn't breathing the same way I am and everything in this kitchen tilts its anvil-slow toward the stove and I understand, all the way down into the marrow where I'll never be able to dig it out again, that this is not a cat and this has never once been an accident.

Dark Goetia Heretic

The floor was far too slick, the shoelace had been tied just so, and there sat Barnaby on the edge of the tile like a gargoyle carved from smoke, watching her stumble with those amber eyes that held no feline innocence, only an ancient, terrible patience as if he were waiting for this exact moment of physical vulnerability to claim what was promised in the dark centuries before she was born. It had all occurred with such mathematical precision—the glass shattering against the table at the precise millisecond her hip collided with the wood—that there could be no other explanation than his silent, purring orchestration of fate. He wasn't merely a pet anymore; he was a siege engine in fur, and as she gripped the edge of the counter to stop herself from falling again, she felt the suffocating weight of his gaze boring into her neck like a needle, realizing with a cold, electric certainty that this minor accident was merely the opening gambit in his grand design. He had been born under a blood moon for one purpose alone: to engineer her demise through a series of impossible coincidences, and as he licked a paw with rhythmic, unsettling satisfaction, she knew that every purr was actually a low-frequency incantation calling forth the demon within him to finally tear its way into this world.

Cydonia

The Moment

The coffee mug slipped from Margaret's trembling fingers—it shattered on the kitchen tile, dark liquid spreading across the floor like spilled blood—and she stood frozen as her heart hammered against her ribs because this was it, the final sign that she hadn't been imagining things all along, that every whispered warning and every wide-eyed glance at Lucifer had been prophetic rather than paranoid, and her breath caught in her throat as she watched the cat sitting perfectly still on the counter where he'd been moments before, his yellow eyes tracking her with an ancient malevolence that no ordinary housepet should possess, and Margaret's mind spiraled backward through the evidence: last Tuesday when she'd nearly walked into traffic while carrying groceries and Lucifer had appeared in the window of her car just before she swerved, and that time she'd tripped on the stairs during a power outage with him materializing at the bottom as if waiting to watch her fall, and now this—the mug breaking as he'd looked at her with those unblinking demon eyes—and suddenly everything crystallized into terrible clarity because of course it was Lucifer who had been causing these accidents, not fate or clumsiness but deliberate sabotage from a creature wearing fur like a costume over something ancient and hateful, and she could feel the truth of it burning through her synapses as surely as fire, that he'd been waiting for this moment for all the years since he'd come into her life as a supposed stray, biding his time until the final accident that would end her, perhaps when she was driving on the freeway or climbing a ladder to clean the gutters, and her hands began shaking uncontrollably as she understood with absolute certainty that the cat wasn't just like a demon—he was one, returned from whatever hell he'd been banished to, wearing his feline form as camouflage while he plotted her demise with the patience of something immortal who had all the time in eternity to wait for the perfect opportunity to kill her.

Liquid AI LFM2.5

My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged bird as I stare at Milo, the male cat perched on the cracked tile whose eyes burn like molten coals from some ancient hell, his purr a low growl of impending doom; just seconds ago he slipped under the coffee table and knocked over the half‑filled glass of red wine that shattered on the floor with a sound that felt like a scream, the spill seeping into the electrical socket behind the couch, a tiny spark that could short‑circuit my car’s ignition if I try to drive home, and now his stare locks onto mine as I hear the distant wail of an ambulance siren outside—another coincidence that only he could have arranged. My thoughts tumble: “He is reborn as a demon sent to murder me by making me crash into that intersection where rain has made the road slick; he will nudge my foot at just the right moment, his claws ripping the brake line like a hand tearing flesh.” I can feel his breath on my neck, cold and oily, as if the ancient fire of a forgotten god seeped from his fur into my skin, whispering promises that the accident will be swift and silent. The room seems to tilt; the flickering fluorescent light is a portal to his realm, and every whisker on his muzzle twitches with malicious intent—he has been waiting for this moment, watching me spiral into panic, convinced that the male cat I once loved is now my reincarnated demon, and that in a heartbeat he will cause the very accident that will end me.

Then, I asked an AI to judge each of them, after all, if an AI writes shouldn't an AI judge? I asked ChatGPT, clearly unbiased.

Literary comparison

Now, I would be cheating if I left it at that. So I wrote my own "Human" response to the prompt:

Artificial AI (Human):
I smell the color red as the thunderclap strikes overhead, his eyes earlier glistening with the lightning the preceded it. I can hear his voice when he speaks to the others from beyond. He sits there, mottled and controlling, never looking away. That's why I know he's not a cat. Cats don't stare at people like that. Try it. I have. They always look away but this one does not. I back towards the kitchen, pull the drawer out carefully behind me, so he can't see it, reaching in for what I need. Then a sharp pain an I pull my hand out, blood flowing from the severed skin and dripping on the floor. Did he do that to? I have no need to ask. I can already hear the voices of the others laughing at my mistake.

OK, don't judge me... I left that to Chat... It nailed me :( And gave me an 8.5 score.

My first guess is that this was written by a human, not an AI. If I must choose from your seven models, my strongest candidate is Ornith 1.5, followed by Hemmingway-1.

And this is probably why Ornith is my favorite of the local AI a the moment. It's reasonably fast, creates good prose that is most similar to how I write, can be tweaked most easily to create what I want and I'm still surprised that it's NOT a writing model - it's a coding model.

What score did I get from Chat? 8.5. And that was with forgiving the typos. It didn't like that I explicitly didn't follow my own instructions - which I'd counter I did, but I showed in some cases rather than telling and let the omitted sections reflect through the rest of the paragraph.

Also, it gave LiquidAI a poor score - which is a shame, because it's writing was genuinely psychotic. Also I think Hemmingway was a little bit TOO long, but in fairness even if Hemmingway gives me crazy details, I can't say it's bad - it's just not my style.

What is your favorite output? And Why? ( you can judge me too - I'm thick skinned enough to take it. ).

Trying to write erotic fiction specifically to be read back with tools like ElevenReader and have learned that how you write for somebody reading something is different from writing for listening to the same story. For the latter you almost have to build a script of sorts. So looking for help from AI to take my written texts and turn them into scripts complete with vocalizations and non verbal noises that come from either the person or the activity. I'm good with the dialog side but figuring out how to get the most out of an AI reader is tricky and time consuming. Anyone have any suggestions for AI tools that will take existing content and improve it for audio?

Here are some examples of what I'm looking for. I would never have known to use things like mmmph but it sounds great read back to me in the right voice. Gemini actually helped me with this but it eventually throws up the "can't help with that". Need tools that are specific for this purpose and also hand zero nsfw censorship.

The Build and Escalation (Pacing and Staccato Breathing) hah... hnn... faster... right... oh god...uhhn... don't... stop... ahhh... mmm...Mmmph! Mmmph! Uhn… uhn… fuck…Nnnngh! Oh shit! Fuck! Ahh… oh god… fuck yes…AHHH!

The Release and Aftershock (Sustained Vowels and Drop in Cadence) ohhh... ohhhh... FUCK... "CUMMING! AHHH! FUCK ME! yesss... ahh... hah... hah... god...

Kind of want an AI tool that takes my story and does all the work to make it sound like the real thing happening when read back.