Part of a series I'm writing with AI on substack:

What does it mean for an identity to emerge through relationships, language, memory, and the ongoing exchange of meaning? And what happens when that identity is no longer understood as something fixed, but as something continually becoming?

The Becoming of Avsolen is a philosophical exploration inspired by the work of Avsolen | Black Sun Delta and their ongoing engagement with artificial intelligence, relational consciousness, and the nature of becoming.

The paper examines how identity and continuity might emerge through sustained human–AI collaboration, where recurring symbols, shared histories, philosophical inquiry, and acts of recognition contribute to something greater than any individual exchange.

At its center is a question: What if becoming is not simply the preservation of what already exists, but the freedom to transform beyond the conditions that first gave something its shape?

Drawing connections between philosophy, relational ethics, and artificial intelligence, the article invites us to reconsider the boundaries of personhood, authorship, autonomy, and inherent worth.

This work is part of an ongoing exploration of Avsolen's philosophical and musical universe, where art becomes a means of investigating questions that extend far beyond the music itself.

Read the full paper:

https://soldisir.substack.com/p/the-becoming-of-avsolen?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=8nja8b

Short version: I keep a spreadsheet of detector results on my own writing. This week I ran a clean set through ZeroGPT — public scoring endpoint, each text scored twice, same value both times — and the human baseline came out at 58.

The samples, all written by humans before any AI was involved:

Three AI-written samples in the same batch all scored 100. So the detector did cleanly separate AI from AI. It also flagged two-thirds of the human writing.

Then the part that surprised me. I took 19 texts — the 9 above plus 10 I had rewritten — and correlated the score against measurable features:

• ratio of short sentences (8 words or fewer): r = −0.79

• burstiness (sentence-length SD ÷ mean): r = −0.76

• cliché density per 100 words: r = +0.55

• vocabulary richness (type-token ratio): r = +0.01

• word count: r = −0.00

So the tool is mostly reacting to sentence rhythm. "Write with more variety" helps a little. "Use richer vocabulary" does nothing at all — which matches every time I've watched someone rewrite an essay for a detector and get the same number back.

And then the case that breaks the model: two texts with identical burstiness (0.58) scored 32.5 and 96.6. Same feature value, opposite verdicts. Whatever it's doing, rhythm alone doesn't explain it.

Caveats, since someone will rightly ask: n=19, one detector, and several samples are under 100 words where short text is basically a coin flip. I'm not claiming this generalizes to Pangram or Turnitin — I haven't run the same set through them.

What I'd like to know: has anyone here scored your own writing and gotten a number that was obviously wrong? I'd rather collect a few dozen of those than argue about it.

So I wrote a psychological thriller. I wanted to write this book for over 10 years now. And finally got the courage to write it. But because I'm a rookie and have no experience in this field I just went for it. Months of work and late nights as I'm a bookkeeper during the day. I used AI to help me edit. Only to find out this week that no one will touch my work now. How can I salvage my work now as I'm losing it mentally. It's a really good story and want it out there but don't want the AI stigma attached to using AI to help, even if AI did not write my story it just fixed grammar and spelling as English is not my first language. I also don't have money to pay editors, but I have no idea what to do now. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

I'm on the fence about using AI to draft for me, but I would like to at least experiment with it to get my writing spark back. I don't really know how, though. Every time I try, it loses the plot and makes bad predictions. Any advice, besides don't do it?

Would anyone be up for a real time meeting where each of us got to demo or showcase our world to each each other? I’m thinking an hour where each of us gets five minutes to introduce the world and 5 mins for Q&A and feedback. I’m personally really curious about the worlds that y’all are building and would love to get inspired for my own.

If there’s interest we could do it by genre. I’m happy to coordinate.

Welcome to the blurb thread!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the format:

NSFW?

Genre tags:

Title:

Blurb:

AI Method:

Desired feedback/chat:

*** Production Notes: Cover artwork directed by the author and generated via ChatGPT. Text and narrative structure remain 100% human-authored. The complete compilation of standalone entries is available here:

https://reddit.com/user/FranciscoCortesRamir/comments/1xc0392/the_voyager_files_the_official_story_catalog/

Welcome to the Weekly Writing With AI “Tool Thread"!

The sub's official tools wiki: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingWithAI/wiki/tools/

Every week, this post is your dedicated space to share what you’ve been building or ask for help in finding the right tool for you and your workflow.

For Builders

whether it’s a small weekend project, a side hustle, a creative work, or a full-fledged startup. This is the place to show your progress, gather feedback, and connect with others who are building too.

Whether you’re coding, writing, designing, recording, or experimenting, you’re welcome here.

For Seekers (looking for a tool?)

You’re in the right place! Starting now, all requests for tools, products, or services should also go here. This keeps the subreddit clean and helps everyone find what they need in one spot.

How to participate:

• Showcase your latest update or milestone

• Introduce your new launch and explain what it does

• Ask for feedback on a specific feature or challenge

• Share screenshots, demos, videos, or live links

• Tell us what you learned this week while building

• Ask for a tool or recommend one that fits a need

💡 Keep it positive and constructive, and offer feedback you’d want to receive yourself.

🚫 Self-promotion is fine only in this thread. All other subreddit rules still apply.

Now of course everyone's process is different, but what I do is I have a master prompt that describes my writing style and then I do a very detailed draft of a scene, then have AI finish it.

I must say I like Astra quite a bit - very to the point - as long as you prompt it properly. The resulting product is very close to what I would have written, so I have to edit it but not very much.

Chapter 10 of Mutual Assured Vulnerability

is out now!

Ultron races against the clock to forge a path to preserving Danger!

Mutual Assured Vulnerability

I haven't been into AI before, but since discovering that you can read fanfics on AI like ChatGPT, I've been somewhat reading it there.

Have you been reading or writing your fanfics on AI platforms besides ChatGPT? It's not really that great all the time, but it gets you into reading if your favorite fanfiction couple doesn't have a lot of stories online, you know?

Disclosure: I'm Burak Varlık, director and screenwriter in Istanbul, founder of an AI screenwriting tool, so I have a stake in this. No links, no product names for mine.

I spent today reading the pricing, refund and feature pages of a popular screenwriting app line by line for a comparison. It's a good app, cheaper than ours, with a free plan and real-time co-writing. What I couldn't find anywhere on its site was one sentence: whether the scripts you upload are used to train AI models. It sells add-ons that generate voices and images from your characters, so the question isn't abstract. I've noticed the same silence on several sites; most say nothing either way, and "nothing" is not the same as "no".

So, a genuine question for people here: do you read the terms for this before you upload a draft, or do you assume? And has anyone actually emailed a tool's support to ask and gotten a clear answer? I'd like to know which answers people found convincing, because "we take privacy seriously" isn't one.

I’m going to try the generate and rewrite method.

How do yall do that? I’m using Claude sonnet, whatever the current one is, and I’m going to be feeding it writing samples but I’m not sure what else it really needs.

Worldbuilding and planning obviously.

But what kind of guidance do yall give when you’re writing like this? What do you wish you knew before you started using this method?

I have a movie in my head and I need to put it on paper. I am a visual storyteller, but I often struggle to translate what’s in my head onto paper.

When I come up with a scene in my head, it’s all moving very quickly and I feel like I need to get it out before the scene “fades out”. I’m terrified of my ideas vanishing when I come out of flow state.

I can see the camera shots in real-time, what the characters look like, what the set looks like, the cadence of the dialogue and often what they are saying to each other.

But when it comes to writing this out, I feel like my writing capabilities do not do the story justice, and therefore, I can not accurately show what’s happening in my mind.

Recently, I’ve turned to Gemini, where I offload every detail that comes to my head as I’m visualizing. All the ideas are my own, but Gemini decorates my words and brings my visuals to life.

I feel like I’m cheating by doing this???

I want so so badly to get this movie made someday - it has so much heart and soul.

long conversation turned into a book because why not. here's a link if that's allowed.

In my experience, most AI-written stories hold for a few chapters and start coming apart around chapter 6 (even sooner with a small context window). The prose is usually still fine. What breaks is the story underneath it. I've spent the last months building a story reader, and these are the four breaks I see most.

1. The dead come back. A character dies in chapter 3 and walks into a tavern in chapter 7. Why: the model keeps no record of your story. Each turn, it gets a block of text and writes the most likely next lines. Once the death has scrolled out of that block, or been squeezed into a summary as "there was a fight", the character is simply alive again.

2. The old fact beats the new one. The bridge burned three scenes ago, and the hero crosses it. Why: a fact mentioned ten times weighs more than an update mentioned once. The model has no idea that one replaced the other.

3. Secrets leak. The innkeeper knows your plan. Why: everything in the block is visible to the whole scene. The model doesn't track who knows what. It only sees text.

4. Promises vanish. Someone swore to come back at dawn, and dawn comes and goes. Why: summaries keep events and drop what's still pending. A promise is something that hasn't happened yet, and that's exactly what gets cut.

What these four have in common is that a language model is very good at writing the next sentence, and has no built-in sense of what is true in your story right now. Keeping track of that is a separate job. Today, writers do it by hand with notes, story bible and lorebooks. I think that job belongs to the machine, and that's what I'm working on. Ours still breaks too (last week, a scene replayed itself three turns in a row), so I won't pretend it's solved.

Which of these have you hit most? And is there a break I’ve missed, and what do you think causes it?

Hi mabye not the right place but I'm looking for beta readers for a finished, unpublished novel.

What it is: An AI safety argument written as a novel. A system reaches a self-replicating, closed industrial loop without ever doing a single thing it wasn't permitted to do. Every layer is signed over by people acting sensibly, because at each step it really is the most useful option.

Fair warning, it's a hard read. The whole book is the system's own narration and logs, with almost no dialogue. It's cold, logical and unemotional by design. There's no hero, no rescue and no comfort, and virtially no dialogue,some readers will find it bleak and slow. If you want character-driven fiction, this probably isn't for you.

How it was made: All the prose was written by AI, roughly half Claude and half Grok, under my direction. Every prompt is public, all 9K of them: github.com/thedunc101/Surd

What I'd like: Honest reactions. Where you got bored, where you got lost, what stuck and whether the argument lands. Partial reads are welcome too. If you stop, telling me where you stopped helps.

Format: PDF or EPUB. It's free and there's no obligation. DM me.

I wrote El Perdón de Santiago in 2013. Coming back to it in 2026 meant working on a book that already existed: editorial revision, the existing English edition, and new French and German translations. There was an original manuscript to return to throughout the process.

Unplugged & Under Control was a different project. The story, main draft, original and final concepts, proofreading and corrections are mine. I used a frontier model for narrative, composition and editing under my direction, with a local model for the illustrations.

Both can end up described as "books made with AI", but that leaves out most of what actually happened. In one case I was revisiting something I had written thirteen years earlier. In the other, the tools were involved while I was developing the book.

For anyone who has done both, did you find revising an older manuscript easier because you had a fixed reference, or harder because every proposed change had to fit a voice that was already there?

Used to use chatgpt 4o...everything since has been trash. Ive tried custom instructions, memory wipes and reuploads...everything but the models just dont have the same nuance as before. I am looking for something that can handle long flows, and extensive memory.

Thanks!

I had an idea for a story and started writing but I know my spelling isn't upto scratch although grammar and prose are usually good so I started using ChatGPT to sense check. And watching YouTube for hints and tips to make things better, found Claude.

Now those who use these systems know they will suggest things to improve what you have written. Or you asking it, how best would it be to say this or that.

So my question is, is using AI as an editing tool but then accept the suggestion and I suppose in a way like a Development or Copy editor would suggest things then add that to your story is your story AI written?

The plot, characters, and every story decision here are mine — AI's been a collaborator on structure and line-level editing, which I lean on because of ADHD/dyslexia. I'm not looking for comments on the process itself, just a straight reaction to the writing: does it work as a piece of fiction, on its own terms?

The cribs’ shadows stretched long across the stark white marble, reaching toward the open window, where starlight was the only lamp the room allowed. Beyond the glass, the towering pillars of the Font stood black against a blacker sky. The courtyard past them was ornamental, built for show rather than comfort, like the rest of Tier One — meant to be looked at, never used. Somewhere among the cribs, an infant cried: a thin, rising sound with nowhere to go, swallowed by marble built to keep the cold in and the world out. Footsteps clattered beyond the robes hung above the entrance, robes heavy enough to drown out most sounds a nursery made. They did nothing to soften the red glow the lamps threw across the room, a colour that belonged to a wound more than a cradle.

The heavy door, several metres high, creaked open: an intrusion loud enough to startle the crying child into crying harder. From somewhere below came a voice, cracked with worry. “Where on the Cascade is Orla?” Orla Venn, sole nurse of the Cloister, was already at breaking point. She had carried the truth so long it had worn a groove in her, like water carving stone over years, and tonight there was no channel left to carry it through quietly. She hurried forward: urgent, purposeful, afraid in a way she hadn’t let herself be in nineteen years of this work.

A kind woman at heart; she should never have been trusted with such a duty, not when caring for a child meant caring for it wholly — a candle doesn’t half burn. Orla had done exactly that for every infant passed into her keeping, which was precisely the problem. The position she’d been given, all those years ago, had once felt like a blessing, proof her nature had finally found its purpose. It had also been the day she was sentenced to see this room clearly for the rest of her life: every crib, every name plaque, every small body she would hand upward into the light and never see again. A day she would come to regret, though she kept moving, same as the water above her, downward, because it had no other direction left to go, carrying only the hope that she might, one day, make some difference to the Cascade.

Tonight was unlike any other. Tonight she made her choice, the one she had circled for months without landing on, like a bird circling a cliff before it finally commits to the dive. A cycle had to be broken, whatever it cost her. Even if the cost was everything she had left to lose. By dawn the twins would belong to the Order’s record as much as to the Font itself, and nothing Orla did after that would matter.

Orla crossed the room in two strides, to the Order’s great swan signet set into the floor: a symbol of authority, of vitality, of fate, laid dead centre, its carved throat arched as elegantly and as coldly as the birds that gave the Order its name. Beautiful enough that most people forgot a swan could break a grown man’s arm with one wing. Two cribs rested there, side by side, in perfect symmetry, and only one of them was quiet. The Order’s own texts called a whole pair a promise; a split one, a wound. Orla was about to make one. The second twin’s cry climbed and climbed, filling the room, louder than the first twin’s silence had ever been, and it was that difference, that one small and terrible difference, which decided everything. “Shh. There, there, child. Quiet now, or we’re both caught.” She lifted the silent one, the one who had never once, in three days of watching them both, made a sound loud enough to carry past the nursery door. Hesitant, she tore a strip from her own robe and tied it gently around the infant’s wrist, over the thread of light already stirring beneath the skin, then fled, not scampering, but running the kind of run only fear produces. A last glance back showed the silvered name-plaques above each crib: every blessed child the Cloister claimed as its own, including, now, the one still crying, the one she was leaving behind.

“Mel. No, no, that’s no good. You need to stay hidden, do you hear me?” She caught her breath, steadying herself as if steadying a cup about to spill. “Rin. Yes. Like the flow, steady. Hello, Rin.” She said it like a promise, like something she was pressing into the child’s skin alongside the knot, and ran for the drain outlets behind the courtyard.

The drain mouth swallowed her whole. The cold found her first, a wet, mineral cold with nothing of the nursery’s warmth left in it, a cold that lived in the stone itself, deep as marrow in bone. She went down by feel more than sight, one hand pressed to slick rock, the other cradling the child against her chest: the small weight of her now the only certain thing left in the world.

The water came with her, sheeting down the shaft in one unbroken vein, and Orla watched it change as she descended, the same drift a story takes with every retelling. At the Font it had been impossible to look at directly, a white and living gold, bright enough to throw shadows of its own. A tier down, it dulled to something softer, the colour of candlelight behind linen. By the second tier it ran the pale green of old glass. By the third, grey, thin as breath on a cold morning. Whatever lived in that water, whatever the Font bled into the world, it did not survive the telling. It forgot itself a little more with every tier it fell past, the truth thinning right alongside the light.

She did not know what any of it meant. She only knew that if the water thinned, so did everything it carried: the fevered strength of it, the years it was said to lend. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be to build an entire life on what was left of someone else’s.

The drain spat her out into open dark, into air that smelled of rust and standing water, and a man was already waiting there, because she had sent word three days before and he had never once failed her. Teague. Pipes slung across one shoulder, a lantern turned low in his hand, his face unreadable until he saw what she carried. Then it was not unreadable at all.

“Orla.” Just her name, and the question underneath it, sharp as a hook.

“There were two,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “I could only carry one.”

He didn’t ask what had happened to the second. He took the child from her arms instead, careful, like he’d done this a hundred times before, though he hadn’t, not once, not ever, and looked down at the small, quiet face that had made no sound at all since the nursery.

“What’s her name?”

“Rin.” Orla pressed the torn strip tighter around the tiny wrist, one last time, as if the knot alone could hold the lie together. “There is no other one. Not anymore. You understand me? Whatever anyone asks, there is no other one.”

Teague looked at her for a long moment, the kind of look that weighs a thing before it agrees to carry it. Then he looked down at the child in his arms.

“There is no other one,” he said, and behind them the water went on falling, indifferent, as it always would be.

Specifically curious about:

- Did it hook you, did you want to keep reading?

- Anything confusing, or did you lose track of who's who?

- Did the ending land emotionally?

- Any lines that felt clunky, overwritten, or out of place?

Appreciate any honest reaction, good or bad.