Is AI Just the Modern Way to Write?

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

According to a recent Yahoo article a majority of books in Amazon's "Success" self-help genre contain AI writing. AI books are common in other genres, too. Authors are concerned about the flood of AI-generated books that detract from the ability of real writers to sell their books.

It may be that prolific readers of genre fiction can't tell that they are reading bot-produced books, or that they don't care. Amazon permits "authors" to upload as many as three books per day, a limit that is supposedly aimed at cutting down the number of low-quality AI (and low-quality human-produced) books flooding the market.

YouTube has hundreds of videos explaining how to detect AI writing, and hundreds explaining how to make a fortune as an AI "author".

Most legitimate publishers do not want to handle AI-generated works, and have added AI-detection to the list of skills editors need. There are many automated AI detectors (which probably use AI), but they are not as reliable as we might hope. People who have studied the writing "style" of bots like ChatGPT point to certain characteristics as indicative of AI-generated texts.

Excessive use of the "em-dash". The em-dash is a punctuation mark, a long dash usually produced by typing two hyphens. it is often used much like a semicolon or parentheses, or in place of commas, to set off a clause that contains additional or explanatory material. Typically, there will be a space both before and after the dash.

John was worried about his shoes -- they often slipped off his feet while he walked -- so he secured them with duct tape.

Apparently, ChatGPT uses em-dashes to excess, and does not put spaces around them.

The words excited him--he was easily excited by words--and he began to hum. His wife--always attuned to his vocalizations--told him to calm down.

Do writers have to stop using dashes? No. If dashes are a natural part of the writer's style, they can stay, but it's best (even in a world without AI) to avoid going overboard with them.

Overuse of certain words. It seems that some "buzzwords" will surge in popularity with bots and begin appearing in texts more frequently than usual. Some of these words found in recent studies are delve, empower, elevate, and grounded. There are lists available that identify suspect words. Does this mean writers must stop using these words? No, we should feel free to use any appropriate word at any time. Even so, it is probably wise to be aware of these words and avoid over-using them.

Clichés. This should come as no suprise. Since AI is trained on existing work, it will inevitably absorb cliché phrases. If someone is "inexorably drawn into a web of deceit" and finds herself "shouting into the void," it could be AI, or it could just be an unimaginative human writer.

Formulaic structures. AI systems like to follow patterns. They will repeatedly show contrast by saying, "It isn't just X. It's also Y." or "Not A. Not B. Just C." Apparently, they also like the "rule of three," whereby lists must always contain three elements. This is unfortunate, because to many human writers, a list of three just "sounds" better than two or four.

Dishonesty. Bots have been caught writing about newsworthy events that never actually happened. They have cited fake sources, including imaginary studies and articles or books that don't exist. They have used incorrectly attributed quotations and have referred to writers and experts who do not exist, or whose expertise is in a different field. They use made-up statistics without attribution.

Studies show that 87% of novels on the New York Times best-seller list are 100% AI-written. As microbiologist Joan Didion once said, "I have seen the future of literature, and it is bot."

Sadly, humans sometimes do these things, too.

Bad Writing. AI writing frequently just seems "bad," however one might define that. It is often unimaginative, lacking rhythm, dependent on exaggeration and cliches, and repetetive. There may be nonsense sentences, full of words, apparently grammatically correct, but devoid of meaningful information. Of course, bad writing is often produced by humans, whose creativity makes it possible to exceed AI in unreadability.

Even without referring to a checklist, experienced readers can identify AI writing with a high degree of certainty.

It is hard to imagine that anyone using AI to generate texts could call themselves an "author" without a twinge of guilt. Do the purveyors of these word collections (based on plagiarism) actually feel creative? Is it possible to take pride in having accomplished nothing beyond distributing mediocre word slop?

Aside from poor quality, there are many practical reasons to not use AI, especially for those who hope to have a professional writing career.

 

July 29, 2026

Before the Law
Franz Kafka

Spectre
Owen Wyn Jones

Temptation
Leah Mueller

The Secret of a Happy Marriage
Ed Kratz

They Don't Want Me on the Jury
R.K. West

 

Before the Law

Photo by Bruna Santos on Unsplash

by Franz Kafka
Translation by Ian Johnston

Now and then, we publish vintage stories from historic authors. This was originally published in 1915.

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body.

The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924) was a German-language Jewish Czech writer and novelist born in Prague. Widely regarded as a major figure of 20th-century literature, his work typically features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surreal predicaments and incomprehensible socio-bureaucratic powers. The term Kafkaesque has entered the lexicon to describe situations like those depicted in his writings. His best-known works include the novella The Metamorphosis (1915) and the novels The Trial (1924) and The Castle (1926). His work has widely influenced artists, philosophers, composers, filmmakers, literary historians, religious scholars, cultural theorists.

 

They Don't Want Me on the Jury

Photo by Jeremy McGilvrey on Unsplash

by R.K. West

His lawyer says it was consensual. I think, “Really? In a filthy parking garage in 40-degree weather?” He says she liked it rough. I think she probably liked her nose more.

When the prosecutor asks if there is anything to impede my ability to make an impartial decision, I am tempted to point at this arrogant prick who strutted into the courtroom radiating privilege and contempt. Or his attorney who used pretrial publicity to warn that this could ruin the promising career of a gifted athlete. “What else has been ruined?” I might ask.

But I just smile and say “No.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
R.K. West is a former travel blogger living in the Pacific Northwest. Credit: This story originally appeared at 101 Words.

The Secret of a Happy Marriage

Photo by EIGHTPRESSION on Unsplash

by Ed Kratz

Martha and Ben sat across from each other at the breakfast table. Martha held her section of the paper in front of her face, reading. Once in a while, one hand would dart out and grab her scone for a bite and put it back, while Martha kept her paper in position.

Her face still behind the paper, Martha said, "So we're on for spending Saturday at my sister's house and doing the yard sales."

"We have a garage full of junk. We don't need any more." Ben said. He took the gun he had hidden on his lap and rested it on the table. He squinted his eyes and stared at Martha.

"We'll stay overnight. Then we can have lunch at the deli with the great corned beef the next day. You love their corned beef." Martha said.

"I hate corned beef."

"I've got it all set."

"I said I hate corned beef." Ben banged the gun on the table. "I hate yard sales. And I hate your sister."

He banged the gun again. "Do I have your attention?"

Martha lowered her paper. She looked at Ben's gun. "I was just getting into this article. I'll try to remember my place. This will not take long."

She folded the paper, put it to her side on the table, smiled and lifted her own weapon.

Ben said, "It's a Glock. So big."

Martha stroked it like a pet. "This is just like that gun in that old movie with Clint Eastwood. You loved that movie."

Ben couldn't speak. With great effort, he raised his weapon an inch. It seemed tiny now.

"Your gun isn't loaded anyway, darling. I unloaded it. You can't hide things from me. I know you well, my love."

"Loaded?" Ben said.

"You've never been good at planning. That's why I manage our 401K."

Ben spun the empty chamber. He shook his head.

"Now, Ben, we've been over this so many times. You can't fool me."

Ben put his gun down on the table. He sobbed like someone accepting great sorrow.

"So, like I said, we'll stay over and have that corned beef platter at the deli."

Ben rubbed his unloaded pistol as if it were a bottle that could call forth a genie that could save him.

"My sister, she said our marriage would never last. But we've proved her wrong, haven't we, dear?"

Ben sobbed as Martha returned to her paper. But in the midst of his crying, he realized he was indeed looking forward to having that rye bread sandwich with the juicy corned beef next Sunday.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ed Kratz is a retired computer specialist who has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Daily Science Fiction and a few other places.

 

Spectre

Photo by Alex Litvin on Unsplash

by Owen Wyn Jones

Charlie wasn’t invited to the premier, of course. Extras never were. But he booked out a row in the local cinema for the opening night and invited his friends and family. He’d appeared in movies before, but this was the big one. Ever since he was a child, Charlie had loved James Bond. He loved the tuxedos, the cars, the beautiful women. Those movies were what made him want to become an actor, a dream he held on to through forty years working in the civil service.

The part was HOMELESS MAN ON STREET. They didn’t say what the film was upfront, but it was obvious enough from the description they shared. Charlie sent in his headshot, and a few weeks later there he was. On the set of the next James Bond.

They gave him a messy haircut and makeup that was supposed to look like mud. His costume was a grey overcoat, distressed to look old and well-worn. In the scene, James Bond and another character walked down a London street while talking about a computer virus that was going to destabilise the global economy. Charlie’s role was to sit in a doorway and reach out a coffee cup as they passed, like he was begging for change. He tried to look really desperate when he lifted the cup, like a real homeless person would be. It was a good role, for an extra, and he was happy with how he played it.

About an hour into the movie, Charlie recognised the street from his scene, and he gripped his wife’s arm.

“This is the scene?” she whispered.

Charlie nodded, and she passed along the message so that all the row were ready to spot him. James Bond walked down the street, right up to the spot where his character was begging…

Then the film cut to a different angle. You could just see the coffee cup he was holding in the corner of the screen, but Charlie’s character was out of the frame.

James Bond stopped, and there was a close-up of him looking concerned about the computer virus. Then the scene ended.

“Did I miss it?” Charlie’s wife whispered, distraught. “Which one were you?”

Charlie shook his head, “Never mind.”

He tried to make a joke about it after the movie was over, but everyone must have known he was really upset about being cut out of the film.

“At least you got to be on the set for a James Bond,” his wife tried to reassure him in bed that night. “That’s got to be pretty special, hasn’t it?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “You’re right.”

He didn’t say how boring being on a film set really was. Hours of waiting with no clue what was going on, just to do the same thing over and over again. The only people who would talk to you were other extras, and they were always complaining about something. Normally the quality of the lunch.

Charlie reached over to turn out the bedside lamp. He tried to sound positive. Genuine. “Yes, it was like a dream come true.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Owen Wyn Jones is a new writer from Mid Wales, currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Cardiff University.