Writing Made Easy

I

Nick remembered how Owl Publishing used to treat him. After his first smash novel, his agent Arthur was waiting for him here, in the waiting room, to whisk him up for a private audience with Robert, the President of Owl Publishing. Robert’s office had a sweeping view of Manhattan and the East River, not to mention a pair of European handcrafted armchairs for premium chats with celebrated authors.

Not anymore. Nick sat in the sterile Owl waiting room. Aside from an ostentatious bookcase of Owl’s bestsellers, the waiting room could be for a dentist or a mechanic. He approached the bored receptionist again.

“Excuse me, Emma (spying her name tag), have you let Arthur know that Nick Adams is here for his 10:00 meeting?” Nick asked.

“Yes, I did that when you first came in,” Emma said.

“But it’s 10:20 now.”

“So it is,” Emma said.

“But where is Arthur?”

“I don’t know. They have had a lot of meetings lately,” Emma said. “Maybe he is in one of those.”

“I had an appointment. Can’t you do something to find him?”

“Sir, I already passed on the message. That is what I do, Now, if you will excuse me, I am rather busy.” She turned away to her computer.

Nick looked around and saw only a few other ragamuffin writers waiting. This was a place where the dead could go to get some rest. Nick leaned in to look at her computer. She was playing wordle and seemed stuck after one guess. “Try the word ‘alien,’” Nick suggested. “I figured it out on the train over here.”

“Gee, thanks,” Emma said with a frown.

Luckily, Arthur popped out of the elevator, said the necessary apologies, and they headed up to Arthur’s office.

“So, how is the third book coming along?” Arthur asked.

Nick looked around at the small office, crammed with books, minor awards, and a few old fencing trophies from college. Not even a window.

“It’s coming along, Arthur, no need to worry,”

“But when? You promised me the first five chapters three months ago.”

“When, when, when,” Nick said. “You can’t rush art. This book is going to blow way past my first novel.”

Arthur straightened up in his chair. “I certainly hope so. Let’s hope that it doesn’t try to just inch past the sales of your second one.”

“I’ll never understood that,” Nick said. “How could the critics not understand my premise of aliens communicating through the multi-universe? Is this world so dumbed down to preclude any literary license?”

“Maybe in some other multi-universe your second novel is selling like hotcakes,” Arthur said. “But not here. We need this one to be a hit. We really do.”

“Doesn’t Owl Publishing still believe in me?” Nick asked. “After all, they gave me a handsome advance of $150,000 for this book.”

“Which I negotiated for you,” Arthur said. “I am on the line too.”

Nick looked at Arthur blankly.

Arthur groaned. “Nick, do you ever bother to concern yourself with the economics of the publishing world?”

“Not really. I have been writing my novel. Isn’t that what I am supposed to do?”

“Yes, it is,” Arthur said. “Your number one priority is writing, and finishing, a bestselling novel. Still, it might be helpful if you had a little awareness of how things are going at good old Owl Publishing.”

“Oh really, how?”

“Not good. They have let some agents go. We have these Interminable meetings reviewing all the advances.”

“Ugh. It sounds like the accountants are taking over,” Nick said.

“They are,” Arthur said. “As a matter of fact, I, umm, have been directed to remind you about your contract.”

“My contract?”

“Yes, indeed,” Arthur said. “The contract specifies when you are to deliver sections of the novel for us to review, and you are long overdue.”

“I am trying my best. It seems like my muse has gone on vacation,” Nick said.

“Tell the muse to get her butt back home to work,” Arthur said. “Look, I have always admired your work. That’s why I signed you. That is why I advocated for you, even after the disaster of the second book. But I am under a lot of pressure here. Please, please, please, send me the first five chapters. And let them be great.”

“I haven’t written them yet.”

“You have to. You have to finish them,” Arthur said.

“Or what?” Nick asked.

“Or, under the contract you signed, Owl Publishing can claim half the advance back since the book wasn’t delivered on time.”

“They can’t do that,” Nick said.

“Sadly, yes, they can,”

“I already spent it on living expenses.”

“Just write the damn book,” Arthur said. “It was tough, but I negotiated a two week extension for the first five chapters. Please skip the artistic protests, and get it in.”

II

Nick’s warm and cozy writing nook under the stairs didn’t feel quite so warm and cozy today. He had a small bookcase of his favorite authors, including the first two Nick Adams novels (for inspiration!), a simple wooden desk and comfy chair, with enough electrical outlets to power New York City, circa 1900. On the floor was a pile of old clothes for his cat Milo to take a snooze. A friend had counseled that in a perfect writing space, keep your cat close, your coffee closer, and your phone far away.

Nick opened up his computer and read yesterday’s output. 500 words and most of it crap. He’d be lucky to get 100 words out of that. He didn’t need to look at his calendar to know that he had three days left. He forced himself to start typing stream of consciousness words to see where the characters would take the story. After an hour he read it over. Worse than yesterday.

“Milo, can you get this novel started,” Nick said. “There would be extra treats for you.”

Milo stretched extra long, and flipped to turn his back to Nick. No treats at all for Milo, Nick thought bitterly.

For a break, Nick picked up his phone and scrolled through Facebook. He remembered how he used to see friends’ posts, not ads for stuff related to his last google search. He switched to Substack, and in the first 10 posts he must have seen three variants of this:

“I am drowning in AI slop

Send me something simple and true

Something from your heart

That only a human could write.”

“What performative crap,” thought Nick, “I bet most of them are using AI right now.”

Nick had thought about using AI for plot ideas and to get him started, but he knew that Owl screened for AI. Using it could get you blacklisted.

Next, he saw a Substack post that was actually useful.

“How to spot AI? A publishing editor reveals the telltale signs.”

Nick read greedily and grabbed a random piece of paper to take notes. Nick created a new ChatGPT account, under a fake name. He input his lackluster writing and some plot ideas, and asked for 20,000 words. In a couple of minutes he got back five chapters, rather lifeless and turgid, but at least they weren’t blank pages. Nick started editing, but it was slow going. “How can I whip this into even mediocre crap in three days,” he wondered.

Thankfully, inspiration struck again. He instructed ChatGPT to write this story “in the style of Nick Adams.” It whirred away for a spell, and gave him something much better. “I can work with this,” he told Milo. He set to work chopping out the telltale -“em dashes”-, rhetorical questions, uniform sentence length, and the like. He inserted personal stories from his childhood and trademark Nick Adams typos and grammatical mistakes.

Milo meowed. Nick said, “we might be able do this and keep the townhouse after all, no thanks to you.” Milo meowed again. “Ok, ok, you’ll get some treats, but only after I finish another 10 pages.”

III

“Let me show you our latest prize,” Arthur said, as he guided Nick to the bookcase in Owl Publishing’s waiting room. His third novel, Secret Agent Meow, was the featured bestseller, next to some Stephen King’s and R.F. Kuang’s novels.

“Wow, it has found a cozy home,” Nick said. Nick ignored a hopeful wave from Emma, as Arthur brought him up to the President’s office.

As they sipped whiskeys in the corner leather chairs, Robert asked Nick, “I simply must know how you came up with a fantastic idea for a book. Cats are 007 agents sent by Alpha Centruri to probe for our weaknesses? When our marketers heard that pitch they insisted on an immediate second printing.”

“Well, as Arthur may have told you, I thrashed around for some time to find the right angle,” Nick said. “Finally, I was looking at my cat Milo, wondering how such intelligent creatures like cats came to inhabit our homes. After that, it came in a flash, and I could hardly keep up writing it. In many ways, the story almost seemed to write itself.”

“That’s how it always is with great literature,” Robert noted. “It was a nice touch to dedicate your book to him.”

“Milo deserves it. In fact, I have also been rewarding him with tuna.”

“Quite so. Best of all, it’s set up for a sequel.”

“Actually,” Nick said, “I was thinking more of a trilogy. That would allow me to fully explore the characters’ arcs.”

“Great idea. The cats too?”

“Of course the cats. Midway through book three they realize that the Alpha Centuri aliens will eventually enslave them, so they switch back to the human side. The humans were losing until they get the cats’ strategic insights on how to counterattack.”

“Wow. Wonderful.”

“The character arcs of the cats must end well. After all, we have a lot of cat owners among your readers,” Nick said.

“Indeed we do,” said Robert. “Without the cat ladies we would be back to printing catalogues.”

Robert poured them each a second whiskey. “I don’t mind telling you that this charming novel may have saved Owl Publishing. Thank god I had the sense to listen to marketing, and ignore the whiners.”

“Ignore the whiners?”

“Yes, indeed. We have some AI detection software that alerted us to certain sections of the manuscript.”

“Really?” Nick said. “Honestly, that AI detection stuff is so buggy that it is almost as bad as AI itself.”

“How true. I could easily see for myself that a story that imaginative must come from human inspiration.”

“Did that quiet them down?” Nick asked.

“Not entirely, no. Fortunately Arthur was there to point out your personal stories, typos and other little mistakes. Eventually that convinced them that it could only be your writing.”

“For once cooler heads prevailed.”

“Indeed, yes.”

They each took another sip of whiskey.

“This whiskey sure is smooth,” Nick said.

“Indeed it is, I am at an age where I insist on the finer things.”

“I may need to pick up some to celebrate my next book. What kind is it?”

“Your next bestseller, don’t you mean? It’s Macallan 30 year old double cask Scotch Whiskey. Worth every penny.”

Nick took an appreciative sip.

“Nick, now that we have gotten to know each other, can I ask you a small favor?”

“Sure.”

“Some months ago, I committed to give a talk to Bard College’s writing program,” said Robert. “They never let up asking for help from famous alumni.”

Nick smiled, recalling that they had rejected him as a student. “Sounds great. How can I help?”

“Well, it turns out that my wife had planned a sailing trip around Croatia for our anniversary at that very time. It really wouldn’t do to postpone that.”

“I would be happy to help out. Just send me the details.”

Robert said, “Bard will be so pleased to have a famous author explain the ins and outs of publishing. Actually, much better than me. You’re on the front lines.”

IV

The Bard speech proved to be a nice ego stroke. After being introduced by the head of the faculty, Nick gave his usual spiel: writing angst poetry in high school, sending off short stories to literary journals in college, finding his agent by winning a short story contest (Arthur was a judge), to the travails of being a bestsellers author. Nick made sure to credit Owl Publishing for their steadfast support through the hard times of his second book and willingness to let him take the time to get things done right in his third. The faculty chair rhapsodized how Robert was such a strong supporter of Bard, promised to send Nick’s speech to Owl, and then opened it up for a few questions.

The first student asked where he got his story ideas. Nick recounted some funny yarns of his interactions with Milo.

The second student asked if you could live by writing alone. After a few jokes about subsisting on rice and beans in the early years, Nick urged them to focus on honing their craft.

The third student asked whether Nick had used AI to help write his latest book,

“No, of course not,” Nick said. “You must know that AI help is expressly forbidden by Owl Publishing. Besides, the whole writing process is about finding and expressing your unique voice. How can you explore true self-expression when AI is writing the words? Ok, who is next?”

The third student hadn’t moved from the microphone. “Those are inspiring words, but how can you explain that I ran your novel through an AI detector, and it said that 63% was possible AI.”

The faculty chair froze. Nick put on his indulgent smile, and said, “you know, I don’t pretend to understand AI, let alone AI detectors, but I know what I wrote. Milo could testify to it too.” Uneasy audience laughter. “I have been thinking, though, how other authors might have the same problem. After all, our prior novels are out there and fed into these large language models. I wonder if the esteemed AI detector examined Hemingway’s book, would it claim that he was copying himself?”

Thankfully, a guard moved the third student along, but Nick could see several students furiously typing into their phones, maybe checking on his Hemingway question.

The fourth student asked a softball question about his writing nook. Nick answered, and then announced that it had been wonderful but he needed to get back to New York City. There was uneven applause, especially from the students.

The faulty chair said, “not yet, there is one more thing. I am pleased that the Bard faculty has voted to award you an honorary degree for your contributions to literature.” She made a big show of presenting Nick with a certificate and a tasseled graduation hat.

Meanwhile, several students, from around the crowd, started chanting “8% - Hemingway was only 8%.”

Nick gave a very brief speech of thanks, delivered loudly to drown them out, shook some hands and promptly fled.

Authors note: The ideas and writing in this story were entirely my own, and were not AI assisted in any way.

AI note: Of course a human would claim that.