In the sci-fi TV show Star Trek: Voyager, there was a character known only as The Doctor, a hologram who may or may not have been a sentient being. Within the context of the show, no one was sure one way or another, but bottom line: he was an Artificial Intelligence.
In his spare time, he wrote “holo-novels,” scenarios for virtual reality environments where the crew of the Starship Voyager could interact as real or fictitious characters. In one episode, The Doctor’s characters resemble the crew a little too much.
Today, the use of AI in writing has become a serious debate.
As a Trekkie, I would see The Doctor learn to sing or Data learn to play musical instruments and not imagine one day we’d have to address the role of AI in real life, but that day is here. I mostly ignore AI content when it pops up on Google or Facebook, but clearly, the makers of these platforms feel it has some value.
And apparently, so do the people behind National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), which just concluded. When I took part in it back in 2013, my writing came from me, not an AI of any sort. Still does. It was an early step in my progress as a writer. I’ve since read books and blogs, listened to podcasts, and interacted with other writers in real life, all to improve my writing skills. On Facebook, a friend recently stated his concern about the possibility of his fiction writing being used to “feed” AI.
Many of the literary sites I’ve seen have strict no-AI-generated policies in their submission guidelines. There’s a reason for that. Writing by humans, regardless of their ability, has value. It’s based on individual, lived experience. One would think that self-evident, yet here we are.
Will computer programs write Pulitzer Prize-winning books one day? I can’t picture that, but we’re definitely not there yet. The Doctor remains purely fictional.
Creating fiction
On my Substack, I offer original short stories. They’re what’s known as “flash fiction,” tales under a thousand words long.
A bunch of them are set in a make-believe city.
Years ago, I had participated in a multiplayer game on Facebook, back when they offered games. The goal was to build a city, with the cooperation of other players. I thought a lot about what I had built, to the point where I imagined what it’d be like if it were real. It’d be less like New York and more like the town I lived in for a little over a year, Columbus, Ohio: smaller, cozier, less hectic.
I named the city Thurber, after the writer/illustrator and Columbus native.
When I finished my manuscript for a novel after spending a decade on it, I knew I needed to work smaller to get more done, so I switched to flash fiction stories. At first, the settings varied, but then I remembered my make-believe city. I knew where places in it were, but not what they were like, or the people who lived there. This seemed like an opportunity to learn.
By switching to short stories, I’ve been more productive. I’ve found Substacks which provide opportunities to write flash fiction. That’s been a big help. It’s kept me active while I come up with a new novella (I haven’t forgotten that).
Thurber is located a little to the southeast of Cincinnati, its sister city. Their relationship is like that of Minneapolis and St. Paul, or Dallas and Fort Worth.
So far, Thurber is open to various genres. I’ve written a few supernatural tales, but I wouldn’t call it Twin Peaks or anything weird like that. (They were the result of prompts I had followed.)
The stories are set in the present. At some point I’d like to explore Thurber’s history; I’ve only offered hints so far. I know it formed in the late nineteenth century, a little after the Civil War.
Getting these stories published beyond Substack is the next stage. Still working on that. A part of me fears whether they’re any good, but I try not to think about that. I’d rather get them made.
Writing fiction
When I started writing flash fiction, I believed “a thousand words or less” meant I had to come as close to that threshold as possible. Many of my shorts aim for between 900-950 words.
Lately, however, I’ve discovered writing outlets who deal in what’s called “micro-fiction,” stories under one or two hundred words—sometimes far under. For example, Flash Fiction Magazine has a BBS for authors to share and critique their work. Much of it is micro-fiction.
It had never occurred to me that stories could be told in such a minuscule space. As an exercise in brevity, it demands one search for the words and elements most necessary for a story—and nothing else. That’s tricky.
I prefer the greater detail that can be found with a thousand words, enough of it that serves the story I’m telling without overwhelming the reader. I like dialogue and interior thoughts. I don’t want to give that up.
On a related note: in November, I took part in a NaNo-like event conducted by Nancy Stohlman, in which participants wrote thirty flash fiction stories in thirty days. Some of the prompts were weird. I wrote a number of micro stories. Most of the time it was simpler.
The smallest one was 91 words. The biggest was 615 words.
Other writing
Let’s talk about poetry.
On Netflix there’s a movie called The Kindergarten Teacher. Maggie Gyllenhaal plays the title character, who’s also a wannabe poet. When she suspects one of her students is a prodigy with poetry, she tries to encourage his ability, but it’s not so much for his benefit, though she claims otherwise, as it is for her own. Dynamite film.
During the pandemic, I joined a local poetry appreciation group online. One of my favorite writing gurus, Emma Darwin, says understanding poetry is beneficial to one’s writing. We didn’t have to write poems; just read ones we like and discuss why they work or don’t work.
I stuck with the group for three sessions before quitting.
I tried to get into the spirit of the group. I did. Perhaps I felt inferior to the other members in terms of my ability to express whether a given poem was any good. Poetry, more than other forms of writing, is so subjective.
I’ve written poetry before. Here’s an example. Every time I try writing one, though, it’s as if I’m imitating what a poem is “supposed” to resemble without digging deeper. I may try again in the future, but I’m not in a hurry. If I never “get” poetry, that’s okay. Watching that movie made me think about it is all.
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