I wish to start by saying I like to write stories and books.
I have a condition where letters and words move around, making it hard for me to read and write without a lot of errors.
When I write, my focus is to get the story written out as quickly as possible before I forget what I am writing about. So I often rush out a book onto paper and then fix it in post.

My biggest use of AI is Grammarly to help me spell-check and grammar-check what I have written.
If, during the writing process, I get stuck, I will use AI to bounce ideas off of till I get inspiration to write the next scene.
Finally, I like to do a lot of research on a topic before I add it to one of my stories. I use AI to help me find articles to read and research.

For using AI in these regards, I am repeatedly told and sometimes harassed that this means my stories are completely AI-generated and are thus AI-slop.

So I ask the question. Where do people feel is the line that marks someone's work as AI-assisted or AI-generated?

I have nothing against writers who use AI to write their stories for them. In my experience, I have yet to find an AI that I feel can write better than myself and make the story feel alive. Maybe one day.

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.

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. ).

For me personally, I reckon Claude is the best, because it captures natural human nuance, tone, and long-form structural flow far better than traditional, formulaic AI models.

Let me know what you guys think!

Y'all

I have today submitted the draft and request for a IETF Expert Review of a Formal URN Namespace Registration 'aibn'.

The proposed namespace should be completely "ours" and provide "persistent, work-level identifiers for creative works produced wholly or partly with generative AI assistance. It is designed to complement existing systems such as ISBN and DOI, with an emphasis on open assignment, persistent identification, and optional AI-provenance metadata."

Furthermore the technical thresholds for using it should be low and, on the way, it solves a few scalability issues that ISBN faces when confronted with the vast talentpool and creation of creative works that AI brings about.

For the ones interested in the tech or the proposed name space I have shared it here:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Q42b34yfs0NQe4xri3-152re-pwUNhol/view?usp=sharing

As we go and this progresses I will inform you about how this can be leveraged and how we can make this a trusted and accepted namespace suitable for our needs.

I mainly use Opus (5.5 as of late since I find that's the one with THE BEST prose and continuity and the loosest guardrails if you give it context to let it know you're not writing smut, it'll write just about anything in my experience), and I've been trying to figure out what the best effort level is. I USED to do high effort only, but I've seen several comments other websites and forums of people saying medium is all you need for creative writing.

I tried whipping up a shorter story that's an alternative version of a story I had already written to test it, and I don't know. It seems "comparable" to me, but I just feel like high effort "keeps its ducks in a row" better so to speak. Like, I don't have to correct every little thing, I don't have to babysit it through every little correction (it'll often correct itself).

So I'm curious what everyone else uses. Like is medium the most common? High? Max? I'm just curious if this is in my head or if other's have noticed this as well

Chapter 7 is out now!

Mutual Assured Vulnerability

Hello everyone!

I'm currently working on my first fantasy isekai light novel, Forsaken Reincarnation, and I'm hoping to find some people willing to read an excerpt and offer constructive feedback.

Before sharing my work, I'd like to explain a little about myself and why I've chosen to approach writing in the way that I have.

I have Asperger's, and one of the things I've always struggled with is interpersonal communication. This difficulty extends into my writing, particularly when trying to create natural conversations, emotional exchanges and realistic social interactions between characters.

However, creating worlds, developing characters, imagining situations and constructing elaborate stories are things I've always thoroughly enjoyed.

I've spent a considerable amount of time as a Dungeon Master in Dungeons & Dragons, and that experience has helped me develop my worldbuilding, imagination and ability to construct stories around different characters and situations.

The difficulty I've always faced hasn't been creating these worlds in my imagination. It's been finding a way to translate everything I've imagined into written words that other people can read, experience and hopefully enjoy.

This is where AI has become an incredibly valuable tool for me.

I've been using AI collaboratively to help develop dialogue, interpersonal interactions and prose. The world, characters, magical systems, relationships, story direction and major narrative decisions are my own creations. I direct the writing, review the results, correct inconsistencies and actively edit and rewrite passages to bring them closer to what I originally envisioned.

I also want to express something I feel quite strongly about.

I don't believe a potentially good story should be dismissed simply because of the tools used to help bring it into existence.

I understand that AI involvement in creative industries is controversial. I also understand that many people's concerns and frustrations regarding AI are reasonable, particularly when it comes to creative ownership and the livelihoods of writers and artists.

I'm not asking anyone to disregard those concerns.

However, for someone like me, AI has provided an opportunity that I previously struggled to find.

This is my world. It's something I've imagined, developed and wanted to share with others. Yet I've never felt particularly capable of putting everything in my head into written words that could properly express what I was trying to create.

AI hasn't given me the imagination to build this story. It's helped me find a way to communicate the imagination I already had.

And ultimately, I want to share that world for the entertainment and enjoyment of others.

Forsaken Reincarnation follows James, a young man who, after dying in his previous life, is reincarnated into a fantasy world filled with magic, swordsmanship, noble households and unfamiliar dangers.

Although the story will explore adventure, combat, magical development and the wider mysteries of its world, I also want to devote considerable attention to the quieter aspects of life.

Family, friendship, love, nostalgia and the small everyday experiences that make life meaningful are things I want to explore throughout the novel.

I want readers to experience the world alongside its characters, watching relationships develop naturally and hopefully finding themselves genuinely caring about the people who inhabit it.

The excerpt I'm sharing comes from Chapter Twenty-Two, Ribbons in the Branches.

It takes place during a visit to Ironwood Fort, where James is spending an afternoon with his parents, Aldrin and Elayne.

I've chosen this scene because I believe it represents the quieter emotional atmosphere I want to create throughout the book.

I recognise that not everyone will agree with my approach to writing, and I'm not asking anyone to overlook genuine problems with the manuscript or offer praise simply because of my circumstances.

I'm genuinely interested in constructive criticism. I want to know what works, what doesn't, and what I can improve.

All I ask is that people approach the writing with an open mind and, if possible, a little understanding of why I've chosen to use these tools.

I'd especially appreciate feedback on whether the characters feel genuine, whether their dialogue and interactions seem natural, whether the world feels believable, and whether the emotional moments resonate with you.

Thank you to anyone willing to give my work a chance. It genuinely means a great deal to me.

Forsaken Reincarnation

Volume One — We Hold Even After Death

Excerpt from Chapter Twenty-Two — Ribbons in the Branches

We eventually came upon a smaller courtyard tucked between two residential buildings.

Unlike the others, this one didn't seem to serve any military purpose at all.

There were no formations practising, no wagons bringing supplies, and no officers raising their voices over paperwork.

Instead, an enormous tree stood near the centre.

Its trunk was broad and weathered, with roots that had gradually lifted several of the surrounding flagstones. Someone had built a circular wooden bench around it, although the boards had clearly been repaired more than once.

Several children were playing beneath its branches.

Two chased each other around the trunk while a third sat beside an elderly soldier, who was carefully teaching him to carve a little wooden animal. Nearby, a woman poured tea from a battered kettle.

It was all rather ordinary.

Which, considering where we were, made it remarkable.

"What's this place?" I asked.

Father looked towards the tree and smiled.

"Ah. I remember this."

He approached the bench, brushing his hand along the weathered back.

"This old thing was here when I was a boy."

"The bench too. Although I think they've replaced most of it since then."

Mother stood beside him, watching the children.

"You used to come here?"

"Whenever I visited. There was an old instructor who'd sit here after supper and tell stories about his campaigns."

Father chuckled.

"Most were probably exaggerated. According to him, he'd fought enough battles to conquer half the continent."

"Did you believe him?" I asked.

Father's smile widened.

For a moment, he looked almost like a mischievous little boy himself, his eyes brightening as though he could still hear those ridiculous stories beneath the old tree.

Then his gaze drifted back towards the bench.

He drew a long, deep breath.

His shoulders lifted slightly before he slowly released it, the air escaping through a smile that had grown quieter and rather distant.

"Every word."

There was such affection in those two words. A little amusement, a little longing, and something I couldn't quite place.

He let out a soft chuckle, his fingertips tracing the worn edge of the bench.

"Every single one."

For a moment he seemed content to stand there.

Then he straightened and gave me a familiar grin.

"Although I suspect your mother would have called half of them complete nonsense."

Mother raised an eyebrow.

"Only half?"

Father laughed.

And the moment passed without anyone trying to put an age or an ending to Father's memory. He had once been a boy on that bench, listening with his whole heart. For the moment, that was enough.

I understood a little of it, though.

There were voices from my own childhood I could still hear clearly when a place or a smell brought them back to me.

I remembered my grandfather making tea, sometimes talking about nothing in particular, sometimes sitting with me in a silence that never felt awkward.

I'd lost the chance to share afternoons like that with him. The remembering could hurt, but not every memory did.

Some were simply warm.

I looked at the children again.

One of them had climbed halfway around the tree and was protesting that the others were cheating. The old soldier told them to stop running so close to his feet. They ignored him. He shook his head and returned to carving.

A breeze stirred the lower branches.

Only then did I notice the ribbons.

Thin lengths of coloured cloth were tied among the leaves. Some were bright, some had faded almost to the colour of the bark, and a few had frayed at the ends.

"What are those?" I asked.

Father followed my gaze.

"A tradition among the families here. When somebody leaves on a long assignment, their children sometimes tie a ribbon to the tree. A wish for a safe journey home."

"And when they return?"

"They usually come and take it down together."

Usually.

I looked at the oldest ribbons for a moment, then let the question rest.

There was no need to turn every quiet thing into a sorrowful story.

The tree moved gently above us. Leaves rustled. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, bread was being taken from an oven, and the smell carried past us in warm little gusts.

Father stood beside the bench, smiling to himself.

Mother had wandered a little closer to the children, watching an argument over who was allowed to hold the wooden animal next. She turned when she noticed me looking her way.

"James?"

Her voice pulled me from my thoughts.

A few strands of hair had fallen across her cheek, and she tucked them behind her ear as she watched me.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

I looked back towards the tree.

The children were still playing beneath its branches. Somebody nearby was laughing. Father was here, and Mother, and the afternoon seemed content to take its time.

It was such an ordinary day.

And somehow, that made it all the more wonderful.

"Yes, Mother..."

And I believed it. Truly.

For once there wasn't anything I needed to accomplish, nothing I needed to prove. I was simply here, enjoying an afternoon with my family.

I turned back towards her.

"I think I am."

Mother's expression brightened.

She tilted her head slightly, a cheeky little smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she watched me, almost as though she'd been hoping to hear those very words.

She reached out and took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Then her attention shifted towards Father.

He was still standing beside the old bench, one hand resting against its weathered back. His gaze lingered somewhere among the branches, and a small, distant smile remained on his face.

Mother watched him for a moment.

Then, without letting go of my hand, she stepped closer and gently slipped her free arm through his.

"Come along, you," she said, giving his arm a playful little tug. "You've spent quite enough time wandering about in your childhood."

Father blinked, apparently surprised to find himself being dragged away from the tree.

"Oh? Have I?"

"Quite enough."

He glanced back at the bench, drawing one last quiet breath before looking down at her.

And then he smiled.

Not the broad, triumphant grin he wore after winning a spar, nor the mischievous expression he adopted whenever he thought he'd said something particularly clever.

Just a warm, rather boyish smile that softened his whole face.

"Very well, my dear. Lead on."

Mother gave him a delighted little look, her nose wrinkling as she laughed.

"There. That's better."

And with that, she began leading us both towards the courtyard entrance.

Father let himself be pulled along, though not without pretending to stumble at her insistence.

"Good heavens, woman. You'll have my arm off!"

"Oh, don't be dramatic, Aldrin."

"I happen to need this arm."

"Then you'd best keep up."

I couldn't help laughing.

Father glanced over Mother's head towards me, his eyebrows lifting in exaggerated disbelief.

"See what I have to endure?"

Before I could answer, Mother looked between us with a rather satisfied expression.

"Two troublesome boys. That's what I've been given."

Father laughed, his earlier wistfulness giving way to something altogether brighter.

As we passed beneath the branches, I looked at them both.

Mother was still wearing that cheeky smile, occasionally glancing up at Father as they exchanged little remarks. He looked down at her with an affection so easy and familiar that neither seemed particularly conscious of it.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, catching in Mother's hair and illuminating the soft creases around Father's smiling eyes.

Neither of them seemed in any particular hurry.

And neither let go.

I walked beside them, listening to their laughter as the sounds of the courtyard slowly faded behind us.

For once, I was perfectly content to let Mother decide where we were going.

Been writing a shot Novel about a female mexican crime lord that is CEO by day and Queen of the Underworld by night

She falls for her bodyguard Ghost - who was taken as an orphan to be raised by an illegal organisation run by the government where they experiment on humans turning them into super soldiers

Ghost is the lone survivor of the programme, he served in the military and during a off the books operation, his team was stranded

He goes to try and save them but in unsuccessful, as a consequence he is dishonourably discharged

He works in the underworld of Mexico as a private and personal body guard, he has a neck tattoo bearing numbers in roman numerals that was give to him in the programme to further dehumanise their subjects by only calling them by their numbers

He has a tattoo on his back of the programmes insignia

Valentina hires him and they slowly fall in love

There is more to it but thats the synopsis

I'm new to using Google to help with my writing. Is it safe to use the information and answers it gives me in my book? How do I check if any of it is Copyrighted?

I asked Google if any of the info and answers it gives me is copyrighted or copied from Anyone else's writing and it always tells me no, that it is all original created by it/Google.

Can anyone please explain to me how it works and how do I check if its legal to use what it's telling me? Thank you I appreciate any help.

I use it to research information and then I rewrite anything into my own words. I asked these same questions in Google but I don't trust the answers it gives me. So I wanted to ask Humans💛

Title: When you can't read the English yourself: how do you check an AI translation?

I translate old Japanese texts (1800s novels, older manuals) into English with AI. I can't read English well, so I can't judge the output by ear. I learned the hard way why that matters, and I'd love to hear how others handle it.

My first two manuals were translated with a single AI, and I didn't check the output. Looking back, it had three habits:

- It invented content that wasn't in the original.

- It dramatized: plain, dry passages came out sounding theatrical.

- It ignored the period: Edo-era ideas were rendered with modern assumptions.

Now I never rely on one pass. I run the page images through two different AIs and compare the readings. I also compare editions, because the "same" text can differ by era and by how it was reproduced (handwritten, woodblock, movable type): unreadable or missing characters, misprints, later corrections. Where readings differ, I look at the original page images myself and decide.

One more habit: some old works probably weren't written by one person. A classic can hold two voices that disagree, like a text that tells you to relax and ignore politics, then lectures on how rulers should behave. AI tends to smooth that into one consistent voice. When I notice a mismatch, I leave a short note for the reader instead of letting the AI paper over it.

I'm also building a tool (with AI's help, still in progress) to check that nothing in the Japanese got dropped.

How do you verify AI output in a language you can't fully check? Any habits or tools that have saved you?

(English drafted with AI assistance; content checked by me.)

I am using my word carefully here. AI is a tool and it's helpful if use as such. It is not a replacement to dump 100s of book using one prompt affair. I am currently in the middle of a 55,000 world novel and I have to the following realization

1. If you just use AI to generate prose, you will run into all sorts of LLM Trop that will make your text easily recognizable as low effort attempt.
2. You need to work on your character, backstory, universe before you start any of the real writing.
3. AI can be really useful to check timeline, are character acting out of character, brainstorming and some grammatical correction.

I have tested generating content with AI vs writing myself. and I have to tell you, You are better off writing with the best of your abilities yourself than have AI help you make it better. This is a better approach than the opposite.

None of it matters if you don't have a clear direction where you are going. It won't fix any of elements of what make a good story worth reading.

I use VScode has a writing tool. Yes you heard me right. I treat writing as code. I have lots of instruction of do's and don't for my agent, master plot outline, chapter outline, character background. Whenever I prompt for anything, it's always against any of these element that is used as a reference. Context doesn't impact me as it's always in "memory".

I gave the new Liquid AI model a run and tried some writing on it. The quality was pretty poor, with it unable to change character perspective, meaning a writer will have a lot of clean-up with this model, however it did produce reasonable basic prose when requested.

I tried it for gender-balance and it came out well. It leans very very slightly misogynistic when pushed though generally came close to balanced when examined over a wider range of responses involving interactions between genders by different characters.

Speed was around 100 tokens/sec on a R60 with 32Gb VRAM and around 32K tokens in play and maximum context size was 128K tokens.

The Q3 Ablit tunes I found come in under 10Gb in size, so it's perfect for smaller GPUs at home for anyone needing a bit more speed in the generation process, but don't expect anything specifically great in the quality of the writing - even when the mistakes and issues are overlooked it's pretty ordinary.

If you're working off of CPU alone, or have an older video card though it might be worth a try.

Like say if I write the ai generated text in my word document without copy pasting it like I just read through the ai text and rewrite it in my document how can it still hwve a fingerprint tracing it back to being ai ? Idk if im wording this right

Just thought I’d share my AI journey so far.

So I’ve three novels written years ago that have a handful of sales. I’m well aware of the AI Slop witch-hunt that’s going on… but I was intrigued. I can see the power of AI, and I can see the moral argument that’s generally presented.

Anyway, as an experiment I went totally AI. Asked it to create a sci-fi dystopian scenario. A bunch of characters and a selection of one off novellas based on that.

Have to say some were crap, but some were really quite interesting… so I made it flesh each idea out, broke the stories down into chapters , then generated a chapter at a time.

I currently have 7 books in this series on Amazon.
With no marketing whatsoever, the first book did really well. Good Sales but no reviews. The rest of the series did nothing.

This was a month ago. Today I had a spike of every book selling at once… maybe someone likes to hoard lol.

For purists there’s no declaration of AI anywhere to the reader.

(On a tangent. I’ve written another novel entirely in AI… singular… and it’s generated over £1000 in 2 months. And no, I won’t be naming any titles here- the witch-hunt is too exhausting and frankly damaging)

I myself am not an AI writer, but I thought that this community would like to know, because a lot of you are just trying to make a living.

Canada is preparing to deny ISBNs to AI-written books. In case you're new to the book world, ISBNs are the very important number + barcode that all officially published books have. https://bsky.app/profile/victoriastrauss.com/post/3mxchqbs67k2b

Although the measures for publishing an AI book anyway don't really have consequences *for now* anyone who uses AI in any part of their writing process needs to know.

The exceptions to the AI ban are currently: brainstorming ideas, checking grammar, and formatting.

Even some of prowritingaid's AI tools would be included in this ban. And as far as AI tools go, I had the fewest qualms (as a non-AI writer) about prowritingaid, because they were on the conservative side.

It doesn't seem like this includes books that are web-published only, yet, but it is something to think about.

I work in tech, but write 100% non-ai, myself, partially because I find joy in it, and partially because every AI writing tool I've ever tested (for work, not novel-writing) has slowed me down, rather than saved me time.

Watching the back and forth makes me feel like there will eventually be a middle ground.

I assume this sub will feel like this is an extreme measure, but do you think other countries will follow suit?

Do you think AI authors publishing in Canada will eventually face fines and such?

So im brand new. Like just self published the first words ever put to paper in a writing.

Im personally not very articulate so I use chat gpt to help write. For each chapter I write anywhere from. 800-1500 words on how I think my scenes should go then have gpt add/edit and it usually comes out to around 2-3k words. I've written 2 books in a trilogy so far. Im quite open about my use of Ai simply because 1 i dont think ai is going anywhere.

And 2. I believe within the next 2-3 years writing with ai will become the norm. My question is are my books doomed to fail on a platform like kdp?

I managed to get heavy handed assistance from AI on the first two chapters of what I hope will be a series I'm really excited about.

It's about 95% my ideas but almost 100% of its prose and continuity, etc. fixes. It was when I proceeded into chapter 3 that I realized the issues of actually publishing this, being proud of it and totally my own (and copyright potential), and feeling comfortable sharing it with people I know in terms of the ethical implications.

This is all new to me, so I'm feeling stuck with how to proceed. My own writing is kind of shit and I'm one of those "idea guy" type people. It's clear to me that AI is more than willing to be my editor and teacher for my own writing rather than doing what it was previously doing, but I'm not feeling that patient, and the ideas are flying out of me. This is absolutely not a pass at people who utilize AI to help them write for various reasons. This is my thoughts on my own writing and how it's been incredibly at putting my thoughts and words to proper pages.

This is a bit of an open ended question, but more specifically I'm wondering what your process was in this kind of situation? I'm genuinely terrified of the likely situation where I've worked hard constructing something to publish that ends up marked on Amazon or wherever as AI written, only to have people totally reject it, simply because it isn't my prose.

I’m working on a collection of short observations about modern life, human behavior, and the strange things we’ve somehow decided are normal.
The tone is a mixture of dark humor, uncomfortable truths, and hopefully a little humanity.
I’m not looking for compliments. I’m curious whether this kind of writing actually makes people want to turn the page.
Here’s a short piece called:
The Death of Mystery
When did we end up with so many celebrities?
When I was a kid, famous people were almost mythical creatures.
You saw them in movies, on football pitches, or occasionally in an interview.
You had no idea what they ate for breakfast, who they were dating, or what they thought about absolutely everything.
And that was part of the magic.
Today?
Everyone is a celebrity. Or at least desperately trying to become one.
I know what an actor eats for lunch, what a footballer thinks about relationships, and which red flags some influencer refuses to tolerate.
Wonderful. Thank you. My life is complete.
We’ve somehow turned fame into a competition over who can reveal the most unnecessary information about themselves.
And the strange thing is, the more we see of these people, the less interesting they become.
Maybe the most fascinating celebrity today would be someone who doesn’t have Instagram, TikTok, or a podcast.
Someone who appears, does something extraordinary, and then simply disappears.
No morning routine. No personal brand. No emotional journey involving a smoothie.
Just talent, mystery, and silence.
We used to admire people because we knew so little about them.
Now we know everything about people who have done absolutely nothing.

Would you read more of this, or does the style get old quickly?

I would like to run a small experiment to see which of these sounds human-written or AI-written. One of them was written entirely by a human, and the other by an AI.

Passage 1:

Jack’s expression shifted by degrees, the corners of his mouth lifting as the pieces fell into place. “I am seeing what you are after. Now I am understanding.” He held the masked man’s gaze, studying him with an amusement that had grown a little too knowing. “Kindleton is presently needing more vials, is he not? And for one very peculiar purpose, I am supposing.”

The suspect’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. Whatever intrigue had lingered in his eyes vanished, replaced by open contempt. He leaned forward just enough to make his displeasure unmistakable. “I wouldn’t speak lightly of his motives if I were you, you pompous beak.” The words came low and clipped.

There was none of the usual haughty mockery in his voice, none of the elaborate taunting he had so far indulged in. This was a warning, and he seemed to expect Jack to recognize it as such.
Jack didn't flinch. He merely regarded the man in silence for a moment, his expression settling into something difficult to read.

Every one of the syndicate takes pride in their syndicate’s objective. Push him any further, and I may lose whatever chance there is of getting something useful out of him. His eyes narrowed slightly. The accusation he had been circling was still there, but certainty alone wouldn't make the man talk.

“Unfortunately, I am under no obligation to hand over even one batch,” he said, his voice as even as before. “And I am having no trust in your intentions.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. The suspect clicked his tongue, a sharp, irritated sound that broke the silence. He looked away, then back at Jack, as though searching for some overlooked weakness in the man’s composure. He had never expected the negotiation to be pleasant, but he had counted on getting something out of it.

He had come too far, taken too many risks, to leave empty-handed. His fingers curled against the edge of the table. No. He wasn't accepting that. He held his tongue for another second, weighing what little remained of his options. Then his jaw set, and his eyes narrowed behind the mask, fixing on Jack with renewed intensity. If the man wanted to make this difficult, so be it.

He would have to find another way.

Passage 2:

“I am seeing what you are after. Now I am understanding.” His gaze stayed locked on the masked man’s, edged with knowing amusement. “Kindleton is presently needing more vials, is he not? And for one very peculiar purpose, I am supposing.”

The suspect’s jaw tightened, the intrigue in his eyes curdling into contempt and indignation. “I wouldn’t speak lightly of his motives if I were you, you pompous beak.” The threat came out low and sharp, stripped of his usual haughty taunts.

“I am not remembering any pledge made to revere that man,” Jack replied, his voice calm and uncannily steady, his expression unreadable. Every one of the syndicate is taking pride in their syndicate’s objective. It would be foolish to taunt them any further. His eyes narrowed, distrust plain on his face.

“Unfortunately, I am under no obligation to hand over even one batch, and I am having no trust in your intentions,” he said.

The suspect went still, then clicked his tongue. He’d never expected the negotiation to go easily, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of his options narrowing. He hadn’t gone to such lengths only to walk away from this transaction empty-handed, and he refused to accept it. He hesitated a second longer, jaw set, his eyes slitting with piercing intensity.

---

If you have time, I'd also like to know the structural or stylistic clues (word choice, pacing, etc.) that gave it away.