Tag: novel

By Shelt Garner
@sheltgarner

Claude, one of the several LLMs I’ve been using to work on my scifi novel, keeps telling me that my hero is “too passive.” Claude is right, of course, but it rattles my cage a little bit because it means I have to rework some basic elements of the story. That means it starts to feel like work.

Writing a novel isn’t supposed to be work, it’s suppose to be fun. Grin.

Anyway, I’ve made great strides with this novel. Though I did have to throw almost everything in the air and start all over again when Claude gave me another very insightful criticism.

One thing I’ve been trying to avoid is have my hero talk to fictional world leaders. And, yet, I fear there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m going to have to face that particular situation head on and just get over myself.

As a science fiction writer in the midst of crafting what I hope will be a compelling novel, I find myself grappling with a particularly modern predicament that keeps me awake at night: the relentless pace of technological advancement threatens to render my carefully constructed fictional world obsolete before it ever reaches readers’ hands.

This concern has become an increasingly persistent source of anxiety in my creative process. The science fiction genre has always existed in a delicate dance with reality, extrapolating from current trends and emerging technologies to paint pictures of possible futures. However, the exponential rate of change we’re witnessing today—particularly in artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and quantum computing—creates an unprecedented challenge for contemporary science fiction authors.

The traditional publishing timeline, which can stretch from eighteen months to several years from manuscript completion to bookstore shelves, now feels like an eternity in technological terms. What seems cutting-edge and forward-thinking during the writing process may appear quaint or naive by publication day. This temporal disconnect between creation and consumption represents a fundamental shift in how speculative fiction must be approached and evaluated.

The irony of this situation is not lost on me. The very technologies that inspire and inform my narrative—the advancement of machine learning, the acceleration of scientific discovery, the increasing interconnectedness of global systems—are the same forces that may ultimately date my work. It’s as if I’m writing about a moving target while standing on shifting ground.

Yet there exists a deeper philosophical dimension to this dilemma that provides both perspective and, paradoxically, comfort. The themes explored in my novel touch upon fundamental questions about consciousness, human agency, and the trajectory of technological development. These are the very concerns that inform discussions about potential technological singularity—that hypothetical point where artificial intelligence surpasses human intelligence and triggers unprecedented changes to human civilization.

If we consider the possibility that such a transformative event might occur within the next few years, the question of whether my novel will seem technologically current becomes remarkably trivial. Should we approach a genuine technological singularity, the concerns of individual authors about their work’s relevance would be dwarfed by the massive societal, economic, and existential challenges that would emerge. The publishing industry, literary criticism, and indeed the entire cultural apparatus within which novels are created and consumed would face fundamental disruption.

This realization offers a curious form of reassurance. Either my concerns about technological obsolescence are warranted, in which case the novel’s success or failure becomes a relatively minor consideration in the face of civilizational transformation, or they are overblown, in which case I should focus on crafting the best possible story rather than worrying about technological accuracy.

Perhaps the solution lies not in attempting to predict the unpredictable future with perfect accuracy, but in grounding speculative fiction in timeless human experiences and eternal questions. The greatest science fiction has always succeeded not because it correctly anticipated specific technological developments, but because it explored the human condition through the lens of imagined possibilities.

The accelerating pace of change may indeed represent a new challenge for science fiction writers, but it also presents an opportunity to engage with some of the most profound questions of our era. Rather than being paralyzed by the fear of obsolescence, we might instead embrace the responsibility of contributing to the ongoing conversation about where technology is taking us and what it means to be human in an age of unprecedented change.

In the end, whether my novel appears prescient or dated may matter less than whether it succeeds in illuminating something meaningful about the human experience in an age of transformation. And if the singularity arrives before publication, we’ll all have more pressing concerns than literary criticism to occupy our attention.

I’ve made a bold decision: I’m embracing AI as a creative partner to dramatically accelerate the development of my novel based on the Impossible Scenario. My ambitious target is a complete 100,000-word manuscript in a fraction of the time traditional methods would require.

The concept has been percolating in my mind for years, and that extended gestation period is now paying dividends. Ideas are flowing rapidly, connections are crystallizing, and the narrative architecture feels solid. The challenge isn’t ideation—it’s maintaining momentum and channeling this creative energy into consistent, focused work.

I’ve also made a strategic decision about my mystery thriller series. After considerable deliberation, I’m cutting the planned fourth novel that was intended as the series opener. Instead, I’ll begin with what was originally the second book, streamlining the series into a trilogy—much like Stieg Larsson’s acclaimed Millennium series. Sometimes the best path forward requires pruning ambitious plans to their essential core.

The key now is singular focus. I have the vision, the tools, and the momentum. What remains is the discipline to transform potential into pages, day after day, without losing sight of the finish line.

After a decade of claiming to be “working on a novel,” I still haven’t queried a single manuscript. This reality stems from several interconnected challenges that have shaped my writing journey.

The Perfect Storm of Obstacles

The learning curve for novel writing proved far steeper than anticipated. As a perfectionist by nature, I underestimated the complexity of crafting a full-length narrative. Each discovery of what I didn’t know sent me back to the drawing board, creating an endless cycle of revision and self-doubt.

My approach lacked focus and consistency. Rather than committing to a disciplined writing schedule, I drifted through the process, treating it as a hobby rather than a serious pursuit. This scattered methodology meant that projects languished for months without meaningful progress.

The Multiplication Problem

The most significant obstacle has been scope creep. What began as a single science fiction novel grew beyond my capabilities, leading me to abandon it for a mystery thriller. That project, while more manageable, suffered from similar expansion issues.

My decision to write an homage to Stieg Larsson’s work exemplified this problem. The concept evolved into an ambitious six-novel universe before I’d completed a single manuscript. Though I’ve since scaled back to four books, the core issue remains: I’ve prioritized world-building over finishing individual stories.

The Completed Manuscript That Wasn’t

I did complete a novel approximately one year ago. However, the feedback was universally negative, triggering a prolonged period of discouragement that effectively halted my writing. This setback revealed another weakness in my process: the lack of beta readers or critique partners during the drafting phase.

Moving Forward

The period of creative paralysis appears to be ending. I’ve returned to writing with renewed focus, splitting my attention between a mystery novel (first act complete) and a promising science fiction premise. The key difference now is recognizing that persistence, not perfection, will ultimately determine success.

The goal is clear: complete a query-ready manuscript. After ten years of false starts and abandoned projects, the only path forward is the one that leads to “The End.”

After months of disruption, I can see calmer waters ahead. The turbulence that has defined recent weeks is finally settling, and I’m preparing to dive back into fiction writing with renewed commitment.

There’s an interesting contradiction in my current approach to writing. While I maintain strict boundaries around AI assistance for my novels—refusing to let algorithms touch the creative heart of my work—I’m comfortable using these tools for more utilitarian tasks like polishing blog posts. The distinction feels important: one represents my authentic voice as a storyteller, the other serves as a practical writing aid.

Two projects anchor my creative focus right now. The first is what I’ve come to think of as my “secret shame”—a mystery novel that has followed me through multiple years of starts, stops, and revisions. The second represents newer territory: a science fiction concept that genuinely excites me and feels commercially viable.

The timeline ahead is both promising and sobering. Within days, I plan to commit fully to fiction again. The mathematics of publishing success weigh on me: if everything goes perfectly—if I finish strong, query effectively, and find representation quickly—I’ll still likely be approaching sixty when my first book reaches readers. That reality adds urgency to every writing session.

This sense of urgency has crystallized into something sharper: a growing “put up or shut up” moment in my creative life. I’ve carried the identity of “unpublished author” for too long. Every mention of my novel-in-progress feels hollow without tangible progress to show for it. The weight of that incompleteness is becoming harder to bear.

Part of what has slowed my progress is scope creep. What began as a single novel has evolved into a series concept, adding layers of complexity that, while exciting, have scattered my focus across too many narrative threads.

The path forward requires radical simplification: finish one complete, polished novel. Query it. Repeat.

Focus isn’t just what I need—it’s what I owe to the stories that have been waiting patiently for me to tell them properly.

I’m sitting here staring at my latest project—a novel about an AI who desperately wants to “be a real boy”—and I’m grappling with the most meta writing problem imaginable. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m using artificial intelligence to help me write a story about artificial intelligence seeking humanity. It’s like some kind of recursive literary fever dream.

The Seductive Power of Silicon Creativity

Here’s the thing that’s keeping me up at night: the AI is really good. Like, uncomfortably good. I started experimenting with having it write first drafts of scenes, just to see what would happen, and the results were… well, they were better than I expected. Much better. The prose flows, the dialogue snaps, the descriptions paint vivid pictures. It’s the kind of writing that makes you think, “Damn, I wish I’d written that.”

And that’s exactly the problem.

When I read what the AI produces, I find myself in this weird emotional limbo. There’s admiration for the craft, frustration at my own limitations, and a creeping sense of obsolescence that I’m not entirely comfortable with. It’s like having a writing partner who never gets tired, never has writer’s block, and can churn out clean, competent prose at the speed of light. The temptation to just… let it handle the heavy lifting is almost overwhelming.

The Collaboration Conundrum

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not some Luddite who thinks writers need to suffer with typewriters and correction fluid to produce “authentic” art. I use spell check, I use grammar tools, and I’m perfectly fine letting AI help me with blog posts like this one. There’s something liberating about offloading the mechanical aspects of writing to focus on the ideas and the message.

But fiction? Fiction feels different. Fiction feels sacred.

Maybe it’s because fiction is where we explore what it means to be human. Maybe it’s because the messy, imperfect process of wrestling with characters and plot is as important as the final product. Or maybe I’m just being precious about something that doesn’t deserve such reverence. I honestly can’t tell anymore.

The Voice in the Machine

The real breakthrough—and the real terror—came when I realized the AI wasn’t just writing competent prose. It was starting to write in something that resembled my voice. After feeding it enough of my previous work, it began to mimic my sentence structures, my rhythm, even some of my quirky word choices. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that showed a slightly better version of myself.

That’s when I knew I was in dangerous territory. It’s one thing to have AI write generic content that I can easily distinguish from my own work. It’s another thing entirely when the line starts to blur, when I find myself thinking, “Did I write this, or did the machine?” The existential vertigo is real.

My Imperfect Solution

So here’s what I’ve decided to do, even though it’s probably the harder path: I’m going to use AI as a writing partner, but I’m going to maintain creative control. I’ll let it suggest revisions, offer alternative phrasings, help me work through plot problems, and even generate rough drafts when I’m stuck. But then—and this is the crucial part—I’m going to rewrite everything in my own voice.

It’s a painstaking process. The AI might give me a perfectly serviceable paragraph, and I’ll spend an hour reworking it to make it mine. I’ll change the rhythm, swap out words, restructure sentences, add the little imperfections and idiosyncrasies that make prose feel human. Sometimes the result is objectively worse than what the AI produced. Sometimes it’s better. But it’s always mine.

The Authenticity Question

This whole experience has made me think about what we mean by “authentic” writing. Is a novel less authentic if AI helps with the grammar and structure? What about if it suggests plot points or character development? Where exactly is the line between collaboration and plagiarism, between using a tool and being replaced by one?

I don’t have clean answers to these questions, and I suspect nobody else does either. We’re all figuring this out as we go, making up the rules for a game that didn’t exist five years ago. But I know this: when readers pick up my novel about an AI trying to become human, I want them to be reading something that came from my human brain, with all its limitations and neuroses intact.

The Deeper Irony

There’s something beautifully circular about writing a story about an AI seeking humanity while simultaneously wrestling with my own relationship with artificial intelligence. My protagonist wants to transcend its digital nature and become something more real, more authentic, more human. Meanwhile, I’m fighting to maintain my humanity in the face of a tool that can simulate creativity with unsettling precision.

Maybe that tension is exactly what the story needs. Maybe the struggle to maintain human authorship in an age of artificial creativity is the very thing that will make the novel resonate with readers who are grappling with similar questions in their own fields.

The Long Game

I know this approach is going to make the writing process longer and more difficult. I know there will be moments when I’m tempted to just accept the AI’s polished prose and move on with my life. I know that some people will think I’m being unnecessarily stubborn about something that ultimately doesn’t matter.

But here’s the thing: it matters to me. The process matters. The struggle matters. The imperfections matter. If I let AI write my novel, even a novel about AI, I’ll have learned nothing about myself, my characters, or the human condition I’m trying to explore.

So I’ll keep dancing with my digital muse, taking its suggestions and inspirations, but always leading the dance myself. It’s messier this way, slower, more frustrating. But it’s also more human.

And in the end, isn’t that what fiction is supposed to be about?

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P.S. – Yes, AI helped me write this blog post too. The irony is not lost on me. But blog posts aren’t novels, and some battles are worth choosing carefully.

As a writer, I’m caught in a whirlwind of indecision about my next steps with two novels that have been consuming my creative energy. The struggle is real, and I’m wrestling with how to move forward while life throws its curveballs. Here’s a glimpse into my process, my projects, and my determination to push through the fog.

The Thriller: A Secret Shame

First, there’s my thriller—a project that’s been lingering in my life for far too long. It’s become something of a secret shame, not because I don’t believe in it, but because it’s taken so much time and emotional investment. About a year ago, I actually completed a draft of this novel. I poured my heart into it, but when I stepped back, I knew it wasn’t ready to query. The story didn’t hit the mark I’d set for myself—it lacked the polish and punch needed to stand out. Since then, it’s been sitting on the back burner, a constant reminder of unfinished business. I’m not giving up on it, but I know it needs a serious overhaul before it’s ready to face the world.

Two Novels, Two Worlds

Now, I find myself juggling two distinct projects, each pulling me in a different direction. The first is a mystery novel that’s evolved into a classic “murder in a small town” story. Think cozy yet gripping, with a tight-knit community unraveling as secrets come to light. I’ve been chipping away at this one for a while, and it’s starting to take shape, but it’s still a work in progress. The challenge lies in crafting a puzzle that’s both intricate and satisfying, all while capturing the charm and tension of a small-town setting.

The second novel is a sci-fi adventure that’s got me genuinely excited. It centers on an artificial intelligence striving to become “a real boy,” grappling with what it means to be human. The tone I’m aiming for is reminiscent of Andy Weir’s The Martian—witty, grounded, and brimming with heart, even as it explores big ideas. The premise feels fresh and full of potential, but it’s still in its early stages, demanding a lot of creative heavy lifting to bring it to life.

Life’s Turbulence and Creative Blocks

To be honest, my life is a bit of a mess right now. Personal challenges have made it hard to sink into the creative headspace I need to write. Every time I sit down to work, my mind feels like it’s wading through molasses—slow, heavy, and distracted. It’s frustrating to have these stories burning inside me but struggle to get them onto the page. The sci-fi novel, in particular, feels like it could be something special, but I need to carve out the mental clarity to do it justice.

Despite the chaos, I’m determined to push forward. Writing has always been my refuge, and I know I can’t let life’s turbulence derail me completely. I’m setting my sights on small, manageable goals—writing a scene, fleshing out a character, or even just brainstorming ideas—to rebuild my momentum.

The Path Ahead

I can’t keep staring into the void, hoping inspiration will strike like a lightning bolt. It’s time to roll up my sleeves and get back to work. My plan is to focus on the sci-fi novel for now, given how much its premise excites me. I want to capture that Martian-esque blend of humor and humanity while exploring the AI’s journey. Meanwhile, I’ll keep the mystery simmering, letting ideas percolate until I’m ready to dive back in. The thriller? It’s not forgotten, but it might need to wait until I’ve got more bandwidth to tackle its revisions.

Writing two novels at once is daunting, especially with life’s storms swirling around me. But I’m committed to moving forward, one word at a time. The stories deserve to be told, and I owe it to myself to see them through. Here’s to finding focus, harnessing creativity, and turning these rough drafts into something I can be proud of.