So. I’m finally about to wrap up the second act of this sci-fi dramedy novel I’ve been chipping away at for what feels like forever. Act Two is almost behind me, which means, of course, my brain is already drifting toward the looming shadow of Act Three. And here’s the truth: I only have the faintest, foggiest, half-sketched idea of what that final act should be. It’s like staring into a misty landscape—you think you see shapes out there, maybe a mountain or a river, but when you get closer it turns out to be nothing more than clouds and wishful thinking.
Which leads me to my guilty confession: I keep asking AI to rework the third act for me. Over and over. Like a procrastinator refreshing their fridge every ten minutes just to avoid writing the essay they know is due. It’s not that I don’t want to figure it out myself—it’s just that it’s so tempting to outsource the hardest part of the creative process. Sometimes I tell myself I’m “just brainstorming,” but deep down I know the truth. I’m being a little lazy. I should be rolling up my sleeves, hammering out the outline, wrestling with the blank page until something sticks. Instead, I’m letting the algorithm do push-ups while I watch from the bleachers.
And yet—here’s the thing that saves me from total guilt—I am actually doing the writing. Every chapter, every scene, every awkward joke and half-baked metaphor? That’s me. AI might whisper ideas about the scaffolding, but the bricks and mortar? That’s on my desk. And when I sit down to tackle the second draft, I’ve already promised myself I’m going to go it alone. No safety net. No “hey, can you reimagine this act structure for me?” hand-holding. Just me, a keyboard, and probably way too much coffee. Whatever survives into the final manuscript will be mine, for better or worse.
And let’s be real: my writing probably isn’t as polished or as structurally perfect as an AI’s. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But there’s something satisfying about that. It’s like the difference between buying a piece of furniture from IKEA and building a crooked, lopsided table yourself. Sure, the IKEA table looks better and won’t collapse under the weight of a salad bowl, but the wonky table? That’s yours. You sweated over it. You cursed at it. You earned every wobble.
So maybe my ending won’t be as airtight as if I’d outsourced it. Maybe it’ll lean too far into heart, or comedy, or melodrama, or whatever mood I’m in that week. But even if the final result kind of sucks—well, it’ll suck in a way that’s uniquely me. And honestly, that feels worth more than a flawless third act written by something that doesn’t even get nervous before hitting “publish.”






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