I just finished a book – reading it, not writing it – writing one takes so much longer.
I have thoughts about this book.
I started out loving it. The set-up, the descriptions, the style.
It took a dark turn. Ok, I’ll come along. I like you, little book. I like your style. Let’s see where this goes.
And, alas, it went into best-seller territory. Where all the tired tropes and soap opera elements swirl together into a blizzard of drama that I hurried through, coldly, hoping, in spite of myself, that the book would return to its roots. Its beautiful language and landscape.
It was not to be.
I don’t know that we’re really going to notice a change, when AI starts writing all the books and screenplays.
Sometimes, that makes me sad.
But what do I know. It could also be a cause for hope. Because once we have a clear picture of what we don’t want, it might be easier to create what we do.
At least that’s the hope.
I do have hope.