Every so often, I find myself watching the cursor blink, and the strangest thing happens. I type a prompt. The AI thinks for a moment. Then, as if conjured from nowhere, a fully formed short story appears on the screen. Sometimes, it even goes back and improves itself. It analyses tone, tightens the structure, sharpens the language.
And I sit there, cup of tea cooling beside me, wondering… where do I fit in now?
It’s a quiet sort of unease. When I first started writing, it was all mine, the hours spent choosing words, the quiet satisfaction of crafting a line that finally worked. The blank page was both enemy and companion. Now, the machine fills it in seconds.
So what does that make me? Redundant? Or something else entirely?
Continue reading “When AI Does the Heavy Lifting, What’s Left for the Writer?”
The AI Grandad 