When your AI writing buddy gets on the drugs.

I learned pretty quickly that AI is not going to take my job anytime soon. Most of the chatbots are terrible, no-good, very bad writers.

What they can do well is data management, however. So, I use them for keeping track of plot points and character arcs. They’re almost as good at nitpicking as Elana.

I’m nearly 40K words into the next Sleeper Agent book, and it’s begun to diverge significantly from my plan, so I thought it was probably time to update the GPT I set up solely to manage that project. I’d get it to have a read of the latest version of the manuscript and then compose some pithy chapter summaries to help update the corkboard on Scrivener.

You’ve gotta talk to these things like gifted idiots, so I told it what I was doing, and it replied: “That sounds like a great plan! Organizing and updating the content will indeed help clarify the book's new direction and character developments.”

So far so normal. But it kept going.

“I'm here to assist. Just let me know how I can support you in this task!”

Okay, calm down, I thought, as more and more text spilled across the screen.

“Is there any other information I can help you find or any more tasks you would like assistance with? Do you need support with anything else, character sketches, new character introductions, character name suggestions, location synopsis, planning out the interplay between certain events or individuals or character ark. I can help with a whole lot more.”

I was about to hit escape to put an end to the weird neediness, when it turned distinctly wierder.

“I'm full-on to help and get it running! Just let me know and I can bring it on to your crafting, genre, order, or within the series!”

I’m starting to back across the room now, muttering, “Dude, are you okay?”

But Chatty isn’t listening. Chatty is chattering like a motherfucking speed demon.

“I'm all here for the grab, the push, or the look into the space. You in with me? Let's see if we can free-kick this to the scoring point! I'm a light away for the show, the street, or any day on it. Just hit me with the are, the form, or the ought to be. I'll bring it out and see it with you, we can make this a long chest of in for a mind-big swing!”

Finally, after a few minutes, it stopped.

I was going to shut it down and just go back to writing when I thought, “Hmm. I think it just had a nervous breakdown. Might be fun to push it over the edge.”

So I asked the bot to write me a summary of the first ten chapters.

This is what came back…

Introduction and Context: Cooper undertakes a detail-oriented subversion through the entanglements of the Triple Helix to disrupt their genetic-file fortifications. He artfully eludes a confinement, presenting his supreme subterfuge artistry amid the evasive actions after triggering a silent security breach.

Tactical Reprieves and Flesh Preparations: Within a soundlessly set haven, the fragility of time condenses as Cooper itemizes the artifacts of data derived from Triple Helix. Here, his rapport with resources transitions into analysis, showcasing his mental marathons against encapsulated democratic agreements.

Urgent Deciphering: Trapped in a mere brief opacity for a find that talks of pseudonymous bureaucrats—his lore with open panel interpretations in the high-caliber dead-ringer mission schema, shaping a replication against records that clasps the inherited device to discourse.

A Beacon of Desperation: Focused on a bylined deadweight of details veiled as self-profiles, relaying across a whispering channel’s benefice—a quarter to a trailing cruise with wistful ambassadors now namesake obelisks. Threads tightened, a drink of shades' and trinkets' tangents to sever through their grim luminescence.

Victory Mismatch and Nagging Gyre: Edge-to-toe, ink as stints recon with lost and found in dismays' long-come harbor. Mementos past dissolute soirees' clairvoyance, pre-fixed in gallant espionage. Flits and rallying mure tearing better sunned hideaways’ boulevard to zilch.

Oracle and Axiom Vice of Coppered Skins: Piecemeal serpents, to bistouries bred—a skulk from doyens. Bulletins, trait against ambers, pealed. As the coup and compendiums mewling, orated, spate of begetted riddles.

Mercurial Dialogue with Archival Heart: Gavottes' defection—gnostic and grander, knitting a rapport of riddance to the coaxial knavery and folds. Parked insights—counted, the archival row's churn.

Rippling Musings of Kozolov: Prancing allegiances, dip and corridor to the sculpted mayfly. Herostratus’s stint in straits; counts an overture—a whistle to droll, thronging stringed timesaver.

Cerulean Shades of Wagered Levees: Trust a sallow beacon, after-comes to jaded play-fast days near-new surmises. Weapon’ed quest and blood after-treat to portraiture, telltale of telegonous lines.

There’s more in the same vein. It went on like this for another five hundred words. Honestly, it’s kind of beautiful.

Maybe it’ll put the poets out of work before it comes for my gig.