I, Robot Author

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I was just reading about the second serious scandal concerning AI generated fiction being published by experts in the world of publishing.  In the last scandal Hatchette bought a self-published book because the author managed to attract a very large number of readers on her own.  After they republished the book, it was discovered that there was a lot of very obvious AI generated content in it.

In the present scandal a prestigious contest that accepts fiction from amateurs living in the countries of the British Commonwealth had three of the five winners flagged by readers as being AI generated by a capable software used for this function.

Here’s a sample of the text:

“Wilfred’s rum-shop leaned into the road like a rotten tooth. Inside, boards blackened by smoke and sweat, the air sweet with cane and forgetting. Coins meant for rice or kerosene slid across the counter and came back white rum hot as apology. One drink opened the chest, two turned fear into courage’s cheap cousin, three steadied the hand enough to write the future in invisible ink.”

Okay, what the hell does “white rum hot as apology” mean?  It doesn’t mean anything.  It’s AI slop that it thinks sounds “poetic.”

Now five “Experts” picked this gibberish and declared it worthy of a prestigious award.  Why?  Well, the only thing I notice that both scandals include are woke publishing “experts” selecting the work of minority writers without bothering to see if it’s any good or even written by human beings.

The most hilarious aspect of the latest scandal is that the contest judges refuse to admit that they’ve been made to look like fools and the stories are still up on their site as the winners.

I watched a YouTube video by a young woman who considers herself a seasoned editor and although she agrees that the text is extremely unlikely not to be AI slop she does add the obligatory warning that we should remember that minority writers must not be singled out as more highly suspect just because they always seem to be the ones whose work slips through the editors who are afraid of being called racists if they look too closely at their work and find it’s not very good.

I guess it’s not enough that the publishing world gives precedence to any writer who isn’t a straight white man.  Now they add robots as long as they’re not straight white male robots or at least not working under one of their names.  Well, be that as it may, today I officially began work on the sequel to my book.  I began the outline by writing out a bunch of plot lines to choose between.

Plot Threads

  • Update on Bogey and his life
  • Update on Grace and her boys
  • President Chastain’s crises
    1. Constitutional Convention
    2. Seceding States
    3. Potential Military Insurrection
    4. Personal Problems (health)
    5. Relations with Connors’ Group
  • Connors’ crises
    1. Disaffected Groups with His Organization
    2. Relations with federal and state officials
    3. Connors’ indecision and doubts
    4. Disagreements with Cutter and others
    5. Personal Problems (Grace, Bogey)
  • America’s Crisis of Instability
  • World’s Crisis of Instability
  • Technical Instability

So that’s a lot of stuff.  I’m not sure all of these will be included but it’s always best to start with the kitchen sink and pare it back.  Well, take that Chat GPT.

Guest Contributor – Tregonsee – 25MAY2026 – Dystopian SF

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My experience with PKD through The Man In The High Castle is similar. It is beautiful prose and a fascinating idea but the sheer unpleasantness of the reading experience is off-putting. This is not to say I totally hate Dystopias. I think one of the most beautiful pieces of Science fiction (let alone Dystopias) is Walter M. Miller’s A Canticle for Liebowitz . With it’s Sarcastic Humor, and it’s crazy story that interweaves (Spoiler to a 60+ year old story the Wandering Jew wanders through all three sections and it MAKES SENSE) all sorts of mythology and Catholic and Christian trivia into a very odd resolution it is very compelling. I reread it, but not too often, it tears at the soul. Both PKD and Walter Miller (who later commits suicide likely due to PTSD from being a B-17 gunner in WWII in the raids on Dresden) were clearly troubled men. They are also very skilled writers. Their writing, to some degree, drags you into their madness, and this can be a very uncomfortable place to go. I do not find The Man in the High Castle compelling enough to experience the discomfort where A Canticle For Liebowitz seems to ultimately yield some release,

Learning to Love Hopeless Gloom

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So, I wrote that review last night about “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.”  And afterwards, I was surprised at just how negative my review was.  I went to great lengths to stress that I thought it was a well written story.  But I couldn’t disguise how little I liked the reading experience.  I characterized the problem as being a matter of story type.  It was an extreme example of dystopia where all the characters reflected a dismal outlook and nothing happy or positive intruded on the gloom.

And that got me thinking.  Maybe my dislike of this genre was short-sighted.  Possibly I was shutting myself off from treasures that lurked around every corner.  And in agreement with that idea, I remembered how I had never been able to get myself to finish 1984.  I skimmed through it several times but always got bogged down by just how depressing and irritating I found all the characters and plot.

So apparently, I am a literary lightweight.  My guess is that I read fiction for enjoyment.  And apparently, I don’t enjoy being depressed.  That must explain why I gravitate toward action/adventure and scientific razzmatazz.  I like reading stories where things happen and even if the bad guys are winning the good guys don’t roll over and play dead.  Even better, I like it when the good guys are also the smart guys and win in the end.  But either way I want there to be someone I can empathize with.  And no one can empathize with someone whose highest aspiration is to own a sheep (living or mechanical) and have it live on the roof of his apartment building.  PKD’s world is made up of mental cases of one type or another and while you may pity some crazy people, they’re really no fun to read about.  Unless they’re somehow funny.  And these people weren’t.

Maybe that makes me shallow but that’s where I stand.  If I was writing 1984, I’d have an underground that did more than just exist as a shadow.  I’d have them organize and expand and then one day rampage through the politburo and have Big Brother’s head nailed to the highest flag pole in the capitol.  Or even if they fail, I’d have them go down fighting, not meekly cower under their beds waiting for the thought police to drag them off to the dungeon.

But I do wonder whether that puts me in the majority or the minority.  Possibly I’m in the majority among my age group but in the minority among the current cohort of readers.  So, I’m very interested in how the rest of you out there come down on this question.  Are dystopias fun or not?  And I’m talking about the real dreary, hopeless worlds.  No shreds of joy or hope.  Just misery and dysfunction as far as the eye can see.  Tell me what you think and list a few examples of the various levels of joyless horror and how you would characterize the experience.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick – A Science Fiction Book Review

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I won’t give a synopsis of the plot.  If you’ve seen the movie “Blade Runner” then you have an approximate idea of the world and the action of the story.  Rick Deckard is a bounty hunter who kills androids that break free of their service as bond slaves for humanity on Mars.  He lives on an Earth where a remnant of humans remain who haven’t emigrated off-Earth.  The Earth is contaminated with radioactive fallout called “the dust’ that is slowly mutating and killing every living thing.  And many species have gone extinct and there is an almost cult-like love for animals that is expressed by owning farm animals like sheep and goats.  And the extension of this cult is something called Mercerism that expresses empathy for all living things (except androids).

Let me give my impressions of Philip K. Dick’s writing and style.  He is a very effective writer.  His characters are sparingly but clearly represented and his narrative is interesting and cleverly crafted.  He has carefully thought out many details of how this strange world works.  The interpersonal interactions between Deckard and his wife, his boss, the androids, the other people in his surroundings are all consistent and keep you immersed in the story.  He is a very talented science fiction writer.  And if this book is representative of his type of story, he is not for me.

If I would sum up this book in one word it would be “dystopia.”

Everything in this book is downbeat.  Deckard is depressed.  His wife is practically suicidal.  His boss is bleak.  The owner of the corporation that makes the androids is harried.  And finally, the androids are schizophrenic.  The only ones who seem cheerful are the tv comics meant to sedate the populace and the pet salesmen who sell overpriced animals and fake animals to the desperate remnant of Earth’s human population.

So, here’s the thing.  I think PKD is a major talent and I’m sure his reputation as a talented author is well deserved.  And I’m sure there is a large audience for his type of fiction.  Unfortunately, I’m not a part of that audience.  I’m not a hopeless dystopia kind of guy.  That doesn’t mean I need utopia.  I don’t mind crises and catastrophes.  But a story that has absolutely no one to root for just doesn’t inspire me to keep reading.  If everyone in the story is a neurotic basket case and no one can summon the will to try and overcome the awful things that are happening in the story; or if morally speaking, the “good guys” are completely indistinguishable from the “bad guys” then why the hell should I care who wins or loses?

So, yeah, this is a good book.  But it’s not for me.  I’ll probably read a few more PKD “masterpieces” to see if there’s anything for me.  If they’re all like this then I’m going to assume that the author was an extremely unhappy man and if I don’t want to end up that way myself, I should move on to greener sf pastures.