Can A.I. Produce Writing That We Actually Want to Read?
There is very little action and no certainty. Sophia doesn’t say much, and Mr. Western can’t interpret her expression, which she herself does not fully understand. And, after Western says his piece, which is described with both an “as if” and an “as though” clause, Sophia doesn’t respond, and looks to the fireplace that is

There is very little action and no certainty. Sophia doesn’t say much, and Mr. Western can’t interpret her expression, which she herself does not fully understand. And, after Western says his piece, which is described with both an “as if” and an “as though” clause, Sophia doesn’t respond, and looks to the fireplace that is burning a pointless flame.
In early rounds, the people I shared such deadened passages with immediately assumed that they were fake, even if the robots had done a decent job of approximating a given writer’s style.
For the next couple of days, I chatted with Claude about how to get rid of these tells. I told it to avoid similes and to cut down on such words as “nowhere” and “something,” which tended to betray its odd, core ambivalence. For a while, Claude kept spitting out the same inert passages, in which Jay Gatsby or Sherlock Holmes did a whole lot of nothing and had no opinion about the very little that was happening around them. I told Claude that it wasn’t doing a very good job of unlearning its bad habits, and suggested that it create another agent to scan through the fakes and catch any mistakes it made. A third agent made notes with instructions on how best to imitate each author. I imagined these as cue cards that the agent would hold up to make sure everyone remembered to make Dorothea Brooke actually do something.
Here’s a sampling of the rules, which I had no part in writing—these are Claude’s instructions to itself regarding how to mimic each author’s style. (I have included only a few; there were typically about ten instructions in each “Does” and “Does Not” category.)
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
DOES:
Strings short declarative sentences with “and” as the primary connective tissue, creating forward momentum
Strips dialogue tags to bare “he said / she said”; rarely uses adverbs or action beats on the same line
Places weather or landscape as a flat factual sentence, not a framed observation (“The sun was over the hills”)
DOES NOT:
Never uses subordinate clause stacking or periodic sentences that withhold the main verb
Avoids Latinate or polysyllabic vocabulary (“illuminated,” “nevertheless,” “subsequently”)
Never attributes interior thought through free indirect discourse or italicized reflection
Never names or explains what a character is feeling directly (“he felt sad,” “she was afraid”)
GEORGE ELIOT
DOES:
Builds long, architecturally balanced sentences with multiple embedded subordinate clauses joined by semicolons or colons
Introduces characters with a brief sociological or class-placing phrase before the name arrives (“a man of some fifty years, whose . . .”)
DOES NOT:
Never uses sentence fragments for emphasis or rhythm
Avoids present-tense narration; everything moves in past tense with controlled retrospect
Never uses colloquial or American idiom; no contractions in narration
Multiplying the robot workforce and reminding the bot of its task seemed to work, at least in part. (When I asked a friend who teaches computer science and machine learning at U.C. Berkeley why the robots needed other robots to check their work, he replied, “One hundred percent serious answer: No one knows.”) The similes went away. But Claude took some of the new directives a bit too seriously; suddenly, every fake passage was filled with characters hopping on a horse, or delivering an important package, or running. This, for whatever reason, led to very short sentences that were easy for people to spot as fake. So I loosened the rules a bit, and let Claude do its usual thing, with a handful of strict rules about vague words and similes.
The same, of course, will be true of writing, which means that we can probably do away with both the doomerism and all the iterations and inversions of littera scripta manet—“the written word remains”—and simply be confident that people will always need to understand things, and that they will need to convert those things into words that can then be used to communicate with other human beings. Skipping that process will always feel like cheating, even if there might be some near future in which a portion of the words we produce comes from robots. The nasty feeling that arises when you read an e-mail or an article or a short story written by A.I. isn’t really dread that our usefulness here on Earth is coming to an end but, rather, the same discomfort and disappointment you would feel if you found out that your opponent in chess was using a bot to plan their next moves. As long as that displeasure remains, a million large language models can write a million copies of the great works of literature, and some might even stumble upon discoveries that could expand how we write sentences, but the basic relationship between humans and writing will stay the same. ♦

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