The Keystone: A Manifesto for a Novel

Why Write a Novel?

One of my earliest memories is learning what a screwdriver was. I took that newfound knowledge and applied it to my mom’s camera.

As I took each part off, I laid it neatly on the table. When the camera was finally reduced to pieces, I began putting it back together.

Then I hit a snag: the shutter spring. It was a tiny torsion spring, almost hair-fine, that had to be bent and hooked into a minuscule hole. It kept slipping from my stubby toddler fingers and pinging across the room. I don’t know how long I spent chasing that spring, but it was longer than it took to take the whole camera apart.

That’s what I was doing when my mom caught me. She snatched the camera body away. “You can’t fix that—it’s a precision instrument!”

Maybe so. But even then, I could see that something complicated could still be made of parts that, individually, fit together in simple ways. That lesson stuck with me. Practically everything I’ve owned since has been taken apart at least once so I could see how it worked.

That’s why I wrote a novel. It wasn’t about fame or fortune—I wanted to understand what makes the things tick. My first novel was an unfixable mess, but interesting. It showed potential, and people I shared it with were intrigued. So I wrote a second, The Keystone, and sent it to a big writing contest, where it landed somewhere around the top hundred out of ten thousand entries.

Still not publishable. But taking it apart and putting it back together—that was the real lesson. I learned something about how novels work, and then I set it aside, satisfied.

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Why Now?

I’m retired now, after a career spent applying my stubbornly analytical streak to public-interest work—field research, environmental education, public health. But I look at the public sphere today and I’m dismayed. It’s not just the usual cracks in civility—it’s the bedrock itself. The rule of law, even science, seems to be under siege.

And the secret sauce on this shit sandwich is hopelessness. Public discourse itself has been turned against us; the more we try to engage, the more powerless we feel.

I’m retired, yes, but I’m not done. I read and argue online like everyone else, but that’s a poisoned chalice. I show up at marches—that’s better—but I wanted to put my oddball “camera-disassembly” skills to work again.

Then I remembered The Keystone. It’s a farce: a love letter to Hollywood screwball comedy and a send-up of overwrought space opera. I meant it to make people laugh—and that’s exactly what we need right now.

Now, where’d I put that box of torsion springs...

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The Keystone Manifesto

Sometimes following the news makes you feel powerless. We scroll, we argue, we obsess, but we only feel worse.

In times like these, it’s nice to lose ourselves in an adventure story. That isn’t turning your back on the world—it’s catching your breath. For a little while, we can be someone who has the power and clarity we wish we had.

But could a story do more? After all, we’re not flawless heroes or fearless space captains. So what can pretending to be one do for us after we put the book down and face the news again?

What if a story showed us how the hero got that way—pulled back the curtain and gave us a peek at the messy process by which the heroic sausage gets made?

This is the story of a space opera hero who’s only halfway there. Kate MacClaine can outwit pirates, fly her way out of a collapsing wormhole, and tell you, with painfully accurate precision, what makes you a dangerous incompetent. But she’s unfinished as a human being: brilliant, abrasive, lonely, and yet full of untapped potential. Her greatest challenge isn’t surviving the stars—it’s learning to connect with others and see her own worth.

If you’ve ever looked at the chaos around you and thought, “We ought to fix that”—and then realized that “we” has to start with you—then this is a story for you.

Welcome aboard.

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So There You Have It

Against the rising darkness, I’ve chosen to light a candle. Odds are it flickers out before many people see it.

But it’s something I can do.

I hope you get to read The Keystone soon—and that it puts a smile on your face.

How to Read The Keystone

The Keystone will be available in Amazon as an ebook in December 2025 or January 2026.  Watch this space for news.

Where is Fancy Bred? Thoughts on Pacing in Scenes

I’m doing developmental editing on The Keystone this month, with a focus on story pace.  This has made me think about what pacing actually is, based on my experiences sharing manuscript critiques. We non-academically trained writers talk about “fast-paced” vs. “slow-paced” as if it’s an objective property of the text, like word count. But what if it’s not? What if it’s something else altogether?

The Reader's Problem

Write a big chunk of a novel and hand it to a test reader. Chances are, unless you’re very experienced, you’ll get feedback like: “The story moved slowly here.”

So you trim that section: cut unnecessary text so the reader spends less time on it. And yes, that can work.  But here’s what bothers me: the story itself isn’t moving. It stays right where it is. What moves is the reader’s attention.

I believe a passage drags when the cognitive effort required to finish it is too high for the reward the reader gets in return.  If that’s true, then pacing problems are really about structuring effort and reward: Does the reader run out of momentum before getting a reward that renews it?

The Writer's Problem

Much of the usual pacing advice—trim adverbs, start late, leave early—is easy to follow. You don’t have to think too hard; you apply it mechanically, like following a checklist. And that can work: for many scenes, these simple fixes will help get the reader through the story.

That's because the usual rules of thumb reliably reduce reader effort.  But mindlessly applied, they do nothing to preserve reader delight, much less add to it.  If you're not careful, you can reduce a dramatic scene to something like an AI summary of a rambling Zoom call.  The limitation of the usual pacing advice aspiring authors get is that it is algorithmic -- not diagnostic. We need to diagnose before we start prescribing medicine.

Your job as a writer isn't to get the reader through the manuscript as quickly as possible.  It's to deliver on the promises you made in the back cover blurb.   For that reason we *have* to focus on the subjective experience of the reader trying to get through the text.

If a Scene is Bad, it Had Better be Short

Cutting is an excellent thing for us amateurs to consider, because we often write scenes that don't offer much reward for the reader's effort. We write scenes that beg for mercy-killing. Cutting a great scene down might improve in some way, but it won't improve the pacing.

Your Manuscript is Easy for You, So it Always Feels Well-paced

I think this explains why amateur authors almost never detect pacing problems in their own work: you already know what your manuscript means, so it's easy for you to read. One of the best ways to learn about balancing effort and reward is to critique other writers’ manuscripts. Approaching someone else’s story opens your eyes to where you struggle to stay engaged, and then you can discover why.

Ultimately you will need test readers' help with your manuscript, but their time is precious. Before sending a manuscript out for critique, scan your scenes for “walls of text” or info-dumps where the reader is asked to do a lot of mental work for little reward. Especially look for places where effort is demanded for no reward -- e.g. pointlessly rambling passages, or continuity errors. Your manuscript benefits the most when you make good use of the test readers’ gift of their time.

Slow = Bad; Fast = Good?

Finally we have to ask: is slow necessarily  bad? No. Nobody complains about a slow good scene.  They will complain that bad scene packed with action is "slow", because their progress through it feels like a slog, and trying to pick up the pace by stuffing more of the stuff that's creating the problem into the scene will only make that slog harder.

Making that bad scene better means making it easier and/or more rewarding; that sometimes results in a scene that takes up more space on the page but feels shorter to the reader.

Sample Rewrite

Here's a very brief sample rewrite that illustrates my ideas.  To setup, this is from a rom-com space opera about a neurodivergent-coded space captain struggling with her feelings for her ex-husband, who she's just kicked off her ship:

This too was spotless. He'd stripped the bunk and left the folded sheets and blankets on top. She remade the bunk and climbed into it, inhaling his lingering smell. That brought her back when she'd first known that smell. She was hardly more than a girl but she'd had the whole galaxy at her feet.

A passage this small isn't a pacing problem, but page after page of this kind of writing, where the reader is forced to supply all the details for himself, wears the reader down, and they start skimming.  Now here's my solution to the problem, and it's not to further cut this tiny snippet down, it's to make it huge:

This too was spotless. He'd stripped the bunk and left the folded sheets and blankets on top. She remade the bunk and climbed into it, inhaling his lingering smell. Soap. Archie preferred unscented soap, something Kate noticed almost immediately when she first met him. Plain soap was one of her favorite smells. Beneath that a faint, sweet-sour-proteiny hint, like fermented milk. And then something spicy — cardamom? Was that because he liked cardamom in his coffee?  Instantly, she was back on the flight deck of the shuttle where she met him, and there he was.  She’d thought of him back then as a strange *man*, but to her eyes right now he was just an adorable boy. She wanted to cradle his cheeks and kiss him on the forehead…

Is this better? I haven't workshoped it yet so I can't be sure. But I think so.  You shouldn't thoughtlessly apply my advice either.  If you're writing pulpy adventure story, you don't want it to sound like literary fiction. Remember: your job is to fulfill the promise you made to the reader when he picked up the story, whatever that may have been.

Takeaways

• Pace is felt, not counted—reader momentum sets it.
• Control momentum with two levers: effort and reward.
• Cut what asks too much and gives too little.
• Reward is subjective—match it to your genre.
• Never trade delight for brevity.
• Sometimes longer reads faster—embrace it.
• Diagnose before you prescribe—understand the scene first.

What do you think?

So — what do you think? Is cutting always the best solution to what a reader identifies as a pacing problem? Do you have any examples of writing where you’ve improved pacing, or have pacing issues? If you post them  (not too long please), maybe we'll take a stab at work-shopping them.

Art for Whatever's Sake

Prehistoric cave painting (public domain, via Pixabay)

Paleolithic people painted cave walls to ensure success in the hunt. Egyptian artisans decorated tombs to provide sustenance for the departed. Medieval monks illuminated manuscripts with dragons and griffins to break the monotony of copying texts. Modern retirees take up painting not for profit, but for the pleasure of creating.

There are many reasons to make art. The idea that it exists to earn cash is relatively new and, for most us who create, largely irrelevant. There’s nothing wrong with making a few — or even a lot — of bucks from your work. But when money becomes the primary focus of art, expression itself is reduced to a commodity, and artists, mere cogs in a machine that serves the ends of commerce.

Art also exists as part of a web of communication linking artists with one another as well as with their audiences. Writers who read Flaubert were moved to become the realists. Painters who attended a certain exhibition in Paris emerged as the Impressionists. Every artist works in dialogue with those who came before. Perhaps the only act of pure individual creation was when that very first person realized that dabbing ochre on a cave wall could conjure the world onto a flat surface.

So write that novel. Draw your dog’s portrait. Start your day with a poem. Do the best you can — but don’t worry if it’s not original enough to impress a critic, or polished enough for someone to buy the rights to. Share fearlessly. And if you’re not competing with a working artist for their livelihood, borrow what you need to. Add your thread to that vast and ancient web of creativity that stretches back to the first cave painting — or the first yarn spun around a campfire.

“Critical Feeling”: A Method for Supportive Manuscript Critique

What Is Critical Feeling?

Critical feeling is what I call analyzing your emotional responses to a text with the same care you’d apply in critical thinking.

Instead of reacting — “This is boring,” “I loved this,” “I got lost here” — you observe your feeling, identify what in the text triggered it, and describe that connection in neutral, precise language.

The goal is to help the author understand how their writing affects readers, not to pass judgment on whether that effect was “good” or “bad.”

At its heart, critical feeling treats emotion as data, not verdict.

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Why Use It?

Most critiques fall into one of two traps:

• Reaction-only feedback: pure personal taste without analysis.
  “This dragged.”

• Detached technical feedback: pure craft vocabulary without empathy.
  “You need more scene anchoring.”

Critical feeling bridges the two. It:

• Honors your authentic response as a reader.

• Offers clear reasoning the writer can act on.

• Maintains respectful distance, keeping ego and judgment out of the exchange.

The result is feedback the writer experiences as collaborative rather than evaluative.

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How to Practice Critical Feeling

1. Notice Your Reactions

Pause when you feel something — confusion, delight, impatience, admiration, resistance, curiosity.
Record it neutrally:

“I began to lose focus here.”
“I felt tense at this line.”
“This section made me curious.”

2. Identify the Trigger

Look for the specific feature that created that reaction:

• Word choice or rhythm

• Point of view distance

• Pacing or logic of movement

• Tone or dialogue

• Sensory detail (or lack thereof)

Ask yourself: What in the text produced this feeling?

3. Translate Feeling into Cause-and-Effect Language

Frame your insight as a connection, not a complaint.

“I felt unanchored here because the description stayed abstract before I knew who was experiencing the scene.”
“I felt emotionally close to the protagonist because the narration used concrete sensations and quick rhythms.”

4. Offer Options, Not Orders

Suggest possibilities, not prescriptions.

“You might try grounding this moment in a specific sensory image.”
“Some writers handle transitions like this by focusing on what the character notices first.”

That keeps critique collaborative rather than corrective.

5. Close with Strengths

Always end by naming what’s working — especially what creates a positive emotional effect.

“Your clarity and rhythm carry the story confidently.”
“The mood here is genuinely tense in the best way.”

That helps the author feel proud of their successes and open to refining the rest.  This is so worth  doing that you should not give in to the temptation to skip this, especially if your reaction was negative. So make an effort, dig deeper, even stretch the truth a little if you have to. Couching a critique in purely negative terms will get it ignored, or worse: it will make the author quit. Our objective is to help the author do a better job.

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Example in Practice

Instead of:

“This section was slow. I lost interest.”

Try:

“My attention drifted because the passage focused on abstract ideas before I had a concrete image or sense of movement to follow. Once the scene became specific, I reengaged.”

That’s critical feeling in action: genuine response → analytical reasoning → practical insight.

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Principles of Critical Feeling

Principle	Description
Feelings are data.	Emotional reactions are valid clues, not judgments.
Detach from ego.	Support the text, not your taste.
Trace cause to effect.	Link the reader’s experience to the writer’s choices.
Stay constructive.	Frame critique as guidance, not correction.
End with strength.	Reinforce confidence while inviting growth.

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Closing Thought

Critical feeling asks you to read with empathy and precision at once.
It’s not just about what you felt, but why you felt it — and how the writer can use that insight to strengthen their work.

When practiced well, it turns critique from judgment into something that will encourage your author to improve.

Using AI to rewrite your story vs. using it to target *your* rewriting.

Why Backstory Matters

In the classic Hollywood screwball comedy remarriage story, the audience needs to know why the couple isn't together anymore.

• In The Philadelphia Story, it was Dexter's drinking.

• In His Girl Friday, Walter abandoned his honeymoon with Hildy for a scoop.

This detail is essential—it sets up the problem the couple must overcome to earn their HEA (happily ever after).

Handling the Setup in The Keystone

Keystone is a genre mashup between screwball comedy and epic space opera. That means I need to launch two sets of story tropes, including this key detail.

There are three ways to handle it:

1. Start before the divorce (like The Awful Truth).

2. Reveal the reason through dialogue (like His Girl Friday).

3. Use a flashback to show—not-tell (like The Philadelphia Story).

I chose the flashback.

When AI Flags Flashbacks

AI editors can be… overzealous. My flashback was flagged as a digression because it interrupts the story to introduce backstory—practically the definition of a flashback.

Here’s the passage that offended the AI:

Though she'd been looking down to avoid catching the eyes of the crowd, Kate still felt those eyes pressing on her. That made her feel naked, despite wearing a hundred and fifty yards of white silk taffeta, organza, and crinoline tulle. When she reached the end of the nave she risked looking up to check that Archie was waiting for her, but found herself looking straight into banks of broadcast cameras. Those hadn't been there during rehearsal...

Not my finest work, admittedly, but it gets the job done.

Here’s how the AI “fixed” it:

… just like the day she'd walked up the aisle to exchange vows with Archie. The sightless wall brought back a sharp memory of that day—the hundred yards of silk, the eyes pressing in, the unexpected banks of broadcast cameras.

Efficient? Yes. Novelistic? Definitely not. This is the kind of telescoping of detail you want when a bot summarizes a long, rambling Zoom call, but it's not immersive.

Letting the Flashback Breathe

Trimming is one solution, but often a better approach is to let the scene breathe, really rack the protagonist over the coals. Here’s my version:

The cathedral nave was vast. She’d counted the steps during rehearsal so she could mark her progress while keeping her eyes nailed to the rose-petal-strewn marble floor tiles. But she'd lost count.

Her procession was an army: the dean’s mace bearer then the dean himself in his huge golden cape, footmen assigned to manage her train, and a rear guard of flower girls. She felt naked, despite wearing a hundred and fifty yards of white silk taffeta, organza, and crinoline tulle—a dress so vast that without those footmen she'd be fouled dead in her tracks. The fabric against her skin was the richest in the galaxy, fine and confining as spider's silk.

The weight of the dress made it feel like she was pushing her way through waist-deep honey as she pressed ahead, into the gaze of thousands of eyes. She could hear the murmur of the crowd, and a little wave of exclamations and excited whispers followed her as she drew abreast of pew after pew after pew.

To distract herself, she watched the tip of one satin shoe crest the hem of her silver-brocade dress, and then the other. It made a soft swishing sound that clashed with the rhythm of the footmen’s boots clicking on the marble floor.

Frankincense and sandalwood wafted into her veil; and she felt an unexpected heat fall upon her face, although she dare not look up to identify the source.

Finally, the orientation of the marble tiles changed from along to athwart her path. That meant she'd reached the transept. Archie would be just across it, waiting for her at the base of the quire. There was a sudden chittering of camera shutters, sounding for all the world like millions of locusts.

She risked a glance up to check, and found herself staring into a battery of broadcast cameras. They weren’t there during rehearsal.

Conclusion

A rewrite shouldn't just efficiently tell the reader what happened—it should let them experience it. That’s the difference between an AI-summarized flashback and a fully novelistic one.

Now I want to hear from you: What version do you like best—the AI’s, my original, or my rewritten flashback? Which version makes the most clear and compelling case that Archie and Kate can't live together? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Why I'm Revisiting My Novel "The Keystone" After All These Years — It's AI

As I mentioned earlier, I’m dusting off my old novel The Keystone. Why now? AI.

Now, I know that might set off alarm bells. AI-generated content is slop—something that grabs your attention and then wastes your time. That’s because AI isn’t creative; it just parrots back what it’s been fed. Using it to write a story is the wrong tool for the wrong job.

But AI does excel at pattern recognition, analysis, and data processing. It can scan a 100,000-word manuscript to highlight:

• Weak modifiers

• Sloppy dialogue tags

• Cumbersome sentences

• Inconsistencies and info dumps

It can also generate useful tools like plot outlines, character profiles, and tension maps—tasks that would take hours to do manually.

The key is using AI to free humans to do what we do best. Test readers can focus on enjoying the story, while every word added or removed is still mine. The voice, the choices, the craft—still human.

Here’s my plan.

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The Zero-Budget Launch

Goal

To prepare The Keystone for publication-quality release with a $0 budget — using AI as a diagnostic tool, not a co-author.
The goal is to create a novel that works as an act of love, refined to professional polish through disciplined, human-directed craft.

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Phase 1: The “House Style” Pass (Defining My Voice)

Purpose:
Establish a “Voice Profile” that defines my natural rhythm, diction, tone, and humor — my gold standard for all later editing. This ensures that AI feedback doesn’t flatten or genericize the prose.

Action:
I’ll provide 1–2 chapters of my most polished writing (for instance, the Digby fragment).

Prompt:

“Analyze the authorial voice in this sample. Ignore plot. Identify key stylistic and rhetorical features (sentence rhythm, tone, vocabulary, humor, pacing, use of internal monologue, and dialogue style). Create a concise Voice Profile for The Keystone. This will serve as my ‘House Style Guide’ for all later analysis.”

Outcome:
A diagnostic summary that captures my natural cadence, not a prescriptive rulebook.
All later AI passes will use this as a reference but never override it.

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Phase 2: The “Technical Polish” Pass (Macro-to-Micro Analysis)

Purpose:
Systematically raise the micro-level craftsmanship of the prose (pacing, rhythm, clarity, and flow) to match the macro-level story that early readers already responded to.

In this stage, AI serves purely as a diagnostic assistant — it marks possible trouble spots, but I decide what and how to fix them.

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1. The “Pacing & Payoff” Pass (Story-Level Diagnostic)

Action:
I’ll analyze the novel in 5-chapter chunks.

Prompt:

“Analyze this section for pacing and emotional momentum. Using the ‘Voice Profile,’ identify paragraphs or scenes that slow the flow or undercut tension. Flag potential info-dumps or pacing troughs, but do not suggest rewrites.”

My job:
Decide which slow points are intentional breathing space — and which need tightening.

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2. The “Weed-Killer” Pass (Sentence-Level Diagnostic)

Action:
I’ll feed the AI one chapter at a time.

Prompt:

“List possible ‘prose weeds’ in this chapter. Do not rewrite. Just quote the phrase and categorize each under:
• Filter Words (e.g., ‘she saw,’ ‘he felt’)
• Crutch Words (e.g., ‘just,’ ‘really,’ ‘suddenly’)
• Overused Dialogue Tags (e.g., ‘she sighed,’ ‘he chuckled’)
• Passive Constructions (‘was hit by,’ etc.)”

My job:
Review every item, deciding which “weeds” are real problems and which are part of my deliberate style.

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3. The “Rhythm & Flow” Pass (Applying the Polish)

Action:
After my own revisions, I’ll run chapters through a rhythm-and-flow check.

Prompt:

“Review this chapter against the ‘Voice Profile.’ Highlight any sentences where rhythm, energy, or clarity deviate from the house style. Suggest minimal edits to restore natural flow — without neutralizing tone or humor.”

My job:
Manually review every suggestion, accepting only those that still sound like me.

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4. Optional: The “Second Opinion” Cross-Model Check

Purpose:
Use a secondary AI model for a fresh diagnostic perspective, catching issues the primary one might miss.

Action:
Feed the same section to a different model (e.g., Claude, Gemini, or Perplexity) using the established Voice Profile as reference.

Goal:
Compare the diagnostic overlap.
If both models agree, that’s a clear signal for attention. If they disagree, I trust my own judgment — I’m the arbiter of truth.

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Phase 3: The “Final Proof” Pass (Quality Control)

Purpose:
Eliminate all typos, grammatical errors, and formatting issues — the most common “credibility killers” for self-published books.

AI Proofreading:

Prompt:

“Perform a proofreading pass on this full manuscript. Find and list only typos, punctuation, spelling, and grammatical errors. Do not alter style, tone, or phrasing.”

The “Fresh Eyes” Trick:

1. Change the medium:
   I’ll load the final file on an e-reader or phone app. Seeing it in a new layout makes missed errors jump out.

2. Change the sense:
   I’ll listen to the text using “Read Aloud” or text-to-speech. If it doesn’t sound like something I’d say, I’ll fix it.

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Phase 4: The “Packaging” Pass (Presentation & Discovery)

Purpose:
Build a professional storefront and reading experience that signals quality and sincerity — essential for organic, word-of-mouth growth.

1. “Look Inside” Sample (First 10%)

The first three chapters must be flawless.
They’re my audition for the reader’s trust.

2. Blurb (Back Cover Copy)

Workshopping this with AI — as a sparring partner, not a ghostwriter.

Prompt example:

“Help me craft a blurb for a sci-fi romantic comedy with emotional and thematic stakes like The Awful Truth meets The Expanse. Focus on clarity, tone, and reader hook.”

Then I rewrite it myself for authenticity.

3. Cover Design (Genre Signaling)

• Aspect ratio: 1.6:1 (e.g., 1600x2560 px)

• Must clearly communicate Sci-Fi Romance

• Typography clean and legible even at thumbnail size

If I use AI for the concept, it’s just that — concept art. I’ll refine it manually or with free tools until it looks professional.

4. Back Matter (The Ecosystem Engine)

Include:

• A short Author’s Note to connect personally with readers

• A polite review request (“If you enjoyed this, please leave a review — word-of-mouth is how books like this find readers.”)

• A teaser or link for my next project (Quest for Norumbega) to begin building my author ecosystem

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Phase 5: The “Human Factor” (Reality Check)

Purpose:
Validate the manuscript with real readers, not editors.

Recruit:
Test readers who are fans of:

• Classic sci-fi

• Strong female protagonists

• Found family stories

• Screwball romantic comedy

Ask them for:

• Where they stopped reading

• Where pacing dragged

• Where something was confusing

• What they believe the book is about and how it made them feel

Then I’ll feed this data back into a final AI diagnostic:

“Using the reader feedback below, identify which sections of the manuscript may need adjustment to improve clarity, flow, or emotional pacing.”

Final revisions will be entirely by hand, guided by human reaction, not machine prescription.

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Phase 6 (Optional): The Professional Touch

If I later hire an editor, the manuscript will already be so clean that their labor (and cost) will be minimal.
They can focus on deep insight, not surface triage.

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Core Principles Recap

1. AI inspects; I rewrite.
   It’s a lab instrument, not a co-author.

2. Voice sovereignty.
   The “House Style” guide protects tone, humor, and humanity.

3. Iterate by insight, not obedience.
   Accept AI notes only when they serve the story’s heart.

4. Readers are my true north.
   The real test isn’t algorithmic polish — it’s emotional connection.

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Follow Along

Over the coming months, I’ll be documenting my progress through these phases — the discoveries, the setbacks, and the strange places where machine analysis meets human intuition.

If you’ve ever wondered whether AI can help a writer be more human, not less — I’m about to find out.

Stop Using AI to Write Your Novel—Use It to Improve Your Writing 🛑

AI is a Tool, Not an Author

AI can generate a technically competent story—but it won’t make you a novelist. Writing is about self-expression. If AI writes your novel, it’s not yours.

The real power of AI? A magnifying glass for your craft. 🔎

Example: A writer noticed some chapters in his draft felt flat compared to his best passages. He used AI to compare the strong and weak chapters, asking it to highlight where imagery, pacing, or dialogue fell short.

The AI didn’t rewrite anything. It spotted patterns:

• Repetitive phrasing

• Abrupt transitions

• Underdeveloped descriptions

Armed with this feedback, the writer revised the sections himself. The story remained his—but sharper, closer to the standard he aspired to.

How to Use AI as a Tool

Do use AI to: ✅ Detect inconsistencies ✅ Analyze your style ✅ Highlight weak habits ✅ Brainstorm variations ✅ Refine narrative flow ✅ Automate drafts of useful writing aids—like plot outlines, character profiles, or scene summaries—which you can then review and correct

Don’t use AI to: ❌ Write your story for you ❌ Replace human judgment ❌ Flatten your personal voice

AI is a tool to raise your craft, not replace it.

Bonus: 4 Practical Prompts You Can Use Today

Based on the advice in this post, the most useful prompts are those that ask the AI to act as an analyst, a diagnostician, or a brainstorming partner—not as a ghostwriter.

Here are four prompts you can copy, paste, and adapt for your own work.

1. The "Strong vs. Weak" Comparative Analyzer

This prompt directly implements the "magnifying glass" example from the post. It uses your own best writing as the benchmark to measure and diagnose your weaker passages.

Prompt:

"I will provide two writing samples from my draft.

[Sample A] is a chapter I feel is strong, engaging, and captures my intended voice. [Sample B] is a chapter I feel is weak, flat, and dragging.

Please act as a developmental editor. Analyze and compare both samples. Do NOT rewrite anything. Instead, provide a bulleted list of the specific, actionable differences in craft and style between Sample A and Sample B, focusing on:

• Sentence structure variation and repetitive phrasing

• The density and effectiveness of sensory imagery

• Pacing (where does Sample A create tension that Sample B lacks?)

• Abrupt or missing transitions

• The quality of the dialogue vs. the exposition"

Why this is useful: It forces the AI into an analytical role and uses your own successful work as the "ground truth" for your style, avoiding generic advice.

2. The "Weak Habits" Detector

This prompt is designed to follow the advice to "Analyze your style" and "Highlight weak habits." It asks the AI to scan a larger piece of text for repetitive tics that the author may be blind to.

Prompt:

"I'm providing a 5,000-word excerpt from my novel. I want you to analyze my writing habits.

Please read the entire text and provide a report that identifies:

• Crutch Words: A list of words or phrases I overuse (e.g., 'just,' 'suddenly,' 'he sighed').

• Repetitive Sentence Starters: A list of patterns I rely on to begin sentences (e.g., 'He [verb]...').

• Passive Voice Hotspots: A list of 5-10 sentences written in the passive voice that weaken the prose.

• Dialogue Inconsistencies: Are there any characters whose dialogue patterns seem inconsistent?

Do not rewrite any part of the text. Simply identify and list these patterns so I can perform the revision myself."

Why this is useful: This is a pure diagnostic tool. It saves the writer hours of manual searching for ingrained habits and provides a clear, actionable checklist for revision.

3. The "Brainstorming Partner" for Narrative Flow

This prompt follows the advice to "Brainstorm variations" and "Refine narrative flow" without having the AI write the story. It asks for ideas and questions, not prose.

Prompt:

"Here is a scene from my novel where [Character A] confronts [Character B] about [the main conflict]. The goal of this scene is to create tension and reveal a new piece of information.

[Paste your scene here]

I feel the scene is falling flat and the pacing is wrong. Act as a story consultant and provide me with:

1. A list of 3-5 probing questions about the characters' motivations that I may not have considered.

2. Three bullet-point suggestions for structural changes to increase tension (e.g., 'What if the confrontation was interrupted?' or 'Consider revealing the information in the first line instead of the last?').

3. A note on where the dialogue feels 'on the nose' and could be replaced with subtext or action.

Do not rewrite the scene. Give me options and questions to consider for my own rewrite."

Why this is useful: It keeps the creative judgment firmly with the writer. The AI acts as a sounding board, spotting problems and suggesting categories of solutions, not the solutions themselves.

4. The "Show Me How You Can Help" Prompt

This is a great prompt for novice AI users. Simply ask the AI how it can help you with a sample of writing. Remember, you're in charge, so you don't need to do what it says. You'll know right away if something the AI suggests is something you want to try. The process of trying it will be quick and easy, and you can decide whether you like the advice or not. It's just like human critique; it can be useful even if you don't agree with it.

#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #AIinWriting #CreativeProcess #WritingTips

NaNoWriMo Project: The Keystone

Captain Kate Maclaine is the best spacer in the galaxy. Just don’t ask her to make small talk.

Jump engines, pirates, spatial anomalies: easy. Her charming ex-husband showing up with his beautiful, scheming fiancée: a catastrophe.

But that’s exactly what happens. Now she’s stuck in a tiny ship with a woman she’d rather feed to a black hole—because Archie needs her “impossible-mission” skills for a job that could shake the foundations of galactic power.

To succeed, Kate can’t just fly; she has to lead. Her “team” is a ragtag mob of eccentric geniuses who need inspiration, not just orders. And to guide them, she must do the one thing she’s terrible at: connect with people… starting with the man she ran from a decade ago.

The Keystone is a witty space opera for anyone who knows the only thing harder than saving the galaxy is navigating your love life

Reports of Heavy Metals in Protein Powders: What You Need to Know

  (crossposted on Facebook)

A recent Consumer Reports article raised concerns about heavy metal contamination in protein supplements. It got picked up by the New York Times, and now I’m seeing it all over the internet — a few people have even sent it to me directly.

I read the original report and wanted to share a little context that I think was missing.

1. Yes, heavy metals are in protein powders — especially plant-based ones.

Plants naturally absorb minerals from the soil — the good (like calcium), and the not-so-good (like lead or cadmium). So when you extract and concentrate protein from peas, rice, or hemp, you also concentrate those minerals.

A serving of plant-based protean powder can have up to 10x the metal concentration of the whole plant it came from. That doesn’t mean it’s unsafe, but it’s something to be aware of — especially since many people use these powders daily.

And serving size matters. The worst offenders in the report were high-calorie mass gainers — products meant for elite bodybuilders during bulking phases. One serving can pack 1,500+ calories, which means more of everything — including metals.

2. “No safe level of lead” — technically true, but not the whole story.

There’s no nutritional requirement for lead, so regulators don’t set a “safe” intake level. But that doesn’t mean any trace = dangerous. Tiny amounts are found in many healthy plant foods — even leafy greens and grains.

No one credible is saying “stop eating plants.”

That said, we should be stricter about where plants used for protein powders are grown. If you're going to concentrate a plant’s protein, you’re also concentrating its heavy metals. Standards for plant protein products should reflect that — and until they do, it might be smart to avoid them.

3. So… should you ditch protein powders?

If you can meet your protein needs through whole foods — which most people can — then yes. That’s ideal.

But there are situations where supplements can help:

• People on long-term calorie-restricted diets

• Athletes trying to cut fat without losing muscle

• Older adults who need more protein but eat less overall

In these cases, a protein supplement can be useful — if chosen carefully and used in moderation.

4. Choosing proteins to add to your diet:

High-protein, low-calorie whole foods — like non-fat cottage cheese, plain Greek yogurt, egg whites, or lean meats
Whey or casein protein powder from a reputable brand (if food alone isn’t enough)

Simple products with few additives — unflavored is ideal, but chocolate is a common compromise
Avoid mass gainers — they're extremely high in calories (often 1,000–1,500 per serving) and typically rank highest in contaminants
Avoid protein bars and fortified snacks — these are often junk food with protein powder added, and on calorie-restricted diets the last thing you need is junk food

5. Special case: dieting & older adults

If you’re losing weight, protein is even more important. Without enough, you could lose up to 30% of your weight loss as muscle — which isn’t good for strength, metabolism, or long-term health.

But with enough protein and resistance training, you can keep that number closer to 5–10%.

The problem? You’re eating fewer calories… but need more protein. That’s where a supplement — just one or two servings a day — might really help.

6. What about vegans?

Most vegans can meet their protein needs through whole foods, just like omnivores. But if you're in one of the higher-need groups above, and you're falling short, it gets trickier.

If you need a vegan protein powder, look for one with third-party testing — like NSF Certified for Sport, which screens for contaminants and banned substances.

If you can’t find one you trust, you might want to adjust your training goals or consider slowing your weight loss. A registered dietitian can help you sort that out.

7. Final Takeaways

• Most people don’t need protein supplements. Don’t take protein supplements unless you have specific reason to do so, like weight loss.

• Most people overestimate their protein needs — and underestimate their fiber needs

• If you do supplement, keep to simple non-proprietary supplements like plain whey or casein, limiting servings to 1-2/day. None of that proprietary pixie dust is proven to work anyway, and the more complicated a product is the more sources of risk.

• Avoid “mass gainers” unless you’re a competitive bodybuilder

• Be cautious with plant-based powders unless they’re well tested

• If you’re worried, contact the company and ask to see their testing data

• Inform your primary care physician of any supplements you are taking, including protein, because what is safe and effective for most people isn't necessarily right for you.

I’ve been following this story for some time now; metals in protein supplements are a real concern. But if you follow these guidelines, there is no need for alarm.

I've decided to try to lose weight -- a nearly impossible-to-lose amount of weight. And I've decided to be public and brutally honest about it.

Me at about 305 lb.

How I Got Here

I'm just a quarter inch under six feet tall, and when I reached my current height around age 20 I weighed 165 pounds, which is right smack in the middle of the mythical "ideal weight" charts.  If you were draw a line between that point and the 283 pounds I weighed on my last birthday, it would be equivalent of adding about the weight of a nickel (5 grams) every day.  If you've ever tried weighing yourself daily, you'll know that the readings often go up or down by hundred times that amount on successive days.

Of course the process wasn't quite as linear as that.  There were periods where I plateaued, others (usually after some kind of injury) where I suddenly put on five pounds or so that stayed on. But the point is that the underlying trend is tiny on day to day basis. So tiny as to be imperceptible. And it's very difficult to monitor a trend that that's too small to see, and if you can't monitor it it's nearly impossible to control it.

And in fact there wasn't much objective reason for me to try hard to control it. My blood pressure was generally OK to good.  My cholesterol was OK -- low LDL and sky high HDL.  The only red flag was the distribution of the fat I was putting on.  My limbs are quite lean; nearly all of the fat I put on is belly fat. That's important because the fat that accumulates around your organs, the so-called "visceral fat", has been implicated in a number of inflammation-related diseases including diabetes and dementia.  But aside from the location of the fat I was putting on I could have been the poster boy for "Health at Every Size."   Until December 27 of last year. 

Diabetes

I was driving home from Christmas dinner at my sister's house when suddenly my hands stopped working; it wasn't a cramp exactly but my fingers would not ungrasp the wheel.  The following day I went to the emergency room where I had a random blood glucose reading of 349 -- normal would be 100-120. They gave me a shot of insulin and immediately I felt better than I had in years.  Which is interesting because it shows how feeling "OK" isn't necessarily something you should put much stock in. "OK" can be what "lousy" feels like after you've got used to it.

Diabetes runs in my family so the diagnosis of Type 2 diabetes was no surprise.  I went home with a prescription for metformin, a drug which prevents high blood sugar by inhibiting the body's conversion of stuff it has lying around (like lactic acid) into glucose.  Metformin is the mildest diabetic medication there is, and it's unique in that it cannot cause low blood sugar.  As long as you can manage your diabetes on metformin, you don't have to take onerous daily precautions to avoid dangerously low blood sugar.

This was an opportunity for me; despite my large size I've always been active.  Even being in my 50s and weighing nearly three hundred pounds I can get on a bike and ride thirty miles, or hike for four or five hours over rugged terrain.  My doctor says I'm "robust" for my age.  So I set out to manage my diabetes with an aggressive regime of exercise, and initially it paid off.   One of the most useful yardsticks for how well you're managing your diabetes is called "Hemoglobin A1C"; it's a measure of the cumulative effect of high blood sugar over the past several months.  When I visited the doctor in mid January I weighed 281 pounds (about 30 pounds under my maximum body weight ever) and had a super-high A1C of 10.5.  When I followed up three months later I still weighed 283 pounds, but my A1C at 5.8 was just a hair above normal.

I'd also joined the Y and found I could easily burn about a thousand calories an hour on an elliptical machine, but the real foundation of my diabetes control strategy was simply walking.  Whenever I walked for two hours or longer my blood sugar levels would drop back into the normal range -- low 100s or even under 100 -- and stay there for the rest of the day.  

Setback my Exercise Regime

Although it required a high level of commitment, it looked like I'd come up with an effective long-term strategy for managing my diabetes. Then I slipped on the ice crossing the street on one of my walks and injured my knee. 

That actually happened in February, a month and a half before my excellent April checkup. Despite hurting my knee I continued to burn 3000-4000 extra calories a week, but over the course of April my knee deteriorated fast. By the start of March walking more than a few steps had become painful and I could only walk with a cane. I had essentially become almost entirely sedentary.

This turned out to be almost like an experiment. I had super-high A1C (10.5) in January. In April after three months of intensive exercise my A1C was practically normal (5.8).  Then after three months mostly sedentary my A1C crept into the moderately high range (6.5). Surprisingly I'd also lost about seven pounds. Of course some of that could be muscle, but my experience in this period suggests what may be the problem with the idea of losing weight by exercising.  When I stopped exercising a lot of my appetite went away.  A big sandwich that a few months ago I'd have snarfed down without even tasting now looks like way too much for me to tackle now.

Why I've Decided to Lose Weight

Thanks to a combination of steroid injections and and physical therapy I can now walk for about 45 minutes before my knee starts sending warning signals.  And despite the inactivity imposed on me by my knee injury, my A1C remains well within the therapeutic target range for diabetic patients.  So being forced to be sedentary isn't exactly a health crisis.  The problem is that my knee limits many of the activities I enjoy.  I can't hike, or bike for very long and I can't kneel to paddle my canoe. Even if my knee get better, the writing is on the wall: my orthopedist tells me I have arthritis in both knees, and from the increased strain I'm feeling in my "good" knee I can tell I don't have a lot use left in either knee. At least not at the levels of stress they've been getting. And I've been having other inflammation-related health problems which are almost certainly related to central obesity (i.e., visceral fat).

I've decided that the only way I can continue to enjoy the things I used to enjoy is to lose weight.  A lot of weight.  Around least fifty pounds I'd say, although half-again that would be even better. The problem is that losing this much weight is statistically improbable, and keeping it off for more than a few months is nearly unheard of.  And, although absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, there is no scientific evidence that diet and exercise can achieve sustainable weight loss. But I'm going to give it try anyway.

Right from the outset it's a virtual certainty that I'm going to fail.  I have certain advantages that most people attempting this don't have, but realistically my chances of success are something like 5-10%. But that's OK. One of the things I learned in my professional life is not to be afraid of failure. The real problems with failure are taking to long to acknowledge it, stubbornly refusing to learn from it, and being so afraid you get too timid to take risks.  And after all, what am I risking here? A couple of years of effort surely.  A chance that I might come out of this a little bit heavier.  

On the other hand even if I fail I may get a window of opportunity in which I can strengthen my knees and extend the time I can enjoy strenuous physical activity by several years.  One of the keys to being a "successful failure" is finding something useful you can take out of a project that doesn't meet its goals.

Why I'm Sharing This

I've also decided to be very public and open about this.  Normally I keep this sort of thing to myself because I'm an introvert. That doesn't mean I'm shy or socially awkward, it means I don't particularly enjoy being the center of attention.  But weight management is something a lot of people struggle with; it makes people feel like failures.  I, on the other hand, am not afraid of failure.  In this case not even a tiny bit. I don't think it'll mean I'm a bad or contemptible person.  

So although it's contrary to my usual inclination, I'm going to share my personal successes and failures. I intend to take one almighty hell of a whack at this thing, and if I fail I'll move on and take whatever useful I can from it.  I also intend to be brutally honest about what it's like to attempt this, in the hope that other people who are trying (and perhaps failing) can take some comfort in my experiences.

WBR: A Voyage To Arcturus by David Lindsay (1920)

I thought I'd say a few things about David Linday's seminal 1920 sci fi/fantasy novel, A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS. This is a novel which immensely influential for many important 20th Century writers and critics. J.R.R. Tolkien was an admirer, and C.S. Lewis was clearly deeply influenced by it. Even literary critic Harold Bloom fell under its spell; his one attempt at writing his own novel was a sequel called A FLIGHT TO LUCIFER.

Here are the opening 13 lines (note -- A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS is in the public domain):

On a March evening, at eight o'clock, Backhouse, the medium—a fast-rising star in the psychic world—was ushered into the study at Prolands, the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull. The room was illuminated only by the light of a blazing fire. The host, eying him with indolent curiosity, got up, and the usual conventional greetings were exchanged. Having indicated an easy chair before the fire to his guest, the South American merchant sank back again into his own. The electric light was switched on. Faull's prominent, clear-cut features, metallic-looking skin, and general air of bored impassiveness, did not seem greatly to impress the medium, who was accustomed to regard men from a special angle. Backhouse, on the contrary, was a novelty to the merchant. As he tranquilly studied him through half closed lids and the smoke of a cigar, he wondered how this little, thickset person with the pointed beard contrived to remain so fresh and sane in appearance, in view of the morbid nature of his occupation.

This opening gives an almost entirely misleading impression about what is to come. It sounds like the start of countless Victorian and Edwardian adventure stories, but this is nothing of the sort. Faull and Backhouse along with a number of other nicely-drawn characters from the first chapter simply disappear. The novel moves on to the enigmatic gentlemen Maskull and Nightspore, and then for the bulk of the novel just Maskull alone.

Looking at a manuscript opening like this I'd immediately pull out my red pen. It's inefficient to introduce the readers to characters in the opening when those characters are going to immediately disappear, especially "point of view" characters. And generally you want to let readers know the kind of story they're in for -- at least in genre fiction, where you generally take the reader by the hand and show him he's come to the right place. And there are other things you expect from a science fiction adventure too: a dramatic structure with a readily identifiable beginning middle and end; a protagonist with motivations and problems who deals with a series of rising complications and ultimately resolves them.

What you get in A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS is none of these things. It is not dramatic, it is epic, episodic and nightmarish. It's a long and difficult slog because so much of what carries you through a conventional, dramatically structured novel just isn't there. Chief among these are characterization and motivation. Maskull has no real reason to visit Arcturus other than a vague interest; once he gets there he goes from place to place, not because he has any reason to, but more in that he has no compelling reason NOT to. Maskull reminds me of Mersault in Albert Camus' THE STRANGER, who also does appalling things for no particular reason.

It's almost as if Lindsay sat down to write a commercial 19th C adventure yarn and ended up writing an avant garde novel. It's possible; first novels do have a way of getting away from their authors. A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS anticipates much of later 20th Century literature. Practically the entire Existentialist lexicon could be indexed to this book; it's chock full of absurdity, despair and rudderless anxiety. Even Maskull's confusing inconsistency could be put down to lack of what Existentialists call "authenticity". 

Sound like fun? Well, at the time the word of mouth must have been disastrously bad: it sold fewer than 600 of its original print run, and I'd bet the very few of the original purchasers made it all the way through. But if you don't give up, the balance between frustration and fascination gradually tips toward fascination. A mere decade after it's publication it took C.S. Lewis three years to locate a copy; but even though in his correspondence he's clearly aware of ARCTURUS's limitations, its impact upon Lewis's own fiction is almost hard to overstate.

Now a lot of fans of A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS have written various keys to its enigmatic meanings, but the point of these writer's book reports isn't to discuss meaning, or even literary value; it's to look at lessons we can draw about *method*. But I don't think there's a lot of lessons to draw about method from this particular book. Its language is competently composed, but frankly I think that this book's virtues as a work of imagination are somewhat exaggerated by its admirers. Take the following:

The floor itself was like a magician's garden. Densely interwoven trees, shrubs, and parasitical climbers fought everywhere for possession of it. The forms were strange and grotesque, and each one seemed different; the colours of leaf, flower, sexual organs, and stem were equally peculiar—all the different combinations of the five primary colours of Tormance seemed to be represented, and the result, for Maskull was a sort of eye chaos.

At first this passage seems impressive, but if you really examine it you find it's only just that -- seemingly impressive. The "densely interwoven trees" etc. are fine as far as they go, but then Lindsay punts on the description. In so many words he's essentially telling us that the what Maskull is seeing is indescribable. I suppose a little of this is inevitable when describing an alien landscape, but I find that when this kind of handwaving is incessant it quickly becomes annoying.

This is not to say that the work lacks imagnation -- far from it. Imagination runs riot on every page, but mainly in the realm of ideas rather than sensation. In the chapter quoted above Lindsay gives us a character of a third gender:

He found himself incapable of grasping at first why the bodily peculiarities of this being should strike him as springing from sex, and not from race, and yet there was no doubt about the fact itself. Body, face, and eyes were absolutely neither male nor female, but something quite different. Just as one can distinguish a man from a woman at the first glance by some indefinable difference of expression and atmospheres altogether apart from the contour of the figure, so the stranger was separated in appearance from both.

See? It's the old handwaving trick again. You can't call this "unimaginative", but it strikes me as undisciplined; not fleshed-out as it could be.

So how did this clumsy and difficult text become the most influential underground speculative fiction novel ever? Where does the fascination come from? I think it's the experience of being in the hands of a totally uncompromising author.

Some bad writers like to think of themselves as uncompromising; they hide the fact they don't know how to engage readers by pretending they're not interested in catering to the unwashed masses. That's just craven, self-righteous posturing. But Lindsay is a different animal. He is sincerely obsessed with debunking anything you might believe lends your existence meaning or significance. This pig-headed skepticism, chapter after chapter, begins to take on the color of integrity. 

Which brings me to what I think is the lesson of this novel: the difference between the things that produce accessibility and the things that produce power in writing. 

I think we can lump much of what makes a piece of writing widely accessible under the heading of "technique". Imagine a writer of crude fan-fiction. At first what he writes is only interesting to fans of the franchise. As he gets better at prose style, plotting , structure and characterization, more people who can read his fan-fic without scorn. Eventually many can read his work with actual enjoyment.  His work becomes more accessible to the general reader, albeit starting from the opposite end of the spectrum that inaccessible highbrow literature does.

A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS may be the most inaccessible published novel I've ever read. And although this opinion will offend fans of the novel, I think it's because the novel is crude. Which is not to say it's stupid or unimaginative. It's just that it's prose style is at best serviceable, and it lacks things like structure, plotting, and characterization that help readers through a long story.

On the other hands A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS is immensely powerful. That's because the writer has something to say to practically every human being. Whether you're an ethical egoist, an altruist, a sensualist or a legalist, David Lindsay wants you to know you're just wrong, wrong, wrong. Even even if you insist on disagreeing with him, at least you have the pleasure of seeing him shoot holes in the opinions of other people you disagree with.

So power in writing, I think, comes from having something to say that's meaningful to readers -- at least some of them. A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS is a book for perhaps one in a million readers, but I believe it will always find those readers.

Should *you* read A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS? I'd say its practical value to a science fiction author is debatable; but I definitely think it is a must-read for fantasy and even more so horror writers. That's not a guarantee you'll enjoy it, but it's worth studying the way Lindsay imbues the landscape and its inhabitants with immanent meaning (albeit only to debunk that meaning).

BIBLIOGRAPHIC DATA

Title: A Voyage to Arcturus

Author: David Lindsay

Published: 1920

Pubisher: Methuen & Co. Ltd., London UK

Edition Reviewed: ISBN 978-1480258426

Word Count: 93,000