Your Sequel in Two Minutes Flat
A Self-Published Authors' Unthinkable Decision
John had written a good WWII novel. He couldn’t find a publisher for it, so he self-published it. Marketing it and promoting it were exactly as hard and unrewarding as he anticipated they would be. The book got some nice customer reviews; sold a few copies; garnered a few speaking engagements; and, all in all, rewarded him at the level he expected.
And that level was enough to permit him to contemplate writing the novel’s sequel.
One day, he got an unsolicited email offering him the following service. This outfit “loved his first novel” and would be pleased to write his sequel for him in a matter of minutes. All he would need to do was provide some plot points and so forth—their proprietary large language model would do the rest. They already knew his voice—which they loved—and so, the rest would be a snap.
Eric Maisel is an internationally-respected diplomat coach who specializes in creativity coaching, existential wellness coaching, and relationship coaching. He trains coaches and provides workshops and webinars nationally and internationally. Find his entire catalogue of published books here!
John sat there, reading and rereading the email. It had taken him on the order of two years to write his novel. So, he could have his sequel done in a day, or less. He could save himself all sorts of sweat and tears for … he didn’t check the price. The price was almost irrelevant. A novel in two years or a novel in a day? And then, you could “write” the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. And, in a week or less, you could have a series spanning two decades of the protagonist’s life …
John sat there.
It was remarkable.
Unbelievable.
Terrible.
Of course, his life as a writer was over. Who in their right mind would spend two years writing a novel that could be “written” in two minutes, especially when sitting there and writing was not something he loved all that much? He loved parts of the process—but hated others. Why subject himself to two years of that? What could be more absurd?
So, from one moment to the next, sitting there at his computer, with nothing much going on except the refrigerator humming and some clouds passing over the sun, his whole reason for being evaporated—because of an email; or rather, because of what the email signified. It signified that writing was officially over.
Part of him felt prepared to hit reply and get a price quote. Part of him died. John sat there, in a something like a trance. At some point, he noticed that he was crying. The crying lasted considerably longer than it would take AI to write that sequel.
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