Image is from this Neuroscience article you should read.
Out of curiosity, I fed the first couple of paragraphs on my next book into Google's AI. Specifically using their "polish" feature. To no one's surprise the results were mixed, though not entirely without merit. Take a look and see what you think.
All me, no machine:
Eric was no hero, but when a blood curdling scream pierced the afternoon calm from a nearby yard, he ran toward it.
"Hello!" He jogged between the dilapidated houses, scanning for the source of the scream. This neighborhood had seen better days. Even the grass in every chain linked yard looked bedraggled. He stopped to listen. There was an unnatural quiet. The silence after a loud noise still vibrating the air molecules. All the usual white noise of transport pods humming by, ebikes swishing along the sidewalks, or... that was it. No dogs were barking.
There was one house in the area with a really mean dog. After his first encounter with Cujo (Eric's secret name for the monster), he avoided that street. It meant adding a few minutes to his route every single day of his life, but Cujo had a reputation that was no fiction. That was five years ago. He was in middle school now, should get over it. But he was so used to his usual routes, why change now.
As he prowled down sideyards he could make out the sound of someone crying. He came around the corner to a smear of blood and fur. He stopped and looked around, hands twitching. To calm the tingling on the back of his neck, he dug into his pocket for his electric lighter. He flicked it on and cupped his hand over the tiny arc of electricity. There was no doubt in his mind that smear was once Cujo.
"Hello?" He said again, the arc of electricity now flickering between his thumb and forefinger. The crying stopped and there was the scuffling of feet, followed by a crashing sound and a startled yelp. What had started as a spark burned across his palm as he built up the charge.
As he neared the corner, he jumped, hoping to surprise whoever had blended the neighborhood terror. "Gotcha!" He declared triumphantly.
Huddled between a storage shed and the side of the house was a girl. Sheets of old solar panels toppled on the ground separating him from her. Eyes wide, her face red and streaked with tears, shaking.
"It was an accident. I didn't mean to." She dropped to the ground and started sobbing into her hands.
The electricity in Eric's palm disappeared into a burst of heat. Her brown hair spilled over shoulders and curtained around her face. She was crying so hard Eric thought she might pass out. He thought of what remained of the dog and tried to tie it to this person before him.
"You did that?" He pointed behind him. Impressive.
She started to hyperventilate. That had to be, yes.
Eric stepped over the panels and crouched in front of her. "Hey, hey, it's okay." His instinct was to hug her but he had zero idea who this was. Would touching her turn him into a smear on the pavement too? "You did me a favor."
Finally she looked up, her breathing came in short stutters. "Really?"
"For sure. I hated that dog. Everyone did."
Eye blue eyes, searched his face. Probably trying to decide if she could trust him. Which she could, of course, but she didn't know that yet. He gave her, his most winning smile. "He was chasing me and--" New tears spilled down her face. "I didn't..."
"You defended yourself. That's all." If this girl had a mean bone in her body, he would be shocked.
She blinked as she absorbed this new way of assessing the situation. The girl wiped her face.
"Are you just passing through the neighborhood?" He stood and held his hand out to her.
She accepted and he pulled her up. "We just moved here. Last week."
"Oh cool. I'm Eric." He held out his head. When he thought about the dog, he almost pulled his hand back but fought the urge.
"I'm Brooke." She shook his hand, everything about her started to loosen.
With Google’s polish feature:
Eric might not have been a hero, but when a bloodcurdling scream shattered the afternoon quiet from a nearby yard, his instincts kicked in, and he ran towards the sound.
"Hello!" He jogged between the run-down houses, scanning for the source of the scream. The neighborhood had clearly seen better days, with even the grass in the yards looking tired and neglected. He paused, listening intently. An unnatural quiet had fallen, the kind of silence that buzzes in the air after a loud noise. The usual hum of transport pods and the whir of e-bikes were absent. Then he realized: even the dogs weren't barking.
There was one house in particular known for its mean dog, "Cujo," as Eric secretly called him. After a frightening first encounter years ago, Eric had always gone out of his way to avoid that street, adding minutes to his daily routine. Now in middle school, he wondered if he should get over his fear, but old habits die hard.
As he cautiously made his way through the side yards, he heard someone crying. Rounding a corner, he saw a smear of blood and fur. He stopped, his hands twitching nervously. To calm the unease creeping up his neck, he pulled out his electric lighter, flicking it on and cupping his hand over the tiny arc of electricity. He knew, without a doubt, that the smear was what remained of Cujo.
"Hello?" he called out again, the arc of electricity flickering between his thumb and forefinger. The crying stopped, replaced by the scuffling of feet, a crash, and a startled yelp. The charge in his palm intensified, burning as he focused.
As he neared the corner, he jumped out, hoping to surprise whoever had taken down the neighborhood terror. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed.
Huddled between a storage shed and the side of the house was a girl, separated from him by toppled sheets of old solar panels. Her eyes were wide, her face red and tear-streaked, and she was shaking.
"It was an accident. I didn't mean to," she sobbed, dropping to the ground.
The electricity in Eric's palm dissipated in a burst of heat. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders, curtaining her face. She was crying so hard he thought she might pass out. He glanced at the remains of the dog and struggled to reconcile the image with the girl in front of him.
"You did that?" he asked, pointing behind him, impressed.
She started to hyperventilate, confirming his suspicion.
Eric stepped over the panels and crouched in front of her. "Hey, hey, it's okay." His first instinct was to hug her, but he hesitated, unsure of who she was. "You did me a favor."
Finally, she looked up, her breathing short and uneven. "Really?"
"For sure. I hated that dog. Everyone did."
Her blue eyes searched his face, probably trying to gauge his sincerity. He gave her his most reassuring smile. "He was chasing me, and—" New tears welled up. "I didn't..."
"You defended yourself. That's all." He couldn't imagine this girl having a mean bone in her body.
She blinked, considering this new perspective, and wiped her face.
"Are you just passing through the neighborhood?" He stood and offered her a hand.
She accepted, and he helped her up. "We just moved here. Last week."
"Oh, cool. I'm Eric." He extended his hand. He hesitated, thinking of the dog, but fought the urge to pull back.
"I'm Brooke." She shook his hand, and he could see her starting to relax.
Eric was no hero, but when a blood curdling scream pierced the afternoon calm from a nearby yard, he ran toward it.
"Hello!" He jogged between the dilapidated houses, scanning for the source of the scream. This neighborhood had seen better days. Even the grass in every chain linked yard looked bedraggled. He stopped to listen. There was an unnatural quiet. The silence after a loud noise still vibrating the air molecules. All the usual white noise of transport pods humming by, ebikes swishing along the sidewalks, or... that was it. No dogs were barking.
There was one house in the area with a really mean dog. After his first encounter with Cujo (Eric's secret name for the monster), he avoided that street. It meant adding a few minutes to his route every single day of his life, but Cujo had a reputation that was no fiction. That was five years ago. He was in middle school now, should get over it. But he was so used to his usual routes, why change now.
As he prowled down sideyards he could make out the sound of someone crying. He came around the corner to a smear of blood and fur. He stopped and looked around, hands twitching. To calm the tingling on the back of his neck, he dug into his pocket for his electric lighter. He flicked it on and cupped his hand over the tiny arc of electricity. There was no doubt in his mind that smear was once Cujo.
"Hello?" He said again, the arc of electricity now flickering between his thumb and forefinger. The crying stopped and there was the scuffling of feet, followed by a crashing sound and a startled yelp. What had started as a spark burned across his palm as he built up the charge.
As he neared the corner, he jumped, hoping to surprise whoever had blended the neighborhood terror. "Gotcha!" He declared triumphantly.
Huddled between a storage shed and the side of the house was a girl. Sheets of old solar panels toppled on the ground separating him from her. Eyes wide, her face red and streaked with tears, shaking.
"It was an accident. I didn't mean to." She dropped to the ground and started sobbing into her hands.
The electricity in Eric's palm disappeared into a burst of heat. Her brown hair spilled over shoulders and curtained around her face. She was crying so hard Eric thought she might pass out. He thought of what remained of the dog and tried to tie it to this person before him.
"You did that?" He pointed behind him. Impressive.
She started to hyperventilate. That had to be, yes.
Eric stepped over the panels and crouched in front of her. "Hey, hey, it's okay." His instinct was to hug her but he had zero idea who this was. Would touching her turn him into a smear on the pavement too? "You did me a favor."
Finally she looked up, her breathing came in short stutters. "Really?"
"For sure. I hated that dog. Everyone did."
Eye blue eyes, searched his face. Probably trying to decide if she could trust him. Which she could, of course, but she didn't know that yet. He gave her, his most winning smile. "He was chasing me and--" New tears spilled down her face. "I didn't..."
"You defended yourself. That's all." If this girl had a mean bone in her body, he would be shocked.
She blinked as she absorbed this new way of assessing the situation. The girl wiped her face.
"Are you just passing through the neighborhood?" He stood and held his hand out to her.
She accepted and he pulled her up. "We just moved here. Last week."
"Oh cool. I'm Eric." He held out his head. When he thought about the dog, he almost pulled his hand back but fought the urge.
"I'm Brooke." She shook his hand, everything about her started to loosen.
With Google’s polish feature:
Eric might not have been a hero, but when a bloodcurdling scream shattered the afternoon quiet from a nearby yard, his instincts kicked in, and he ran towards the sound.
"Hello!" He jogged between the run-down houses, scanning for the source of the scream. The neighborhood had clearly seen better days, with even the grass in the yards looking tired and neglected. He paused, listening intently. An unnatural quiet had fallen, the kind of silence that buzzes in the air after a loud noise. The usual hum of transport pods and the whir of e-bikes were absent. Then he realized: even the dogs weren't barking.
There was one house in particular known for its mean dog, "Cujo," as Eric secretly called him. After a frightening first encounter years ago, Eric had always gone out of his way to avoid that street, adding minutes to his daily routine. Now in middle school, he wondered if he should get over his fear, but old habits die hard.
As he cautiously made his way through the side yards, he heard someone crying. Rounding a corner, he saw a smear of blood and fur. He stopped, his hands twitching nervously. To calm the unease creeping up his neck, he pulled out his electric lighter, flicking it on and cupping his hand over the tiny arc of electricity. He knew, without a doubt, that the smear was what remained of Cujo.
"Hello?" he called out again, the arc of electricity flickering between his thumb and forefinger. The crying stopped, replaced by the scuffling of feet, a crash, and a startled yelp. The charge in his palm intensified, burning as he focused.
As he neared the corner, he jumped out, hoping to surprise whoever had taken down the neighborhood terror. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed.
Huddled between a storage shed and the side of the house was a girl, separated from him by toppled sheets of old solar panels. Her eyes were wide, her face red and tear-streaked, and she was shaking.
"It was an accident. I didn't mean to," she sobbed, dropping to the ground.
The electricity in Eric's palm dissipated in a burst of heat. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders, curtaining her face. She was crying so hard he thought she might pass out. He glanced at the remains of the dog and struggled to reconcile the image with the girl in front of him.
"You did that?" he asked, pointing behind him, impressed.
She started to hyperventilate, confirming his suspicion.
Eric stepped over the panels and crouched in front of her. "Hey, hey, it's okay." His first instinct was to hug her, but he hesitated, unsure of who she was. "You did me a favor."
Finally, she looked up, her breathing short and uneven. "Really?"
"For sure. I hated that dog. Everyone did."
Her blue eyes searched his face, probably trying to gauge his sincerity. He gave her his most reassuring smile. "He was chasing me, and—" New tears welled up. "I didn't..."
"You defended yourself. That's all." He couldn't imagine this girl having a mean bone in her body.
She blinked, considering this new perspective, and wiped her face.
"Are you just passing through the neighborhood?" He stood and offered her a hand.
She accepted, and he helped her up. "We just moved here. Last week."
"Oh, cool. I'm Eric." He extended his hand. He hesitated, thinking of the dog, but fought the urge to pull back.
"I'm Brooke." She shook his hand, and he could see her starting to relax.
My current thinking on the matter is that something like the "polish" feature could be used a kind of first round editor to make some of my wording less clunky. There were some spots I felt read a lot better. However, I do think it flattened the prose and took out the personality from some of my lines.
So while I think it could be handy to help clean up a story for readability, I would still need to make the executive decisions of what got to stay or be deleted. And I would still hire a proper editor because human editors are capable of nuance and able to make the emotional connections across an entire story. The AI may be able to use language in a way that gives the impression of continuity. i.e. For Eric it constantly tried to use words like; spark, jolt, static, current, buzz, charge, live wire et al, over and over. In most of my test cases, it uses a hammer with word motifs and themes and doesn't know when to apply subtly or let the reader piece ideas together on their own.
I honestly can't imagine a future where writers of any kind could totally rely on AI. I think it can be a useful aid but it is not a replacement.
So while I think it could be handy to help clean up a story for readability, I would still need to make the executive decisions of what got to stay or be deleted. And I would still hire a proper editor because human editors are capable of nuance and able to make the emotional connections across an entire story. The AI may be able to use language in a way that gives the impression of continuity. i.e. For Eric it constantly tried to use words like; spark, jolt, static, current, buzz, charge, live wire et al, over and over. In most of my test cases, it uses a hammer with word motifs and themes and doesn't know when to apply subtly or let the reader piece ideas together on their own.
I honestly can't imagine a future where writers of any kind could totally rely on AI. I think it can be a useful aid but it is not a replacement.
RSS Feed