Organic vs. AI-generated writing

You have never before heard such a nervous clattering in the discreet, carpeted corridors of the world’s great publishing houses. There is a palpable, unprecedented fear vibrating behind those closed doors. A growing sense of alarm is sweeping through the industry worldwide. Computer inboxes are no longer just full; they are heavily clogged with an impenetrable, thick traffic jam of manuscripts, and literary competitions are receiving more original submissions than ever before.

Once upon a time, the repository of unsolicited manuscripts was simply known as “the slush pile.” It was a physical mountain of paper, a testament to the fact that few were actually brave enough, or persistent enough, to finish a book. Back then, a literary prize was occasionally left unawarded—deserted, simply because the usual suspects did not click with the jury’s sensibilities and the slush pile yielded no hidden gems. The gates were heavily guarded, and the gatekeepers slept soundly.

Those were the days of the old-school writers. They started with a pencil and let the words flow like bourbon-driven fools, bleeding their raw, unpolished souls onto the page. They left the hard work to the typewriters first, and then to the editor—that unsung hero who would ruthlessly cut through the tangled manuscript. The goal was always singular: to distill the prose until the common reader could do what he does best, which is painting the author’s world with his own vivid colors.

Then came the generation of writers who used the typewriter not just to transcribe, but to actively edit. They loved to waste paper, yanking half-finished thoughts from the carriage and tossing them into the overflowing bin under the desk. I sincerely miss those machines. In the beginning, they were massive and incredibly loud. Every keystroke was a physical commitment. Because of this machinery, society became convinced that typing fast—without looking down at the keys—was a vital life skill. I think my parents tried to instill this in me back in 1980, without any success. I simply did not like writing without thinking. What’s the point of moving your fingers faster than your brain can conjure meaning?

So, I maintained a delicate balance between deliberate handwriting and measured typewriting, until the word processor arrived and changed the rhythm of thought entirely. It wasn’t aggressively loud like the typewriter, and in its infancy, the dot-matrix printer still spat out text with faint, shitty points. But progress was relentless. Soon came the internet, the crisp perfection of laser printers, and bigger monitors that glowed late into the night.

This digital revolution began tearing down the old walls, flooding the carefully cultivated gardens of the gatekeepers. Magazines and newspapers had to adapt, and eventually, books had to adapt too. It is true that the proportion of writers had already grown in a frankly insulting manner in recent years, expanding at a much faster rate than the population of readers. But that phenomenon must be seen as part of a broader explanation. Thanks to technological conveniences, people discovered a long time ago that it is much more fun to be an author than a reader, or a tweeter than a newspaper buyer. It is a novelty, I insist, that is purely technical: it has been known since Eve that talking is much more fun than listening.

Added to this structural surge is the recent, explosive development of artificial intelligence. It was not until the covid pandemic, when the world ground to a halt, that tech moguls went a step further. What could they sell now? Their answer was AI in all its forms.

Now, editors are utterly convinced that this algorithm-driven output is the sole reason for the massive spike in manuscripts. When it comes to literary prizes, the alarm has reached hysterical levels. The prospect of accidentally awarding a prestigious prize to a text written by an AI won’t let them sleep or live in peace.

But regarding the books that an artificial