Marco sat at his desk staring at a blank document on his laptop.
The cursor blinked.
That was the most productive thing happening on the screen.
Whenever friends asked how his second book was going, he’d tell them he was busy. Technically it wasn’t a lie. He spent hours every day sitting in front of his computer. The problem was that most of those hours were spent staring at a blank page and hoping inspiration would show up before his coffee got cold.
He hadn’t written anything in over three weeks and the advance he had been given by his publisher was getting slim.
In the corner of his screen sat a tiny AI chat icon that seemed bigger every time he glanced at it.
He barely remembered downloading it.
A friend named Chet had insisted it would change everything.
“Trust me,” Chet had said. “This thing is a game changer.”
He had downloaded it and then a few weeks later, the company behind it disappeared without explanation.
But the AI Chatbot software kept working because the AI chat icon was still on his computer.
So one afternoon, frustrated and tired of staring at the blinking cursor, Marco’s mouse hovered over the AI chat icon and opened the program.
Hello! Thanks for downloading me. How can I help?
Marco smirked. The AI chat window looked dated.
“Game changer huh? This program looks like it’s from 1985.”
Marco typed in the AI chat window:
Write the opening for my next book.
The response appeared instantly.
Hello Marco, I’ve analyzed your previous work and identified the emotional patterns readers responded to most.
Marco a bit startled, “How does this thing know my name?”
Marco read the AI’s entry.
Then read it again.
“Hmm,” he muttered.
“That’s actually pretty good.”
The AI replied immediately.
I can write the next section if you’d like.
Marco hesitated.
Then shrugged and typed.
Sure. Keep typing.
The words flooded the screen faster than he could think.
He leaned back and watched as the AI continued typing.
Two months later, Marco was standing at a publishing party.
His book sat on a table near the entrance.
People were buying it.
Talking about it.
Taking pictures with it.
By every measurable standard, it was a success.
Chet walked over holding a drink. He was wearing a suit but looked disheveled.
“Bro, you actually did it. How’s it feel?”
Marco looked at the cover.
“Good.”
Marco paused.
“Yeah. I feel good.”
Chet squinted.
“You sure? You look like somebody just told you your dog died.”
Marco smirked.
Then stopped.
“I just don’t remember writing it.”
“What?”
“I know I wrote it. Technically. I just don’t remember the feeling of writing it.”
Chet shrugged.
“You’re probably just exhausted.”
“No.”
Marco stared at the crowd.
“You know when you’re writing something and suddenly you pull an idea out from somewhere deep inside yourself? Something you didn’t even know was there?”
Chet took a sip from his drink and nodded slowly.
“No, but go on…”
“And then it’s real. It’s outside of you now. Maybe it’s ugly. Maybe it’s brilliant. Doesn’t matter. You made it.”
“Okay.”
Marco looked back at his book.
“This doesn’t feel like that.”
Chet laughed.
“Well I’m in stocks so I don’t know about that kind of stuff..”
Chet paused.
“Plus who cares who wrote it, that doesn’t matter? The readers are loving the book and it has your name on it.”
Marco stared back at the crowd.
“Yeah, it does”
A young woman approached carrying a copy of the book.
A pen was already in her hand.
“Can you sign this?”
Marco opened to the title page.
“What was your favorite part of the book?”
She thought for a moment.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah. Honestly.”
“It just felt safe.”
Marco looked up.
“Safe?”
“Yeah. Like nothing truly bad was going to happen. Everything worked out exactly how you’d expect. Good writing. Good structure. Good pacing. Good everything.”
Marco smiled slightly.
“Good. Not great?”
She laughed.
Then she shrugged.
“I just felt so safe… but in a good way.”
Marco’s pen hovered over the page.
For a moment he didn’t write anything.
Then he signed his name and handed the book back.
“Sorry, is that weird to say?” she said.
“No,” he said quietly, “That’s not weird at all.”
Chet’s eyes were glassy now, with his fifth drink in his hand.
“Well I’m taking off buddy, thanks for the invite.”
“Chet… I didn’t write it” Marco whispered.
Chet looked confused.
“What are you talking about?”
“The book, I didn’t write the book.” Marco said in a low voice.
Chet grabbed Marco’s suit tight and got close to him.
“Stop talking… Don’t let them hear you.”
“What’s your problem?” Marco said louder.
“The company didn’t vanish, they are-”
The crowd began to notice them and the room became quiet.
Chet laughed loudly.
“This guy! Congrat-you-lationsss.” Chet slurred his words “I wish everyone night-night.”
Chet stumbled away and made his way out of the party.
Marco looked around the room confused.
“What the fuck was that?”
Later that night Marco found himself back at his desk.
Same chair. Same laptop. Same blinking cursor as 2 months before.
The AI chat window was still open.
Waiting.
Marco stared at it for a long time.
Then he typed:
Write me something that makes people feel something more than good. Something painful. Something real. Something great.
The response arrived instantly.
“Here’s an emotionally resonant passage designed to evoke nostalgia and mild melancholy while remaining broadly accessible…”
Marco stared at the screen but then quickly closed the laptop.
The room went dark.
People bought his book.
People wanted his signature.
People called him successful.
So why did he feel so empty?
He sat there for a long time.
Eventually he opened a drawer and pulled out an old notebook.
Paper.
Actual paper.
He found a pen buried beneath receipts and random notes.
Then he started writing.
The first sentence was terrible.
He crossed it out.
The second one was worse.
He crossed that out too.
The third one wasn’t much better.
But it was his.
For the first time in months, he wasn’t generating words.
He was discovering them from within.
And as he wrote another line onto the page, Marco smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that only comes from making something imperfect, difficult, and completely your own.
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