Tag Archives: Shane

What Artificial Intelligence Can’t Give a Writer

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone

This is a long one. Pack a lunch.

I hesitated to write yet another post about AI. The blogosphere is jam-packed with thoughts, opinions, screeds, exaltations, and jeremiads concerning this quantum leap in machine capacity.

For writers, there is no end of discussion on the use (or abuse) of AI in the writing of a book. For me, that consideration boils down to this: AI is an amazingly powerful tool—and time saver—for things like research, brainstorming, book descriptions, synopses, series bibles and so on. But where the rubber meets the road—or the words meet the page—is when the machine writes the actual prose that will appear in the final product issued under the author’s name. That is a line I refuse to cross. Why I don’t is the subject of this post.

Before I get to the main point, allow me a small excursus on writing for money. It’s okay to do that! The pulp writers of old wrote for money, especially during the Depression. They learned the formulae for romance, mystery, fantasy, and adventure. They churned out stories for which they were paid. That’s called free enterprise. The best of them added their unique voice to set them above the average pulpster. You had the sharp leanness of Dashiell Hammett, the thunder and lightning of Robert E. Howard, the cynical snap of Raymond Chandler.

But now AI can churn out formulaic novels with a few clicks of the Return key. Anyone with a modicum of computer sense (not really a “writer” if they don’t do the actual writing) can produce a product that can be sold online. Such a producer might turn out five, ten, fifteen books a month, in the hope that sheer volume will return some hearty ducats.

It’s possible to tell Chat or Grok or some other machine to come up with a complete outline for a fantasy, and then tell it to write scenes “in the style of” Brandon Sanderson or George R. R. Martin or Patrick Rothfuss and boom, a day or two later you’ve got a novel.

That’s legal. But is it ethical? I decided to ask Grok (**irony alert**). Here’s the result. (I’ve redacted author names as I did not secure permission to include them.)

Yes, there are writers using AI to produce novels quickly, sometimes in a matter of days, and some are attempting to mimic the styles of famous authors. This practice is becoming more common as AI writing tools improve, but its legitimacy—both in terms of ethics and quality—is a subject of debate.

Several documented cases highlight this trend. For instance _____, a science fiction writer, used AI tools like ChatGPT, Anthropic’s Claude, and Midjourney to create 97 mini-novels (up to 5,000 words each) in just nine months. Each book took him six to eight hours, a fraction of the time traditional writing might require. Similarly, _____ generated a novel … in three hours using 66 prompts, winning second prize in a 2023 sci-fi competition.

As for mimicking famous authors, AI tools like NovelAI and Sudowrite allow users to train models on specific styles or prompt them to emulate authors like Agatha Christie or Stephen King. [A 2023 novel] was composed with large language models, drawing on styles of detective fiction writers like Raymond Chandler. However, the results often require human editing, as AI struggles to maintain coherence over long narratives or fully capture the nuanced voice of a specific author.

Is This Legitimate?
The legitimacy depends on perspective:

  • Creative and Practical Legitimacy: From a production standpoint, it’s legitimate in that it works—AI can generate readable content quickly. Some authors argue it enhances their creativity, acting as a tool to brainstorm and draft. _____, an indie author, uses Sudowrite to meet tight deadlines, producing a novel every nine weeks. Tools like Squibler and Jasper also market themselves to authors, offering features to generate outlines or full drafts in minutes. Readers often buy these works (selling for $1.99-$3.99), suggesting some market acceptance.
  • Quality Concerns: Critics argue the output lacks depth. Significant human curation is needed to stitch AI outputs into a cohesive narrative. Off-the-shelf models like GPT or Claude often produce generic or inconsistent prose when tasked with mimicking complex styles, as noted by writers like _____, who found AI-generated text fell short of his voice.
  • Ethical and Legal Issues: The ethics are murkier. Many authors, backed by the Authors Guild (over 10,000 signed a 2023 letter), argue that AI tools trained on copyrighted works without permission constitute theft. If a writer prompts AI to “write like Dan Brown,” it’s likely drawing on his style without consent, raising ethical questions. Legally, AI-generated works face copyright ambiguity—U.S. law traditionally requires human authorship, and the extent of human involvement (e.g., editing vs. pure generation) complicates ownership. There’s also the question of transparency: should authors disclose AI use?
  • Cultural Reception: Some see it as a betrayal of the craft. Traditional authors value the slow, personal process of writing, as expressed in a 2023 Los Angeles Times piece, fearing AI erodes the human eccentricity that defines literature. Others view it as a practical evolution, akin to using a thesaurus, especially for indie authors under pressure to publish fast on platforms like Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.

Conclusion

Yes, writers are using AI to churn out novels in days, sometimes in the style of famous authors, enabled by tools like ChatGPT, Sudowrite, and NovelAI. It’s technically feasible and has a niche audience, particularly in self-publishing. However, its legitimacy is contested: it’s a powerful tool for speed and ideation, but the quality often lags, and ethical-legal concerns linger. For now, it’s a hybrid process—AI accelerates drafting, but human skill is still key to polish and authenticity. Whether it’s “legitimate” depends on your stance: a pragmatic shortcut for some, a creative compromise for others.

Got all that? Want to put out a novel a day? You won’t get arrested. And maybe the actual output, with help, can produce competent fiction.

But I believe there’s something you will miss, something AI can never give you: truly and deeply experiencing the lives of the characters you lovingly bring to life on the page. A machine can’t hand you that feeling; it can only come from inside you, churning through the heart, flowing through your fingertips as you type the words. And when you finally type The End there’s a certain euphoria that is only bequeathed to the writer who has “opened a vein.” The lifeblood of a story can’t be given by transfusion. It has to come from within.

Ray Bradbury wrote in Zen in the Art of Writing:

If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you’re only half a writer. It means you are so busy keeping one eye on the commercial market, or one year peeled for the avant-garde coterie, that you are not being yourself you don’t even know yourself. For the first thing writer should be is excited. He should be a thing of fevers and enthusiasms. Without such a vigor, he might as well be out picking peaches or digging ditches; God knows it’d be better for his health.

I’ve experienced zest with every novel I’ve finished. A few times the experience has been overpowering.

Case in point. I wrote a trilogy, the Ty Buchanan series. Over the course of these legal thrillers there’s a love story. When I typed the last line, the most perfect I’ve ever written (for me, at least) I burst into tears. I mean, just like that first scene in Romancing the Stone where Kathleen Turner, at her keyboard with headphones on, types the last word of her novel. Weeping and laughing she utters, “Oh, God, that’s good!” It happened to me because I both created and experienced every emotion of every character over a three-book span.

I will not trade away that feeling. Besides, I believe it has value for the reader, too. I believe most readers sense when a book’s been written from a vibrating human heart, or hasn’t. As Carl Sandburg once said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.”

Secondarily, I’m also wary of too much “cognitive offloading.” Another reason I write the words is to keep my brain in shape. If AI does that for me, my synapses stop firing. It’s like watching pickleball on TV every day instead of playing it yourself. Doesn’t do the body much good, does it? As one source puts it: “The long-term reliance on AI for cognitive offloading could also erode essential cognitive skills such as memory retention, analytical thinking, and problem-solving. As individuals increasingly rely on AI tools, their internal cognitive abilities may atrophy, leading to diminished long-term memory and cognitive health.”

I’ll finish with this. In my favorite movie, Shane, there’s a magnificent moment in the beginning where Shane, the mysterious stranger passing through, has been shown hospitality by the Starrett family—Joe, his wife Marian, and their boy, Joey. After a hearty meal, Shane excuses himself and goes outside. He’s about to express his gratitude without words. For in the yard is a big old stump that Joe has long been chopping away at.

Shane picks up an ax and starts hacking. Joe joins him and the two work into early evening.

They make their final push on the stump. It barely moves.

Joe’s wife sensibly suggests they hitch up a team of horses to pull it out. Joe says, “Marian, I’ve been fighting this stump off and on for two years. Use the team now and this stump could say it beat us. Sometimes nothing will do but your own sweat and muscle.”

Joe and Shane lay into that stump and with a final, mighty push, uproot it.

I guess I feel like Joe Starrett. There’s some things that won’t do for me as a writer but my own “sweat and muscle.”

I’ve gone on too long and I’m still thinking this all through. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Here’s that scene from Shane:

The Power of Dilemma

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

In his famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) monologue at the 2020 Golden Globes, Ricky Gervais said:

Seriously, most films are awful. Lazy. Remakes, sequels. I’ve heard a rumor there might be a sequel to Sophie’s Choice. I mean, that would be Meryl just going, “Well, it’s gotta be this one then.”

At least Meryl, in the audience cracked a smile…before shaking her head. Me, I was reminded of how the novel William Styron novel tore my guts out. I could not see the movie. Even years later, I still remember the agony I felt reading that book

Such is the power of dilemma in fiction.

A dilemma is a choice between two incompatible and dreadful outcomes. Thus, it tests a character to the limit.

Just the other day I was leisurely watching an episode of Bonanza (Baby Boomers are now humming the opening theme in their heads). For you youngsters, Bonanza was set in the 1860s, and focused on the family Cartwright. Patriarch Ben Cartwright (Lorne Greene) owned a huge spread next to Lake Tahoe, the Ponderosa, along with his sons, Adam (Pernell Roberts), Hoss (Dan Blocker) and “Little Joe” (Michael Landon).

Ben was a paragon of virtue, and in this episode he had been made a judge in Virginia City. An old safecracker Ben knows, Sundown Davis (Tom Tully), cleaned out the Virginia City bank, then turned himself in to Ben. He said he hid the money and promised to give it back if Ben will make sure he goes free.

The townspeople are desperate without their funds. Some won’t be able to feed their families. A big mining company will have to lay off workers.

Ben, however, sees that the law requires a four-time loser like Sundown to be sentenced to a mandatory prison term of twenty years.

Thus, the dilemma. Shall Ben side with the town and all of his friends? Or with his duty to the law?

The bank president sums it up to Ben. “If Sundown goes to prison, this town goes broke.”

The pressure mounts, as citizens press their case to a man they trust.

When the time comes to sentence the prisoner Ben, in his judicial robe, faces the crowded courtroom and explains that what the town is going through is a problem of the moment, but the law is for all time.

He sentences Sundown to twenty years.

The town is in an uproar. Ben becomes a pariah.

But it turns out that Sundown did not rob the bank after all. It was his son-in-law. Sundown took the rap hoping to protect his expectant daughter and her husband. He figured Ben would let him go so the town could survive.

When Ben didn’t do what was planned, the son-in-law starts to crack. His wife tells him he must do the right thing (a dilemma of his own!) He finally breaks down and gives the money back. Ben can now apply leniency so the son-in-law gets out of prison in a few years. He can rejoin his wife and soon-to-be child. And Sundown will be free to enjoy his grandchildren.

Ben’s staunch decision cost him at the time. That’s what a dilemma forces. But then there is a reversal of sorts.

Thus the structure of dilemma: choice, sacrifice, reward.

Sacrifice

The only way out of a dilemma is sacrifice. The hero will be wounded, sometimes fatally, for the choice that has to be made.

That is the power in Casablanca.

Here’s the dilemma. Rick Blaine can have the thing he wants most in the world, Ilsa Lund. She has told Rick she will go with him on the plane to Lisbon, by way of the two Letters of Transit in Rick’s possession.

The other choice is to put Ilsa on the plane with her husband, Victor Laszlo. That means Rick’s certain death at the hands of the Nazis.

The latter choice is the only moral one. Rick would not just be taking another man’s wife, he would be hurting the war effort by sending a spear through Laszlo’s heart.

“You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going,” Rick says to Ilsa at the airport.

Rick sacrifices his own happiness and, he understands, his life.

Dilemma is also the power in Shane, my favorite movie.

A mysterious gunfighter is seeking a place of peace to live out the rest of his life, and seemingly finds it with a homesteading family, the Starretts.

But the cattlemen, led by Rufe Ryker, are determined to drive the homesteaders away though violence, intimidation and, if need be, death. When Joe Starrett determines to resist, Ryker hires a gunfighter, Jack Wilson (played by the inimitable Jack Palance) to do some killing.

Shane now has a choice. Go back to his gunfighting ways or move on. Ryker tells Shane he has no quarrel with him, and he can ride out of the valley with “no hard feelings.”

But doing so means the death of Joe Starrett.

**Spoiler alert. If you haven’t seen the movie, watch it ASAP, on a big screen TV**

Shane rides to town for a final showdown with Wilson.

I love this scene. Here’s the clip:

What we find out immediately afterward is that Shane is bleeding, wounded in the side (Biblical quiz: Who else was wounded in the side on behalf of others?)

Outside the saloon, little Joey Starrett sees the wound, and begs Shane to stay.

“A man has to be what he is, Joey.” Shane says. “You can’t break the mold…Now you run on home to your mother, and tell her…tell her everything’s all right and there aren’t any more guns in the valley.”

And he rides off, with Joey shouting, “Shane! Come back!”

What many people miss is the subtle visual after this. Shane’s horse takes him through a graveyard. Shane’s arms are hanging at his sides. Because Shane is dead. (Biblical quiz redux.)

Reward

The hero has the wound, is either dead or alive, but receives a just reward for his moral choice.

Hero Dies

Shane’s sacrifice brings peace to the valley. His memory is carried forward by the boy, Joey, who will grow up “strong and straight” as Shane told him.

Braveheart, William Wallace, has refused to confess, and as he’s disemboweled shouts his final word, “Freedom!” His sacrifice inspires the Scots, under Robert the Bruce, to fight a final battle that wins their independence.

Samson kills himself kills himself three thousand Philistines by bringing down their temple. He becomes a heroic example for the Israelites.

The Hero Lives

In Casablanca, Rick shoots and kills Major Strasser, the Nazi, in front of the French police captain, Louis, just as a cohort of French police arrives.

Louis tells them, “Round up the usual suspects.”

As the two of them walk off together to join the war effort, Rick has his reward. “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

At some point in your writing, think about a dilemma. What two choices can you give your hero, both of which carry a cost?

  • An immoral choice that would cost the hero spiritually.
  • A moral choice that would cost the hero (potentially or actually) his life.
  • What reward can the hero receive as a result of the moral choice?

There is perhaps no more powerful trope in fiction than the dilemma. It can raise a cracking good read into one that is unforgettable.

Comments welcome. I’ll be in and out today, and will respond when I can. 

Mythic Structure: Refusal of the Call to Adventure

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

From The Writer’s Journey by Christopher Vogler (click to enlarge)

You know me. I love popping the hood on story and looking at all the moving parts. Mainly because I want to build the best story engine I can, but also to teach it. Which means getting greasy and messing around. Today, I want to examine a beat from mythic structure—Refusal of the Call to Adventure. I haven’t given this a lot of thought in the past, but recently I’ve noticed it more and more in classic movies and decided to give it some study.

The Hero’s Journey begins in an ordinary world with the hero receiving a Call to Adventure—by way of invitation, yearning, temptation, or message. But the hero initially refuses. Only later will he be thrust over the Threshold (what I call The Doorway of No Return) into the “special world.”

So what’s the point of this beat? As my friend and teaching colleague Chris Vogler explains in his essential guide The Writer’s Journey:  

The halt on the road before the journey serves an important dramatic function of signaling the audience that the adventure is risky. It’s not a frivolous undertaking but a danger-filled, high-stakes gamble in which the hero might lose fortune or life.

In other words, it gives the reader the sense that death—physical, professional, or psychological—is truly on the line once the hero enters Act 2.

For example, Luke Skywalker sees the hologram from Princess Lea pleading for help from Obi-Wan Kenobi. Luke wonders if that could mean “old Ben Kenobi.” A bit later Luke finds Ben and sure enough he is Obi-Wan. Ben views Lea’s entire message, pleading with him to come help in the fight against the Empire. Ben then calls on Luke to join the adventure, but Luke refuses:

BEN
You must learn the ways of the Force
if you’re to come with me to Alderaan.

LUKE
Alderaan? I’m not going to Alderaan.
I’ve got to go home. It’s late, I’m
in for it as it is.

BEN
I need your help, Luke. She needs
your help. I’m getting too old for
this sort of thing.

LUKE
I can’t get involved! I’ve got work
to do! It’s not that I like the
Empire. I hate it! But there’s nothing
I can do about it right now. It’s
such a long way from here.

BEN
That’s your uncle talking.

LUKE
Oh, God, my uncle. How am I
ever going to explain this?

BEN
Learn about the Force, Luke.

LUKE
Look, I can take you as far as
Anchorhead. You can get a transport
there to Mos Eisley or wherever you’re
going.

BEN
You must do what you feel is right,
of course.

Another example: In The Wizard of Oz Dorothy is called to adventure by her yearning to find a place where there is no trouble. So she runs away as a first step. But then she meets Professor Marvel. He figures out what’s going on and uses an emotional ploy to get Dorothy to refuse the call. He looks at his crystal ball and pretends to see an old woman in a polka dot dress. “Why she’s crying. Someone has hurt her. Someone has just about broken her heart.” That gets to Dorothy, and she returns to the farm. [In mythic terms, Professor Marvel is a character known as The Mentor, who often appears in Act 1 as the conscience of the Hero.]

In both these examples the refusal of the call is related to duty. Specifically, familial duty.

Another form of duty is professional. In my favorite movie of all time, Shane (1953), the mysterious gunfighter fleeing his past takes a job working for homesteader Joe Starrett. Starrett instructs Shane to avoid trouble in town where the cattle men hang out in the saloon. The first time Shane shows up he’s tagged and shamed by one of the cowboys. It’s a call to fight back. But Shane refuses the call because of his pledged duty to his benefactor. For this he is labeled a coward by the other homesteaders. Knowing he has to overcome this for the benefit of the community, he later answers the call by giving his tormentor a thumping. He is then set upon by the entire gang—until Joe joins the fight and helps Shane beat them all up. That puts them both across the Threshold and in the crosshairs of death.

Still another form of refusal comes from self-doubt or fear. A famous example is Rocky. Pug fighter Rocky Balboa is given an incredible call to adventure—the chance to fight the heavyweight champion of the world!

Rocky immediately says, “No.” When asked why, he explains, “I’m really a ham-and-egger. This guy is the best. It wouldn’t be such a good fight.” In this way the stakes are set at the highest level before Rocky takes on the challenge.

I had an email conversation with Chris about all this, and he added another form of refusal (reprinted by permission):

Here’s another major category that can trigger refusal of the call: Bitter Experience. This is why hard-boiled detectives often turn down the case at first. They intuitively know that the investigation will lead them into dangerous places where they came close to death or somebody they cared about was killed. You also find this in comedies like the Hope-Crosby road movies where they are both wary of getting roped into the other’s schemes which have proved so dangerous in the past. In a romance, broken-hearted people are reluctant to open up to love again.

The prime example of Bitter Experience is Casablanca. Rick Blaine had his heart shattered when the woman he loved, Ilsa Lund, abandoned him in Paris just before the Nazi occupation. He has set up shop in Casablanca to forget her. His café is allowed to operate because he takes no sides in the war. His Call to Adventure comes when Ugarte, the scheming rat who murdered German couriers to obtain the valuable Letters of Transit, begs Rick to hide him from the police. Rick refuses with the classic line, “I stick my neck out for nobody.”

Overcoming the Refusal

So the hero has refused to answer the call. Something, then, has to happen to push the hero over the Threshold (through the Doorway).

In Star Wars Luke’s aunt and uncle are killed by Imperial stormtroopers. Thus, the familial duty is removed and Luke has reason and opportunity to join the Rebellion.

Or the hero herself can be removed from the duty. Dorothy is literally taken up and away from Kansas and deposited in Oz.

In Casablanca (Bitter Experience) Ilsa shows up at Rick’s café with her husband, the freedom fighter Victor Laszlo. In this way Rick is forced over the Threshold because his ordinary world has been changed to a special world (not his choice!) for now he must deal with his conflicted emotions and decide whether to help Isla and Victor or remain aloof.

A refusal out of fear or self-doubt must be overcome with a strong emotional jolt. In Finding Nemo, Marlin, Nemo’s father, is afraid of the open ocean because of a past traumatic event—a barracuda attack that killed his wife, Cora, and most of their eggs. He is therefore overprotective of his surviving son, Nemo. Nemo keeps calling his father to adventure—exploring the sea, finding a sea turtle, etc. But Marlin refuses. He is full of fear and self-doubt about his ability to protect his son.

So what emotional jolt forces him into the dark world of the open ocean? Nemo is captured by scuba divers! Marlin has no choice, he must find Nemo! There is familial duty once again—perhaps the strongest of all emotions—only this time it’s the stimulus to cross the Threshold. If we didn’t have the refusal as a way of understanding the source of Marlin’s fears, the subsequent journey would not have as much depth.

The Refusal of the Call is useful tool for story construction. Because it happens early—somewhere in Act 1—you can pants it or plan it. Once you have it, though, it will tell you a lot about your main character and provide fodder for backstory material.

Some questions to ask:

  • What reason does my Lead have to resist the call to adventure? Is there duty involved? Family ties? Or is it more a matter of fear, self-doubt, or bitter experience?
  • What were the pre-story circumstances that gave rise to this refusal? Was there a traumatic event that haunts my Lead in the present? Was my Lead’s heart broken?
  • What event is strong enough to overcome the Lead’s refusal? How can you increase the emotional level of this event?

Let the journey begin.