By John Gilstrap

Two posts ago, I posted some positivity about AI in general, and ChatGPT in particular. The responses were . . . energetic. I think there’s a misperception of what AI is capable of, and what it is not. Without a doubt, there’s never been a worse time in history to be a graphic artist, and entry level coder or perhaps even a paralegal. The days of paying a “professional” for boilerplate documents are over.

With the appropriate prompts, AI is capable of planning trips, managing budgets, and, apparently, guiding bombs to the precise air shaft where it can do the most damage.

But it will never be able to console a child whose heart has been broken. It will never replace that moment with your beloved, sitting by a fire with a glass of wine or staring up at the stars. It will never replace human emotions. And therein lies my disconnect with the TKZ hivemind over the negative impact of AI on what we do.

Novels are recorded humanity, not just words spelled correctly on the page. They are, in fact, emotional experiences–the equivalent of consoling that child. A computer cannot convey that which it has no frame of reference, and that’s why it cannot replace us.

But I could be wrong, so don’t take it from me. For about two months, I have been pumping everything I’ve written into ChatGPT to see if it can learn style. I actually think it can, but I haven’t wrangled all of that piece yet. I know what I think about the long-term impact of AI on the writing world, but I want to hear what the machine had to say about it. So, I asked it this question:

“Using what you have learned from my style, write a 700-word post for a writing blog. Your topic: Will AI ever evolve to the point that it can replace the human voice in writing novels? Cite sources.”

I didn’t want my thumb on the scale to produce the answer I wanted, so I kept it open-ended, and because I’m talking to a machine, I wanted to know how it analyzed the data, so I told it to cite sources. Here’s the response I got after fewer than 5 seconds of analysis:

Will AI eventually replace novelists?

The short answer is no. Not in the way people fear.

Artificial intelligence will certainly become a powerful tool for writers, but replacing the human voice in fiction is another matter entirely.

To understand why, it helps to understand what AI actually does.

Large language models—systems like those developed by companies such as OpenAI, Anthropic, and Google DeepMind—are trained on enormous bodies of text. During training, the system analyzes patterns in language: word order, sentence structure, context relationships, and statistical probabilities of what word or phrase is likely to come next. The result is a machine that can produce remarkably fluent prose.

But fluent prose is not the same thing as storytelling.

According to a widely cited analysis from the Stanford Institute for Human-Centered Artificial Intelligence, large language models operate by predicting the next most likely token in a sequence based on training data patterns. They do not possess intention, memory in the human sense, or lived experience. They generate language by probability, not by understanding.

That distinction matters more than most people realize.

A novel is not merely a sequence of grammatically correct sentences. A novel is the product of perspective—of someone deciding which details matter, which emotions are worth exploring, and which moments deserve attention. Those decisions are rooted in experience. In memory. In the messy accumulation of living.

Machines don’t have that.

When a writer describes grief, fear, betrayal, or love, the power of the scene comes from a human mind recognizing something true. Even when the circumstances are fictional, the emotional substrate is real. The writer is drawing on life—on personal experience or on empathy for experiences observed in others.

An AI system cannot do that. It can simulate the language of grief or love, but simulation and experience are not the same thing.

Researchers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have repeatedly pointed out that modern language models lack what cognitive scientists call grounded understanding. They manipulate symbols without direct connection to the physical or emotional realities those symbols describe. In other words, the machine knows the words, but it does not know what the words mean in the human sense.

That limitation shows up most clearly in narrative voice.

Voice is not vocabulary. It’s worldview. It’s the sum of a writer’s instincts about what matters in a scene, how characters behave under pressure, and which truths are worth putting on the page. Voice grows out of the author’s background, personality, profession, culture, and history. Two writers can describe the same event and produce completely different stories because their lives have taught them to see the world differently.

A statistical model can blend styles. It can approximate tone. But it cannot originate a worldview because it does not possess one.

That doesn’t mean AI has no role in writing. Quite the opposite.

Used properly, AI can be a very useful assistant. It can help brainstorm ideas, summarize research, test plot possibilities, or identify structural problems in a manuscript. Some writers already use it as a kind of tireless research intern, capable of quickly gathering background information that might otherwise require hours of searching.

In that sense, AI resembles other technologies that once stirred anxiety among writers. Word processors didn’t eliminate authors. Neither did spellcheck. Neither did online research tools. Each new technology changed how writers work, but none replaced the human imagination at the center of storytelling.

The same will almost certainly be true for artificial intelligence.

The technology will get better. The prose will become smoother. The tools will become faster and more useful. But the essential element that makes novels resonate with readers—the human voice behind the words—remains stubbornly difficult to replicate.

Because fiction isn’t built only from language. It’s built from life.

Readers can sense the difference between words that were assembled and words that were meant. The former may be competent. The latter are alive.

And that difference is exactly why novelists aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

So, there you have it, folks, straight from HAL’s mouth. Thoughts?

On sale now!

By PJ Parrish

It’s awards season! Sunday was the Oscars. Won’t give you any opinions on winners and losers here. Just wanted to say I loved Jessie Buckley’s (Hamnet) acceptance speech: “Mom. Dad, thank you for teaching us to dream and to never be defined by expectations.”

Well said.

I’ve been thinking about awards this week because I am gearing up for my annual gig as chairman of the Edgar Awards banquet for Mystery Writers of America. I edit the program book every year, and we always come up with a theme. This year we’re paying tribute to the Best First Novels.

Why? Well, this year is the 80th anniversary of the Edgar. The only category that first year was Best First and the prize was taken home by Julius Fast for Watchful At Night.

Many freshman writers went on to become best-selling authors. Among the big names who hit a homer at their first at-bat are Patricia Highsmith, Ira Levin, Donald Westlake, Jonathan Kellerman, Stuart Woods, Martin Cruz Smith, Gillian Flynn, C.J. Box, Janet Evanovich, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Walter Mosley, and Tana French. But if you go back and read all 80 winners (click here), you’ll find many more names that were never lit up in neon. Or those writers whose careers never even made it to cruising altitude.

Such is the capricious nature of winning an award. It can mean everything. It can mean nothing.

For our program book, we asked first novel winners to tell us what it meant to them. What it felt like. What it did for their careers. I wish I could share their answers here (can’t devulge pre-banquet night) because they are poignant and sometimes very funny. What each shares, however, is a humility and very human-ness. As one winner put it, getting that Edgar felt personal and communal all at the same time.

One of my favorite episodes of the TV show Frazier is the one where Frazier is nominated for the Seebee Award, given out to Seattle’s best broadcasters. Frazier tries to be above it all, but he just can’t. He wants to win, dammit! But at the banquet, he finds out he is up against the aging icon Fletcher Grey. Fletcher has been nominated 11 times in a row and always lost. Fletcher’s date is his 84-year-old mother who has flown in from Scottsdale — for the 11th straight year. Fletcher is also retiring. Frazier tells his producer Roz, “if we win, they’ll string us up.” Roz says, “I don’t care. I’d crawl over his mother to win this award!”

Frazier loses, of course. His agent Beebee deserts him. Roz gets drunk on Pink Ladies.

Sounds like a couple award banquets I’ve been to. My sister Kelly and I have been lucky to have been nominated for some awards over the decades, and we’ve won a couple. Yeah, yeah, It is always an honor to be nominated. But I can’t lie — it bites to lose. I once saw a nominee’s wife burst into tears when her husband lost.

In 2002 we were nominated for the Edgar. We went to the banquet at the Hyatt. Got our hair done and put on sparkly dresses. Kelly’s son Robert rented a tux. I stayed stone-cold sober in the bar before. As soon as they didn’t call our name, I grabbed the wine bottle out of my editor’s hand.

Fast forward five years to the International Thriller Writers banquet. I went with no expectations. I sat between my agent and Ali Karem but I was filled with dread. Kelly couldn’t make it, so I felt pretty alone, despite all the good vibes from fellow authors. We might write hardboiled, but I am not. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I bolted for the lobby.

Jim Fusilli was standing there and barred my way and put an arm around my shoulders.  Each nominee was announced by reading the first line of their book. Ours is “The Christmas lights were already up.” I remember thinking, “God, that sucks.”

I heard the title of our book announced as the winner. I started crying. I don’t remember what I said on stage. This is what SHOULD have said:

“Thank you so much for this great honor. First, I want to thank the ITW judges who put their careers on hold for months to read hundreds of books. Second, I want to thank my fellow nominees. I am honored to have my book mentioned among their fine works. Third, I want to thank my editor who….”

This is what was REALLY in my head:

“God, I can’t believe I am crying! How pathetic and needy! Where’s the friggin’ stairs? I can’t see! Who is that man at the podium? Shit, I forget his name! THE LIGHTS! I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING! Do I have lettuce on my teeth? Agent…mention her name. My bra is showing, DON’T PULL AT YOUR BRA!! He’s handing it to me. Jesus, it’s heavy…don’t drop it…don’t drop it…don’t drop it. Say something nice about the other nominees! Can’t…can’t…can’t remember their names. YOU TWIT! You just sat on a panel with TWO of them this morning! Wait, wait…is it Paul LeVEEN or Paul LeVINE??? Forget it…buy them a drink later. I should have gone to the hairdresser before I left home. My roots are showing. JESUS! THE LIGHTS! Stop talking now…you’re rambling, you ass…Okay, leaving now. TAKE THE AWARD! Good grief…I’m here in New York City wearing Nine West because I was too cheap to spring for those black Blahniks at Off Fifth. Dear God, just let me just off this stage so I can get to the john and pull up my Spanx….

I made it off the stage okay. Here is the photo to prove it:

Did it change things for me? Not really. I put the award on my shelf, next to my ribbon for winning an ax-throwing contest in Maine. My career continued on its nice glide path. I wrote more books, I made a little money. But I do remember one thing very distinctly that night. I was at a low point in my writing back then, feeling a little discouraged because the WIP was stalled and I wasn’t getting much joy from the writing process itself. I wasn’t feeling that feeling James wrote about this past Sunday. (click here). The world wasn’t burning through me.

But my peers gave me a gift that night — a nudge to keep going. So maybe that’s what this award thing is — just a kick in the Spanx of simple validation.

Keep going, crime dogs. Get that book out of you and out there. Somebody out there will like you. They will really like you.

“I have this whole book in my head.” Beth (Beth’s fake name) leaned closer to make herself heard over an animated crowd in the hotel bar. “It’s like a movie I can see, all the way down to characters, plot, and even conversations.”

Authors tend to gather at the bar like wildebeests to a watering hole in the Serengeti to discuss writing and the literary world. Folks who spend months alone with their imaginary friends are always looking for conversation.

My new acquaintance at the writers conference drew a long, deep breath to maintain her hold on her our exchange. “There’s this one scene when my main character gives the story an entirely different twist, and that’s where the music in my head starts playing.”

As an author, I’d heard this one before, years ago, from myself. “Have you finished it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t started yet. That’s why I’m at this conference, to get an agent or someone interested in it.”

“They’ll be more interested in the actual book itself.”

“My husband thinks I’m crazy, especially after I told him about the character who–––.” She looked over her shoulder. “–––is really Merlin.”

“Are you looking for someone?”

“I don’t want anyone to overhear. They might steal my idea.”

“You can’t hear a chainsaw in this crowd. Don’t worry about that.”

“You won’t write this, will you?”

“I want you to do it.” I held up my little finger. “Pinky swear.”

Surprising me, she hooked her pinky with mine. “I just need time to get started.”

“You have this whole conference. Lock yourself in your room and pound out twenty or thirty pages. Go do it now while I get another drink. Talking about it won’t get the book done.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“At the most compelling scene.”

“That’s when my characters meet on dark night in a hotel lobby while it’s raining. That’s the setup and introduces all the characters at one time.”

“I’d start somewhere else, with some kind of action. What’s your genre?”

“I don’t know. I’m not much of a reader. I prefer movies.”

Before I could respond, she waved. “Oh, look. There’s my new friend. Bill, come over here. This is Reavis. Tell him about your book.”

I caught the bartender’s eye and held up my empty glass. The nice man brought me a double.

Stepping up close, Bill crossed his arms. “Well, I haven’t started it yet, but it’ll be a memoir.”

He looked to be about twenty-two years old. Personally, I figured he needed more life experiences, and a reason for writing memoirs.

“You must have a great story to tell.” I’d hoped to hear he’d been in special forces, the entertainment industry, or law enforcement, or maybe someone who’d grown up under witness protection. You know, not a boring an entertaining story.

“It starts with my uncle. He’s a great character and his stories will become mine.”

He and I had different ideas of memoirs. I hoped his uncle was famous, maybe a singer. “Have I ever heard of him?”

“I doubt anyone has ever heard of Uncle Albert.”

“Then, I’m confused.”

“I’ll use his stories, he’s really funny, and hang some of my own experiences on them.”

“What’s your background?” Still hopeful.

“Well, I grew up with some interesting people in Crouchhop Arkansas, and graduated high school four years ago and worked for Dad roofing houses, then I left to see the country.”

“Oh.” My interest piqued. “Did you hike, or hitch?”

“No, I used Dad’s clunker Mercedes and drove to California. I’m thinking of all the coffee shops and people I met on the way.”

Returning my attention to the Beth, I gave her a grin. “I’d suggest you start writing tonight. Consider it a job and put your rear in the seat every day for a year, for at least half an hour each time, or long enough write a page per day. And Bill, good luck with your memoir. I hope you can find an agent to represent whatever it is when you’re finished, but both of you remember, these have to be killer books. A year ago, I read that around three hundred thousand books are released each month in this country.

“If you figure thousands of books hit the market each day, you’ll have to work hard to get noticed. Find your writing voice, and a subject or genre you want to shoot for, then start building your brand. Do you guys have any knowledge of social media, or a presence with followers?”

Beth nodded. “I have a Facebook account with a hundred friends.”

“Work harder. Establish a brand specifically for your and your books. Find a hook to get people interested.”

“Won’t my agent do all that for me?”

“Agents represent authors when they’re accepted, and they help with editing your manuscripts, to a point.” I could have sworn I heard someone fire up a chainsaw, probably to clear away from a similar conversation. “Their job is to connect authors with publishers. They negotiate contracts and other legal issues. They’re a buffer between authors and publishers. They aren’t PR folks, unless it comes to promoting you with interested publishers.”

Bill raised a finger to get my attention. “That’s why I’m going to self-publish.”

“Then you’ll do all that yourself…after you finish your manuscript. There are a few other steps that follow, too.”

“Can you help us, then?”

“Sure. Go write your book in your own voice, keep at it until you finish and don’t use television as a research source, and then come see me here next year.”

Faithful readers, I’m sure you’ve all found yourselves in similar situations, do you have variations on these conversations?