The AI In The Writers’ Room

What if we made Hemingway fun? Sexy? Modern? Our AI can do it — can spit back fresh drafts in his voice — almost instantly. Derek Abella for Noema Magazine I am sorry to report to my team that Katrina finds Chapter 4 “all wrong.” She's not sold on Chapter 3 either. “Why? What did she say?” whines Brayden. I shrug. He knows as well as I do that our esteemed editor, despite her legacy title, does not give notes. A chapter is either “all wrong” or “perfect, as though Hemingway himself had written it.” Which is, after all, the whole point. “Where are Nova and Maverick?” I ask, gesturing to the empty chairs. “Nap room.” “Did they clock out?” “Yes.” So we wait. Brayden jots something in his notebook, a gorgeous, leatherbound Japanese number that he strokes like a pet during meetings. He often boasts that his home is free of screen-based technology. Maybe this means he is more evolved than I am. Maybe he can use this time to ruminate on Chapter 4. Maybe he can stop his brain from picturing Maverick and Nova fucking each other's brains out in the nap room. “What?” he says when he notices me staring at him. I look away. “Nothing.” I feel my nipples harden in my bra. I wonder what would happen if I suggested to Brayden that we fuck each other's brains out sometime. I know I'll never work up the nerve. I'm seven years older than he is, and older still than the others on my team. Seven years isn't much, but sometimes it feels like an eternity. Back when I started this job, for example, the nap room was only for naps. It was considered poor form to fuck your coworkers. Maverick and Nova reemerge, refreshed. Maverick bounces to his seat, slapping Brayden on the back. Nova slides into the chair beside mine, her face flushed. “Bad news,” I say. “Katrina hates it.” “All of it?” Nova asks. “Chapter 4,” Brayden says, a sour note in his voice. Nova designed most of that chapter. She doesn't […]

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