I wrote a thriller about a machine built to make one man happy. It has no limits. It never stops trying.
I wrote it with a machine.
If you think AI-written fiction is a hollow trick, you're exactly the reader I want. Come look for the seams. They're there — I've spent months hunting them myself, and I'd bet you'll find ones I missed.
If you think tools are just tools, I want you too. Tell me whether this clears the bar or only scrapes the floor.
The story, the characters, and every decision that matters are mine. The AI drafted and refined at my instruction, across thousands of passes. The vision is human. It always has been — or is it?
That's the question the book is about, and the question the writing kept asking back.
We call a garment handmade even when the sewing machine made the stitches. The hand that guides counts for more than the tool that sews.
Is this book handmade? Human-made? It's the same question the book asks about the man and his machine — who is holding, and who is steering.
Read the opening and decide for yourself.
— Mr E