The first time I heard a writer admit they wouldn't touch an AI-authored novel, I thought it was snobbery. Now I think it's survival instinct.
McCormick's recent essay, bluntly titled "I won't read LLM authored fiction," struck a nerve on Hacker News. Nearly 50 comments, most agreeing. This isn't a fringe position anymore. It's a movement.
The Uncanny Valley of Prose
You've felt it. That eerie sensation when a paragraph flows too smoothly, when every metaphor lands with mechanical precision, when the prose is technically flawless but emotionally hollow. It's the literary equivalent of a robot trying to dance—impressive, but wrong.
One commenter put it this way: "LLM fiction reads like a brilliant student who has studied every great novel but never lived a single day of pain." That's it exactly. The words are there, but the blood isn't.
"LLM fiction reads like a brilliant student who has studied every great novel but never lived a single day of pain."
What separates great fiction from competent prose is the mess. The awkward pauses, the irrational decisions, the moments where the author's own humanity bleeds through. LLMs are trained to polish away all that imperfection into something slick and forgettable.
It's Not About the Tool, It's About Trust
The defenders of AI fiction always say the same thing: "It's just a tool, like a typewriter or a word processor." That's a false equivalence, and it's dishonest.
A typewriter amplifies human thought. An LLM replaces it. When you read a sentence, you're making a silent contract with the author—you're trusting that a human consciousness shaped those words. AI breaks that contract.
Some argue that readers can't tell the difference anyway. Maybe that's true for some people. But the ones who can tell? They're the ones who buy books, who write reviews, who form book clubs. They're the tastemakers, and they're turning away.
Your Brain Knows When It's Being Fooled
Neurologically, our brains are wired to detect authenticity. We read fiction to simulate emotional experiences through another consciousness. When that consciousness is fake, the simulation fails. You might not be able to articulate it, but you feel cheated.
I've read AI-generated short stories that made me nod along and then forget them five minutes later. They're like sugar water—sweet, but no nutrition. Compare that to a story by Alice Munro, where a single detail can haunt you for days. That's the difference between entertainment and art.
The Economics of the Slush Pile
Here's where it gets ugly. The publishing industry is already drowning in AI-generated submissions. Agents report their slush piles are 80% machine-written. Editors are spending hours weeding out AI slop, which means less time for real manuscripts.
One literary agent I follow on Twitter said she now rejects submissions that show even a hint of AI polish. Too perfect grammar? Reject. No typos? Suspicious. Every paragraph perfectly balanced? Delete.
"When you read a sentence, you're making a silent contract with the author—you're trusting that a human consciousness shaped those words. AI breaks that contract."
This is creating a perverse incentive: writers are now being punished for clarity. Some are deliberately inserting human imperfections into their work just to prove they're not a bot. That's not the future I want for literature.
What Hollywood Can Teach Us
Remember the early days of CGI? Filmmakers stuffed every frame with digital effects until audiences got exhausted. The backlash gave us the practical-effects renaissance—think Mad Max: Fury Road or The Revenant. People craved something real.
Literature is heading for the same correction. The hype cycle for AI fiction is peaking, and the inevitable trough is coming. Readers are going to value human-authored work more than ever, precisely because it's becoming scarce.
This doesn't mean AI can't create compelling stories. It can. But there's a qualitative difference between a story crafted by an AI to optimize engagement and one written by a human who has felt loss, desire, and absurdity. That difference is the soul of fiction.
The Counterargument That Falls Flat
"But what about human authors who use AI as a collaborator?" some ask. Maybe there's a place for that—like an outline or a brainstorming tool. But once an AI writes the actual prose, it's no longer collaboration. It's delegation.
I've seen authors claim they "direct" an AI like a film director. That's a nice fiction, but it's still the AI making the creative choices. The director metaphor breaks down when the AI is writing the script, blocking the scenes, and editing the final cut. What's left for the human? Just the credit.
The Practical Reader's Guide
So how do you avoid wasting hours on AI slop? Here's my advice. Look for the telltale signs: prose that's too uniform, metaphors that are too tidy, characters that lack contradictions. And if you're on a platform like Kindle Unlimited, check the author's bio—if they've published 50 books in one year, run.
But the real test is emotional. Ask yourself: after reading the last page, do you feel changed? If the answer is no, you probably just ate at the AI buffet.
The Fight Isn't Over
This is not a defeatist column. The backlash is a good thing. It means readers still care about authenticity. It means the market is self-correcting. The people who think AI fiction will replace human storytelling are the same people who thought MTV would replace radio. They were wrong.
I'll end with a prediction. In five years, you'll see a badge on book covers: "100% Human Written." It'll be a mark of distinction, like organic food or fair trade coffee. And the authors who wear that badge will be the ones who thrive.
Because at the end of the day, fiction is a lie that tells the truth. And the lie only works if there's a truth-teller behind it.
