In case you don’t have a Facebook account (which is the platform on which I learned the news) — and especially if you didn’t read my earlier post on AI — I need to tell you it’s over. According to the ad I saw, Sudowrite — the best AI writing partner for fiction — is now available.
That’s right. Now, in the comfort of your own home, and even as a functional illiterate, you can crank out everything from short stories to novel-length epics with a few mouse clicks. Leo Tolstoy is rolling over in his grave with anger and envy.
How does Sudowrite do such a thing? They thought you’d never ask:
We use dozens of AI models, including the latest Claude models by Anthropic, multiple open source models, in-house models made expressly for fiction, like Muse, and several models created by OpenAI. OpenAI trained their models on: (1) a version of the CommonCrawl dataset, filtered based on similarity to high-quality reference corpora, (2) an expanded version of the Webtext dataset, (3) two internet-based book corpora, and (4) English-language Wikipedia. We pair these models with a variety of proprietary narrative model-based and algorithmic pre- and post-processing to enable AI writing features not available anywhere else.
Here’s a loose translation: Sudowrite’s AI is trained (with food, like Pavlov’s dogs) on a massive dataset of fiction writing (that is, fiction that’s already been written and digitized), ensuring generated content feels authentic (good luck defining that). While Sudowrite purports to avoid reproducing copyrighted material, users are encouraged to run their cobbled output through plagiarism checkers (like Turnitin, Grammarly Pro, Copyscape, PlagScan, Quetext, or iThenticate) and to have copyright and/or intellectual-property attorneys on retainer. After all, the only thing worse than passing off AI-regurgitated work as your own is getting arrested for it.
Wait. What’s that? You’re afraid you might have to actually do something to produce your bestselling volume of work aggregated from the internet? Oh, ye of little faith. Sudowrite’s got you covered like a blanket with tools like:
This is no doubt what Arthur C. Clarke had in mind when he wrote his third law of Technology: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
The Ultimate Test
Because I’m nothing if not skeptical, I decided to find out what Sudowrite was capable of. I went to the Sudowrite site on Eddie’s laptop and signed him up for a free trial. I asked him to use Sudowrite to cobble a fictional story about anything that came to his mind. Then I went to refill my coffee cup.
When I came back three minute later, Eddie had finished his story and was quietly munching a cookie and finishing his own coffee. When he slid his laptop toward me, I read this:
The Great Cookie Caper
It all started on a Wednesday. I know because the trash truck came by and I barked at it for exactly seven minutes, which is how you fight evil in this world. You’re welcome.
Anyway, I’m part Chihuahua, part French Bulldog, and all muscle. I weigh nine pounds soaking wet, but I carry myself like I’m at least fifteen. The humans say I’ve got a complex, but I say I’ve got standards.
Now, to the crime.
I was sunbathing on the living room rug (prime Real Estate, smells like feet and destiny) when I heard it: A rustle. A crinkle. A forbidden joy.
The cookie jar.
It lives on the kitchen counter. Shiny. Ceramic. Decorated with smiling cartoon bones like it knows it’s untouchable. I’ve watched that jar for years. I’ve dreamed of the day it would fall, crumble, and spill its glorious innards at my tiny feet.
Today was that day.
I saw the little human sneak into the kitchen like a ninja who still wears Velcro shoes. He climbed a chair. He reached. He wobbled. And then—CRASH.
Cookies. Everywhere.
I sprinted in like a torpedo of purpose. My toenails click-clacked across the tiles. My ears flapped with aerodynamic elegance. I launched myself toward the treasure.
But then—she arrived.
Muffin. The Golden Retriever. Seventy-five pounds of fluff, drool, and betrayal.
“Back off, Barkley,” she said, like she was the queen of kibble. “You’re gonna choke on a crumb.”
I growled. Real low. Like a motorbike that hasn’t had its oil changed.
“I was here first.”
“You were late. Again.”
She lunged for the biggest cookie. I darted for the smallest. We collided mid-air. Crumbs flew. Chaos reigned. The humans screamed.
End result? We both got time out. She sat in the laundry room looking noble and misunderstood. I was exiled to the bathroom with nothing but a toilet brush and my own thoughts.
But let me tell you something: I got that cookie. Just one. Cracked in half. Tasted like victory.
So if you ever hear someone say, “You’re just a little dog,” you tell them that story.
Justice was served.
Also cookies.
The end.
Eddie is now represented by Smith Publicity and starts his national book tour next week. I’m bringing him his coffee and his cookies while he cranks out his next bestseller on Sudowrite. And I’m hoping he doesn’t start smoking cigars and calling me garcon.
It really is over.
Good Grief.
Originally Published on https://www.bizcatalyst360.com/category/lifecolumns/notes-to-self/
