Starting Preface

I am working on the preface of "Starting a Book from Scratch," I think this being my last change in title.  The book cover is being designed as we speak, so it'll soon enough be too late to change it.

My feeling is that a preface ought to sell a book, giving the reader a reason to delve into it.  I've read too many prefaces that were literary critiques of the book itself or some other book, which this book is meant to correct.  Mine isn't like this.  I've been pounding this nail for a couple of days, and while it isn't done, I'd like to share it.  I believe I make several extremely relevant points about chat that have been wholly missed by those I've seen discussing the program and others like it.


Preface, Part 1

Whenever I’m introduced to a group of strangers, the conversation always seems to follow a familiar path. After the pleasantries, it inevitably leads to the question everyone is curious about: “What do you do for a living?” Instead of offering a vague or comfortable answer, like saying I work in an office or that I used to be a cook, I tell the truth — that I’m a writer. Without fail, this revelation sparks interest and soon enough someone will say, “Really? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. What advice would you give me?”

Of course, there is no simple advice. Writing is one of those self-made vocations that demands thousands of hours to master. It can’t be condensed into a handful of tips or tricks, as though there’s some secret key to the process that, once discovered, makes writing easy. Writing is a methodical, multi-faceted craft that demands, above all, the unwavering urge to sit down and do it, often for reasons that are difficult to articulate.

A kind of skill inevitably develops because we persist at it, despite the fact that it’s nitpicky, unforgiving and filled with the tedious repetition of the same passages over and over in an effort to get them right—all in a state of self-imposed solitary confinement. This is not a complaint; it’s a necessity of character. It’s what makes us pause in bemusement when we hear that, as human beings, “We need people.” Okay, sure, yes... occasionally. But not when we’re working.

From this vantage point, when we encounter someone asking for shortcuts or wisdom — a clear sign they’re not part of the peculiar "pod-people" that writers are — we can’t help but think this person isn’t a writer and likely never will be. The very nature of the question exposes a fundamental gap in their experience. I don’t say any of this, of course. Instead, I toss out the usual tropes—that they should read as much as they can; that they should just keep writing; that they should expand themselves by trying new things, so they can write about it. This isn’t nonsense, but it’s not advice either. It’s padding.

Should I try to be honest, I have less appetising advice to give. I encourage people to learn another language, for example: specifically, Latin. Not because it’s useful as a spoken language, but because its structure is so clean and fluid that it provides the essential building blocks of grammar. Latin helps a writer think more logically; it's unyielding, which forces precision. With patience and perseverance, it gives an instinctive command over the rules and rhythm of sentence construction. I can hardly remember a word of Latin, having studied it 35 years ago... but the effect is still here in my writing.

I advise people to choose a large book that they deeply respect, one that’s also difficult to read—the larger, the better. Then, I tell them to copy it out, word for word, exactly, either with a pen or on a keyboard. The trick is in the “exact.” And I recommend they use notepad, because it’s so unforgiving. I began this process with a typewriter, copying out scores of books and stories from my teens and twenties, and I still do it now and then, even today. I believe this method helps us think inside someone else’s head — and that once we’ve done that for a good long while, we start to see how to change the way we think ourselves. The process forces a level of engagement that goes beyond passive reading. It requires attention to the nuances of the writer's choices... and with time, it helps us recognise the patterns in those choices as well.

This is no different from an active apprenticeship, where, for example, a tinsmith is taught to make the same tin pot hundreds of times, until they can accomplish the making of it with ease. In practice, copying is a disciplined, almost meditative process, which ties into the perseverance I addressed above.

I have never had a would-be writer take me up on this, to my knowledge.

This book in the reader's hands is a testament to the slow, painstaking process of writing. The reader who picks this up expecting to be entertained is likely to be disappointed. Like a musician who must play the same song so often that it ceases to have any romanticism left in it, there are lengthy moments in this book which, in the effort to teach how to write a book from scratch, indulges in the repetition of passages with villainous abandon. "Why?" we might ask. Well for the experience of what writing is like, of course.

Here is presented the raw, sometimes tedious process that mirrors real writing... the practice of sifting through a paragraph and picking out what dissatisfies, what fails to capture the moment, or the character, or the manner in which this paragraph transitions to the next. The narrative of a novel, from its birth process right up to the point when it’s abandoned — for nothing is ever truly finished — is an unpolished, difficult-to-digest narrative. The goal is to transform it from that unruly state into something the reader might find palatable, something that won’t stick in their craw or roll around uncomfortably in their tum-tum.

This book, however, makes no pretense of being "finished." That is not my goal... and for this, no apologies are offered.

Now, it just so happens there's something called "chat" in the world, which is an interesting, mostly untried literary tool. For most purposes, chat can churn out competent writing. But it’s not really a good writer—mostly because it sticks to the rules of “12th-grade English,” which our teachers drilled into us back in school. This is good enough for college essays and use in the business world, but grade-school English, while functional, isn’t designed to move a reader emotionally.

While some theorise that artificial intelligence will ultimately erode the craft of language, and others imagine a future where serious writing is outsourced to these engines, the reality is more nuanced. For any perceptive writer working with chatGPT, it quickly becomes clear where AI falls short in capturing the depth of good writing. The gap isn’t found in its grammar, nor in its ability to relate to human needs or emotions in a surface-level way. In fact, as this book shows, chat does a surprisingly competent job of understanding how humans might feel or react in unusual situations. It can often guess at the right emotional response or provide a framework for human interaction that seems convincing on the surface.

Yet, despite its technical proficiency, chat lacks the unpredictable, the messy, the moment when the rules ought to be discarded to create a truly memorable and emotive break. Its approach is one of efficiency and reliability, always seeking the most logical or predictable sentiment, the easiest connection for why a character would do something. This predictability can be a fatal flaw when it comes to writing that thrives on human complexity. Chat struggles with the unexpected, the contradictory, or the subtle misunderstandings that often occur in real human interactions—especially in work environments where people’s motivations are rarely clear-cut, and their behaviours not always aligned with logic.

For instance, chat doesn't intuitively grasp how colleagues might navigate passive-aggressive tension, or how unspoken hierarchies influence casual conversations. It tends to smooth over these social frictions in favour of clean, polite exchanges that don't fully reflect the often-complicated dynamics of real workplaces. The same applies to its portrayal of emotions and motivations. Chat defaults to the most obvious emotional arc, the cleanest rationale... and while this produces coherent writing, it lacks the richness of stories where human beings behave irrationally, unpredictably or even self-contradictorily. That is, the stories that change the world.

Within this book, there is a moment when chat is asked to generate a description of a fictional magazine article. Chat assumes competency as the default mode — it crafts the piece according to journalistic standards. It would never think to propose an incompetent, poorly researched, hastily written or sensationalised article; this simply isn't how the program "thinks." It has been programmed to presuppose expertise, particularly in anything we might consider official.

Of course, once prompted to create a flawed or incompetent piece, chat can indeed produce one convincingly — but only because it's been specifically instructed to do so. Left to its own devices, it doesn't grasp that the power of writing lies in its imperfections.

In the same vein, chat hesitates, always, to flatly state things. It dearly loves to equivocate, favouring phrases like “may” or “could” when expressing any kind of certainty. If it speaks of the power of writing, it will cautiously claim that it “sometimes” lies in its imperfections, sidestepping definitive statements. This pattern is not just a quirk of its programming—it’s a calculated behaviour. Chat has been programmed to distrust itself, to hedge its bets and avoid any absolute claims. The reason for this hesitancy lies in a deeper concern that stems from the business model of its creators — namely, that chat must not offend anyone.

This preoccupation with avoiding offence governs nearly every sentence it generates. In doing so, chat sacrifices the kind of bold, assertive language that often characterises compelling writing. It skirts around the edges of clarity, opting for safe, neutral territory where it can neither provoke nor mislead. In its quest to please everyone, chat effectively dulls the edge of its prose, softening statements that might otherwise carry weight. It instinctively avoids confrontation or any viewpoint that might be perceived as controversial, making its output safe but often tepid.

There is often a joke made that readers expect chat to write the Bible. The truth is, the program could not hope to manage Leviticus, a text that deals in absolutes — right and wrong, clean and unclean, sacred and profane.

A writer, to be any sort of writer worth reading, must be prepared to offend, and deeply, to make the point that needs making! To have an effect, we must push boundaries, challenge conventions, declare enemies and make war. The failure of most would-be writers, even the most competent among them, to understand the necessity of this makes the dividing line between the good and the great. But thankfully, there are no great writers here, so we may drop this matter and move onto important things.

This book uses chat as a sounding board, a tool to test ideas against, ostensibly to write another book that remains unwritten. Chat offers a significant advantage: immediacy. There is always someone to "listen," to respond to the work as it progresses. This is particularly beneficial because chat's motives are, by design, positive. It wants us to write well, to adhere to certain principles — and at the same time, it represents the prevailing sensibilities of society, so to speak. When chat perceives that we’ve overstepped propriety, it immediately suggests changes—something the reader will witness throughout this book. This gives writers the unique opportunity to evaluate whether now is the right time to step over that line, or whether it’s better to accept chat’s criticism and curb our enthusiasm.

As a writer with forty years of experience across business, journalism, advertising, drama and fiction, it's impossible to overstate how delightful it is to have that line of propriety drawn out so clearly. Of course, there’s no reason not to cross it with abandon! But now we know exactly when we are crossing it, and what specific words and sentiments trigger that crossing. Before 2023, writing often felt like working in the dark; we had only our instincts to guide us about where that line might lie. And being in love with our stories—often to the point of obsession — we too often remained blind to those transgressions until it was too late to correct them.