Because of indecisiveness a few weeks ago, I am pulling back my previously published stories—like a hound of loyalty, guarding its bones in the secret location—leaving only two short stories and one series untouched and unfounded. The ones that survived from the furnace of my doubtfulness, the ones I abandoned of artifice until their raw, human cores shone out through.
Yes, I use AI—but like a dragon living in water hoarding jewels with purpose. A scouter, a digger, and a fetcher—but a refiner. Every word spouted is a meltdown in the kiln of my intuition of deepness, hammered into some natural bleedings and tremblings. By then, hold it up to the lightness—let the cold detectors sniff for the sterile stench of full automation, correction and imperfection.