author fears – Ridley Park

2–4 minutes

And neither is that editor you refused to hire.

Too many people don’t understand how generative AI works. Not civilians. Not your mum. Not even your dog (though he’s probably got better instincts about plot pacing than half of #WritingCommunity). No, the truly confused are writers. Authors. Editors. The ink-stained guardians of literary virtue who see AI and scream, “Plagiarism!” before they even read the terms of service.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

I posted a question on a Reddit forum for Fiction Writing—because I’m a glutton for punishment—and within seconds, the doomsday chorus began. “Don’t share your work with AI!” they cried. “It will steal your ideas!” As if ChatGPT is some sentient literary magpie with a fetish for your rough draft.

Another chimed in: “They’ll use your words to train future models!” Yes, Brenda, because your glacially paced fantasy epic with twelve warring kingdoms and three prologues is the key to cracking AGI.

Let’s set the record straight. This is not how AI works. Models are trained, and then they’re deployed. That’s it. Done. Finished. They’re not learning from your prompts any more than your toaster is evolving every time you burn the crumpets. The AI doesn’t remember you. It doesn’t save your work to some secret vault labelled “Possible Booker Prize Winners—Do Not Delete.”

Unless you deliberately cache content into a persistent memory—and you’ll know, because the interface reminds you like an overzealous librarian—it’s gone. The machine forgets. Your precious prose vanishes into the void, right alongside your childhood dreams of being discovered at Starbucks by a passing Penguin editor.

But what this really exposes is a deeper, older neurosis: the idea that someone—AI, human, interdimensional elf—is going to steal your genius. And you’ll be left penniless while they ride your glittering words all the way to a Netflix deal.

This is why some of these folks won’t share their work with editors either. Or beta readers. Or critique partners. Because someone might steal it. As if the entire industry is just waiting to snatch up your unproofed, comma-spliced debut and slap a different name on the cover. The paranoia is delicious. Also tragic.

Here’s the thing: no one is stealing your manuscript. Mainly because no one wants it. Yet.

You know who does get their work stolen? People who publish. People whose work is finished, polished, and out in the world. And even then, it’s usually pirated by some bot-run content farm in Indonesia, not secretly optioned by HBO.

Meanwhile, you’re clutching your WIP like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls. You won’t let AI see it. You won’t let an editor see it. You won’t even let your cat walk across the keyboard while it’s open. And so, it rots. In obscurity. Like 99% of manuscripts that die not from theft but from neglect.

Look, I’ve been around since Wave 3 of AI. Back in the ‘90s, we called them “expert systems,” which is just a fancy way of saying “spreadsheet with delusions of grandeur.” They weren’t intelligent. Neither are today’s models, frankly. But we gave them a sexier name and suddenly everyone’s worried they’re going to replace Shakespeare.

Newsflash: AI isn’t going to write your book. But it might help you finish it—if you’d just stop screaming and let the damn thing look at a paragraph.

In short: AI is not your enemy. Editors are not out to get you. And the only person likely to sabotage your novel… is you.

Posted By

Ridley Park

What if you scheduled a book signing… and no one showed?

I’ve had that thought more than once. The kind of creeping doubt that slinks in just after you order the bookmarks and rehearse your elevator pitch in the mirror.

It happened to Tamika Ford.

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18niMMYv3C

I don’t know this woman, but this post appeared in my feed:

First book signing

I showed up. I sat at the table. Books neatly stacked, pen ready, heart open — and no one came.

At first, it stung. But then I realized… I’m still proud. Proud that I created something from my story. Proud that I had the courage to show up, even when the seats were empty.

Every table won’t be full. Every event won’t be packed. But every moment is a seed. And I’m still planting.

www.mooretolyfe.net

I don’t know Tamika personally. This post just floated into my feed. But her candour caught me off guard—because I’ve imagined the same thing.

Audio: NotebookLM Podcast on this topic.

A book signing. It sounds like the natural next step. A rite of passage. Something authors do. I’m an introvert, but I’ve taught lecture halls full of glazed-over undergrads and stood before execs who paid me not to bore them. Public speaking doesn’t rattle me.

But the idea of speaking to an empty room? That’s different.

As a professor, the audience is compulsory. As a consultant, the client paid to listen. But a signing? That’s a gamble. No RSVP, no guaranteed bodies. Just hope in paperback.

I’ve published three books, with two more on the way. There are still a few manuscripts in editorial purgatory and some non-fiction titles pacing impatiently backstage. No wonder people hire publicists. It’s a circus, and some days, you don’t even get the monkey.

Tamika said, “At first, it stung.” And how could it not?

She’d already written the book. That’s the real accomplishment. She could have been proud before the signing, without the signing. But she showed up. That’s the part that wrecks me a bit.

She probably rehearsed the scene in her head. Smiling, shaking hands. Someone saying, “I loved this part.” A moment of affirmation.

Instead: silence. Stale air and the slow tick of a wall clock.

And yet there she is in the photo—beaming. She shared the moment not to seek pity but to offer calibration for anyone planting seeds of their own.

May her next event be packed. May strangers pick up her book and find something that speaks to them. Failing that, may they at least buy the damn thing.

Either way, she’s already won.

Tag: author fears

The AI Isn’t Coming for Your Manuscript, Karen

The Loneliest Table in the Room