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At some convention or other, Dave Creek turned to me and said, “Say, I have some thoughts for a story that we could write together. I’ve got a survey team that enters an abandoned orbital habitat and stumbles across some super-intelligent dinosaurs. You’re the one who knows about dinosaurs.” This sounded intriguing, especially when we conceived of it as a short story that we could send off to a magazine that had published bunches of our stories written separately. Ah, but like that recon team, we had very little idea what we were getting ourselves into. Little did we suspect that SAUROTOPIA would expand to become a whole novel. Or that we’d find a publisher who wanted six books.

Science fiction fans have long enjoyed collaborations. James S.A. Corey’s series, THE EXPANSE, is actually a collaboration between Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck. For fantasy readers, Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone’s THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE THE TIME WAR won the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and Ignyte awards. Other writers who’ve jointly produced well-received novels include Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter, William Gibson and Bruce Sterling, as well as Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.

How exactly do writers work together to make this magic? I’m sometimes asked if I wrote the dinosaurs and Dave wrote the humans. That’s a reasonable assumption, especially given that the chapters alternate between human and dinosaur viewpoints. However, for us, this isn’t how it works. Dave created my favorite character, who is an ostrich-like dinosaur best described as a fierce version of Big Bird. The first scene in which this dinosaur appears was Dave’s creation. No, this is not the only dinosaur he created. There’s also the leader of a predatory band of different dinosaurs. Basically, they are feathered velociraptors. I added the parts where they hunt in packs and stalk their prey from branches of trees. Don’t get me wrong, I did create several other characters for both these species of dinosaur as well as some peaceful herbivores.

Here’s another surprise that I learned as we worked together. It seemed natural to suppose that a book can be written by two authors in half the time it will otherwise take them to write it alone. If only this were true! Both Dave and I have a batch of other projects we were working on. I write a regular book review column and am about half way through a different series. Dave has his own series of novels and short stories clamoring to be written. This meant we both needed to find time in between our other work to write chapters of SAUROTOPIA and edit each other’s work.

Then there is the prospect of encountering “creative differences.” Part way through this project I worried about Dave hating my ideas and me hating his ideas. There were certainly times when one or the other of us would come up with something…let’s call it surprising. Looking back, what worked best was for me to sit with his unexpected plot developments. Over time, his new idea would not only grow on me, but I would become really intrigued by where it might take our characters, both the humans and the dinosaurs. Now I am looking forward to the times when he will spring something completely unexpected on me.

If you’ve read this far and are a writer who is wondering whether you might want to collaborate with another writer, I have to say, it can be tricky to figure that out in advance. Even if you have similar approaches, such as you both outline before you start, that’s no guarantee. Nor for that matter is there any assurance that a solo work will come to fruition. So, take another look at those collaborators I mentioned at the start. What the heck, give it a shot.

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Rosemary Claire Smith writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories showcasing her interests in dinosaurs, alternate history, space exploration, mythology, genetic engineering, time travel, and aliens. She draws on her background as a trowel-wielding archaeologist, reformed lawyer, and keen observer of society. Her other interests include flower arranging, abstract photography, foil fencing, and astronomy.

When I first buckled down to seriously try writing after graduating from college, I dreamed of crafting epic fantasy similar to books by George R.R. Martin and Joe Abercrombie. Their works were breaths of fresh air. Unlike the novels of Tolkien or Robert Jordan, these authors eschewed the black-and-white worldview of good versus evil for shades of gray. I wanted to write just like them.

Of course, I eventually discovered that there’s a reason Martin and Abercrombie are best-selling authors, and Martin takes many years between books. What they do is really, really hard.

Switching to Young Adult

Discovering that writing epic fantasy is a monumental task was the first step in finding my authorial voice. My critique group told me that my writing was more suited to a young adult audience. At first, I was dismissive of this observation, but I came around when I started reading more young adult fantasy and science fiction. I soon appreciated these books possess an intoxicating sense of adventure and discovery.

A common science fiction trope is that aliens would think differently from humans. Larry Niven’s carnivorous Kzinti are curious only about things that interest them, C. J. Cherryh’s T’ca are multi-brained aliens that speak in matrices readable in any direction, and Steven Spielberg’s aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind communicate with music and gesture.

But, even just on the Earth, every human being thinks differently! This tremendous variation is called neurodiversity, and each individual’s distinctive cognitive style is their neurodivergence. Many kinds of neurodivergence are common, including autism, anxiety, synesthesia, and more – sometimes presenting challenges to individuals if society demands a different thinking style.

But could these different thinking styles actually help us understand aliens? Many autistic folks experience hyperfocus on special interests: could they better empathize with Kzinti? Could someone with dissociative personality disorder better understand the multiple-brained T’ca? And could a person with difficulty verbalizing better harmonize with Spielberg’s aliens?

My co-editor Liza Olmsted and I decided to explore whether neurodiversity would help us understand aliens in The Neurodiversiverse: Alien Encounters, a hopeful, empowering science fiction anthology from Thinking Ink Press exploring neurodivergent folks encountering aliens. Over forty contributors shared with us stories, poems and art exploring this theme.

For example, in “The Space Between Stitches” by Minerva Cerridwen, an autistic person’s hyperfocus helps her effortlessly repair an alien’s broken teleporter. In “Where Monolithic Minds Can’t Travel,” Akis Linardos explores whether aliens with multiple minds would resonate with dissociative disorder, unlocking travel to the stars. And in “Music, Not Words” by Ada Hoffmann, aliens that speak in music find harmony with a young woman who has trouble with words.

Many stories in The Neurodiversiverse are told from an authentic #ownvoices perspective, in which authors write stories about characters who share their own distinctive experiences. For example, I struggle with social anxiety disorder, and in my own “Shadows of Titanium Rain,” give those experiences to the character Djina as she struggles to understand solitary aliens.

Liza and I feel #ownvoices are particularly important because they improve the representation of marginalized voices in stories, which is part of the mission of Thinking Ink Press. Sometimes, it can be hard to imagine achieving something if you’ve never seen someone like yourself doing it – and it can be hard to solve a problem if you have no words to describe it.

We’re bringing The Neurodiversiverse to life no matter what, but because we’re a small press, we’re running a Kickstarter to help defray the costs of producing and promoting the book. In particular, we want to pay our authors the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Association (SFWA) “professional rate” of 8 cents a word, and the Kickstarter will help us do that.

Creating The Neurodiversiverse has been a voyage of discovery for us. Recently Thinking Ink Press embraced its identity as a publisher focused on marginalized voices – something we had always done, but not precisely noticed that we were doing; but once we noticed that it was our focus, we decided to lean in on that and do it well.

Exploring the topic of neurodiversity inspired me to propose “The Neurodiversiverse Anthology,” which I shared with our team to ensure we handled it sensitively. Liza was enthusiastic, joining as my coeditor and helping craft the anthology’s explicit focus on hopeful, empowering and #ownvoices stories. And work on the book awakened my understanding of my own struggles with neurodivergence, particularly social anxiety disorder and autism.

The Neurodiversiverse has opened doors for us as not just editors but as people with our own struggles with neurodivergence, and we hope it has a similar impact on everyone who reads it. So please back our Kickstarter (accessible during the campaign via neurodiversiverse.com) where you can not only help us pay our authors, you can get a copy of the book and find out the answer to the question, “Would neurodiversity help in an encounter with aliens?”

You can find the Kickstarter here.

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About the author: By day, Anthony Francis teaches robots to learn; by night, he writes science fiction and draws comic books. His “Dakota Frost, Skindancer” urban fantasy series begins in the award-winning FROST MOON and continues in BLOOD ROCK and LIQUID FIRE. His latest novel is JEREMIAH WILLSTONE AND THE CLOCKWORK TIME MACHINE. He co-edited the anthology DOORWAYS TO EXTRA TIME and is the co-editor of the forthcoming anthology THE NEURODIVERSIVERSE: ALIEN ENCOUNTERS; for more information check out neurodiversiverse.com . You can read more about Anthony’s words, art and science on his blog “The Library of Dresan” at dresan.com.

If you’re an author or other fantasy and science fiction creative, and want to do a guest blog post, please check out the guest blog post guidelines. Or if you’re looking for community with fellow fantasy, science fiction, and horror writers, sign up for the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers Critclub!

Imagine this. You are nine or ten or eleven years old. In your “tweens” as the hip kids call it. Or is that “cool”? You have moved to a foreign country “overseas” because your father was stationed there and you are experiencing non-American food for the first time. Belgium. A little country partially notable by the fact that NATO exists within it. (And so much more…)

First, it is all hotel food because there are no quarters available for you and your military family in SHAPE, Belgium (Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe). And the food is good. I mean, really good. We’re talking fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and Belgian waffles. My mom complained that she gained a pound for every day we were required to stay in that hotel. I don’t remember how long. It was too long for nine-year-old me. I just wanted a home and my things around me.

Then we were there. Living in a 300-year-old manor house in Brugelette, Belgium in 1979 because “the franc was so good.” The backyard was bigger than any school playground I’d ever played in before. The house had history. Real history. This is where “Dear Penpal, Belgium 1980” was born. “Dear Penpal, Belgium 1980” is a unique, middle grade-appropriate ghost story told through 24 physical letters that I am kickstarting from March 26th to April 26th.

Note from Cat: I’m so pleased to see Be The Sea out in print. I read an early version and it’s a lovely book. Please pick it up or request it through your local library!

A Yule log cake features prominently in my new novel, Be the Sea. While preparing it, four characters share bits of their history involving kitchens and cooking.

Kai, an outgoing enby poly pansexual from Hawai’i says, “Where I grew up, I loved everyone’s kitchen except mine.”

Aljon, a quiet ace sailor turned ship’s cook from the Philippines responds, “I felt safe in our kitchen and extended that to others.”

They’re both vegan, and Matt, who loves to feed people and is simultaneously making his second and third cakes for Yule, is Pagan. So the cake they make together is vegan, filled with pistachio cream spiraled inside chocolate cake. It’s frosted with whipped chocolate, applied in thick swoops with a knife, then textured using the tines of a fork to resemble bark. Powdered sugar is dusted on top as if there’s been a light winter snow; after all, this is a Yule log cake.

In truth, my household makes the same cake fashioned as…a groundhog.

Why? What’s the truth behind my fictional cake?

First, like my story’s point of view character, Wend, I love chocolate but grew up with a single mom who had little interest in or time for cooking, let alone baking. Second, and completely unrelated to my novel, my mom had a peculiar obsession with Groundhog Day (the holiday, not the movie). As she told it, this arose from a chance encounter with a newspaper reporter in San Francisco in the ‘60s who was asking passersby on the street if they knew what day it was. Evidently, the moment in my mom’s life when she felt most seen and affirmed was when she answered correctly that it was February 2nd, Groundhog Day.

I will never know if my mom would have identified as enby or ace (although I have my suspicions) because she passed away in the early ‘90s. What I know is that she made exactly one kind of cake. I don’t make it the same way she did, but once a year, for Groundhog Day, my chosen family chooses from several options for chocolate roll cakes. The tines of a fork pluck at the frosting until it looks like fur. A diagonal slice through the center makes one cake into two, each with a sloped face that can be decorated with nuts for ears and jellybeans for eyes.

In different times and different kitchens, each of us may share our own truths. We will see the same cake in new and different ways. And sometimes, in the eyes of a reporter or a groundhog, we will feel seen.

Writing games. I avoided them for years because I was short on time, not ideas. Once I lifted my head from my page, I realized my focus was all wrong. This one-hour-a-week “game” held incredible lessons I couldn’t get anywhere else.

So why the reluctance? That’s the easy part. Take a first-born, type-A personality with a novel in its final draft, multiple short stories out on rejection””oops, I mean submission, numerous other half-written stories, and a second novel that’s itching for a conclusion, then disrupt that work with “games” full of nonsensical sentence prompts, and odd pictures, and you’ll find a non-believer who prefers to focus on “real” work.

I’d occasionally pop into the session, but more often than not, I’d log out as soon as I heard it was a writing game and not the story discussion or feral writing time I’d expected. If I had a deadline to meet, anything with the word “play” was dismissed automatically. Who had time for play? For five and a half years, fun writing seemed like an oxymoron.

I admit to being a sucker for the Ticky Box. Which is to say, I am perhaps excessively motivated by having Lists and Ticking Things Off Them. I like setting goals for myself, and I’m good at breaking those goals down into smaller steps, rewarding myself for them, all that sort of self-management stuff. I’m keen to write, to write more, to write better; so I use my goals to manage all those things. And as far as it goes (and for as long as it works), that’s great.

The trouble is that sometimes all those lists and goals instead get me stuck in fear: fear of not meeting the goals, fear of not improving “˜enough’, fear of not writing the book of my glorious imaginings. (Spoiler: I am never going to write “˜the book of my glorious imaginings’, because my glorious imaginings are a cloud of inchoate vibes, not a collection of real actual words, and a book is a collection of real actual words, not a cloud of inchoate vibes. The best I can do is to approximate it.)

Fear is not good for creativity.

AI is coming for your jobs, creatives! Or… it will be, eventually. Not this year. But coming soon.

Introduction
The last two years have seen surprising and indeed almost shocking advances in AI creative work. Image-generators like Dall-E, Midjourney, and Stable Diffusion that work from text prompts using diffusion models are capable of some amazingly high quality work at times, though admittedly their understanding(1) of fingers still leaves something to be desired. The even more astonishing ChatGPT can sometimes not just hold conversations that pass the Turing Test, but can also create working computer programs, compose poetry, and also write coherent short stories, apparently from scratch.

Some may reasonably argue the work of such AI systems isn’t creative at all, but is a mere regurgitation or combination of human efforts compiled from its training sets. But on the other hand, much of human art is based on pastiche and emulation, not to mention plagiarism, and both writers and artists have to spend years of training learning the techniques passed on by their instructors.

The State of the Art

Recent developments are truly astonishing given previous struggles to get AI systems to create art, prose, and other works. It’s now possible to type a few words and get some art back in a minute that might have taken a human hours or even days to produce from scratch. The quality of the AI-generated art is quite variable; from one request to another you might get back commercially usable material or you might get worthless trash. But even considering that you may have to make quite a number of requests of the system to obtain a usable image, the results are still much faster and cheaper than using a human artist for the equivalent level of work.

It’s arguable that if created by a human, these AI-generated images would sometimes be direct plagiarism. Even when not clearly a direct copy of an existing work, it’s often the case that the AI system builders failed to obtain artist permission to incorporate their work into the system’s training data. The legal consequences of this failure will work themselves out in the courts, but for now there’s nothing stopping people from making use of these tools.

At present, complete high-quality AI art is generally unobtainable no matter how much time is taken playing with prompts, but on the one hand, commercial-grade art is often quite acceptable, and on the other hand, by using the AI’s art as a basis, a skilled digital artist can create a high-quality composite of human and AI art much more quickly than working from scratch. This, for example, is what Tor did with Christopher Paolini’s recent book cover.

In the world of prose, with suitable guidance ChatGPT can generate a coherent and consistent story, but not one that’s very high quality. Without substantial revision, the current quality of such text is typically mediocre, but at present it’s not inconceivable for some exceptional AI-generated story to make it past a slush reader’s quality threshold and at least be held for review. Quite the achievement considering the high level of competition many magazines impose on contributors. This is already motivating many AI-generated submissions, though it’s unclear if they are meant for prestige and profit for their pseudonymous submitters or to count coup. Clarkesworld, for example, has reported a recent spike in AI submissions despite their guidelines to the contrary.

The Future of the Art

Because these recent developments in AI art generation have seemed to come almost from nowhere, it’s hard to say how rapidly they will improve to match or even exceed human capabilities. We should keep in mind that autonomous cars were expected to be widely available by now on the basis of work done in the 2010s, and yet after a promising beginning, only slow progress has been made and such vehicles are still unsafe on real-world roads.

On the other hand, given the eagerness of many extremely well-funded tech groups to work in this area, including not just OpenAI but Microsoft and Google among others, it’s reasonable to expect further progress up to a point. What’s the limit? For current system architectures, I expect that limit is based on these systems’ lack of explicit real-world knowledge. Just as ChatGPT is capable of absolutely authoritative but totally incorrect and easily refutable statements, these systems will be hamstrung by the inability to reason until such capabilities are combined with their generative models.

Let’s establish three bars:

1. Acceptable low-grade commercial art. The kind of graphic art that creative freelancers currently make to order for ad campaigns and other commercial applications without much funding, but which will still pay their rent. Equivalent prose would be acceptable for publication in some token and semipro magazines and for routine copywriting assignments.
2. Acceptable high-grade commercial art. Commercial art produced for highly funded campaigns by major agencies and design firms, or prose and content that can be published in the better magazines and journals.
3. Superior-to-human fine art. Masterpieces that would displace human efforts from galleries and museums and bookstore racks and win awards if AI and humans competed on a level playing field.

We’re currently just entering stage 1 for certain applications. This means that soon some semipro freelancers may experience serious competition from AI systems, and after a while some agencies and design firms may reduce their staff because their routine low-end work can be done by machine. There will still be plenty of human work involved in revising, incorporating, or compositing AI work into larger and higher quality artistic achievements, but the amount of human touch in the overall process will diminish.

At stage 2, entire industries will be turned upside down and the effects will shake up whole economies. For example, design firms may no longer require creatives, or else the few creatives they retain will largely be employed managing requests to AI systems. There will be no more need for human touch in photoshopping or otherwise compositing AI art with human-created elements as in stage 1; the AI will do all the work on demand. (Note that while some very high quality AI art has been created already, it typically requires considerable manual effort from a human to achieve such a level).

The good news is that my average-case guess for stage 2 is at least ten years, and it may well be generations before this level is achieved. The bad news is that I could be wrong and it could be next year. I was shocked by ChatGPT’s capabilities in 2022 after years of crappy chat bots that wouldn’t fool Turing for a minute, and so I may easily be wrong again. Still, I do think that without explicit real-world knowledge and reasoning abilities these tools will be unable to really excel for quite some time. At present no one has any idea how to give a generative AI system that kind of understanding.
At stage 3, humans start wondering why they should even bother creating art, especially if such superior work can be routinely requested of AI systems by anyone without incurring much cost.

Similar considerations apply for stage 3, which to my mind requires Artificial General Intelligence to achieve. Such a system is not absolutely out of the question. We just don’t know how to build one today, nor do we even have a good idea on a direction to follow to achieve such a goal.

Still, even stage 1 is problematic enough for human creatives. I’d guess full stage 1 will be achieved within five years, and whatever the courts decide about existing systems and their theft of artist work without permission, one way or another AI-generated art will become ubiquitous for inexpensive applications.

(1) Indeed, the reason that such systems don’t know how to draw fingers properly is they don’t even understand the concept of fingers. These systems don’t have old-fashioned knowledge bases that contain explicit facts or relations. The appearance of a hand is emergent from mysterious mathematical features derived automatically from the digitized training set. Discrete counts of things that characteristically appear in fixed numbers in nature but are often hidden from view in individual images can be problematic for such systems. Human images very frequently show two clearly identifiable arms and legs and so AI images get these right more often than not (not always however!) but hands in photographs less frequently show all five fingers clearly, and so generated images often don’t do so either.

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BIO: Laurence Raphael Brothers is a writer and a technologist with five patents and a background in AI and Internet R&D. He has published over 50 short stories in such magazines as Nature, PodCastle, and Galaxy’s Edge. His noir urban fantasy novellas The Demons of Wall Street, The Demons of the Square Mile, and The Demons of Chiyoda are available from Mirror World Publishing, while his new standalone novel The World’s Shattered Shell has just been published by Water Dragon.
Pronouns: he/him.
Twitter: @lbrothers.
Mastodon: @laurence@petrous.vislae.town.
Website: https://laurencebrothers.com.

Note: This originally appeared on Liz’s Patreon, which you can find here, and which I highly recommend.

Scrying the Future

The world will continue to argue the benefits, ethics, problems, and controversies about AI art and writing long past my lifetime, even if I live to be 100 years old. So I write this as a scene in media res, one drop in an ocean of ink and pixels already washing over us.

Please take it as a given that my opinions and understandings written here will also change over time, as I keep learning. And fair warning: this is a longform essay with no easy TLDR. I hope you’ll stick with me.