Soulless
New York
May 2026
“You’ve published six books this year.”
Colin leaned back on the couch and propped his feet up on a small table. A New York Times reporter sat across from him. He glanced out the window of the Marriott Marquis’s lobby bar. His publicist had arranged this meeting and this table so the reporter could get a picture of him and the Times Square ad for his new book that should pop up any second. A dystopian political thriller about a new U.S. constitution that leads to a Hitler-like dictatorship. Another pre-release bestseller. He’d be able to buy that second home in Malibu. If it went well enough, maybe a week on a yacht with Celeste in the Mediterranean this fall.
“Colin, did you hear me?”
He turned back to the reporter.
“You’ve published six books this year. Each one a bestseller.”
Colin put his feet down and picked up his espresso martini by the stem. “Impressive, right?”
“Impossible is the word that comes to mind.”
The mix of vodka and espresso stirred close to the rim. He steadied it and sipped while he looked at the reporter over the glass. “Impossible?”
“Most experienced writers take at least a year to write a novel. You’ve published six in five months.”
“So. James Patterson publishes twenty books a year.”
“With a team of the best ghostwriters in the country.”
Colin set his glass down. Who is this asshole? he thought to himself. He studied the reporter. Young, maybe thirty. Cheap suit. Thick-rimmed glasses. Was taking notes with a pencil and paper instead of an iPad. He didn’t even have a real camera. Was he really going to use his iPhone to take the picture?
“Are you using ghostwriters?”
Colin considered lying. But he knew the reporter’s next question would be for names. “No.”
“This time last year you were working in a think tank in D.C. You don’t have any previous writing experience. A degree in political science from Ohio State. No M.F.A.”
Colin spread his arms out on the back of the couch and crossed his ankle over his knee. “You did your homework.”
“You expect everyone to believe you wrote a bestselling novel every month this year?”
Colin felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, past his collar, and drip down his back. The truth was that he’d spent three years writing the first book. The start of a scene on the Red Line from Bethesda to Union Station every morning. Finishing it at lunch. Then dreaming every afternoon about escaping the cubicle life. It had taken another year to find an agent who’d sold it to one of the Big Five publishers a month later. When it had sold well, he’d been pressured for another one. Quickly. He had ideas. Lots of them. But he knew it would take him years to write one. So, he took a shortcut. “I’ve been writing these books since I graduated from college. I had a backlog of them ready to go.”
The reporter looked at him over his glasses that had fallen to the tip of his nose. “Your second book is about a tyrannical president who returns to power after a failed first term.”
Colin swallowed hard. “Yes.”
The reporter kept his eyes on Colin. “You wrote a story a decade ago about something that happened last year?”
The single bead of sweat had turned into a puddle on his back. He nodded.
The reporter pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You used AI to write these books, didn’t you.”
Colin didn’t know if it was the accusation in the reporter’s tone or the truth of it settling in his stomach that made him look back out the window. He watched as the cover of his new book flashed for an instant on the big screen across the square. Then it was gone, replaced with a bright-yellow billboard for a new VPN service. I guess that picture isn’t going in the New York Times today. He looked back at the reporter. For an instant, considered admitting what he’d done. Arguing that Twain had adopted the typewriter. Then King a word processor. How was his using AI different? Then he uncrossed his legs and stood up. “I have another meeting down the street. Please contact my publicists with any more questions.”
Ouray, Colorado
The Same Day
“Have you read the new Colin Smith book?”
Julia squeezed her AirPod to pause the classical music she’d been listening to while writing.
The man in the booth just across from her pulled out his Kindle. “Downloaded it this morning,” he said to his friend. “I’m going to light a fire and read it tonight.”
“It’s his best one yet. A real page-turner.”
Julia un-paused her music and the deep notes from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 drowned out the men’s conversation. Dun dun du dun. She thought of Colin back at Ohio State. Junior year. He was the only boy she’d known willing to skip the Michigan game to sit in a coffee shop and write with her. He’d moved to D.C. after school and she hadn’t heard from him in years. All of a sudden he’d popped up as the new hot thing in publishing.
She looked back at the words on her laptop. A dystopian fantasy novel she’d been working on in her spare time. A few words in the morning before driving to the elementary school to teach third graders how to multiply. Maybe a paragraph before bed. Then here, at the coffee shop, every Saturday morning. For the last three years. And she still wasn’t close to being done. She tried to type, but the words just wouldn’t come. She exhaled and leaned back in her seat. She was looking out the front window where the last traces of snow still spotted the towering mountains that surrounded the town when her best friend Samantha plopped into the booth across from her.
“How’s it going, John Grisham?”
Julia rolled her eyes and paused her AirPods again. “Fantasy. Not legal.”
“Fine. Whatever. Suzanne Collins. Brandon Sanderson. Fucking J.K. Rowling.”
Julia gave a short laugh.
“You almost done with that thing or what?”
Julia took out her AirPods and laid them on the table. “Or what.” She closed her laptop and glanced to the table with the two men. “Some authors in New York are publishing books like mine every month. Some months I’m lucky to get a scene done.”
Samantha shrugged. “I bet they aren’t dealing with a room full of nine-year-olds for eight hours a day either.”
“That’s beside the point. I love my kids.” She pointed at her laptop. “I love this. But I can’t get it to work in the way I know it can.”
Samantha leaned forward. “You can’t tell anybody this, but I’ve been using Claude to write the papers I file in court.”
“You’re using AI in your legal practice?”
“It’s as good as any junior attorney I could hire. Saves me hours each week. So instead of working this weekend, I’m going up into the mountain with Jim.”
“Your clients are okay with that? The court?”
Samantha slid out of her side of the booth and squeezed in next to Julia. “That’s the best part. They can’t tell the difference.” She tapped the laptop. “I bet Claude could finish this novel for you today.”
Julia moved the laptop closer to her.
Samantha grinned. “Ryan is coming with us today. He wants you to come.”
Julia hesitated. Thought of Ryan’s blue eyes. Started to put her laptop into her bag before stopping. “No. I’m going to work for a few more hours.”
Samantha gave her a thin smile. “Suit yourself.” She walked towards the door. Julia looked at the booth across from her, where now just one man sat with his Kindle. Colin’s newest book, no doubt. They’d started in the same place. He was now a bestselling author. She had a draft she couldn’t finish. She sighed and opened her laptop. She hovered her cursor over the App Store button. It would be so easy. Done. Today. Other writers hated AI, said it destroyed the soul of the story. But they’d said the same thing about the typewriter, word processors. And nobody wrote by hand today. She shook her head and put her AirPods back in. Dun dun du dun. She opened her draft, typed a few words, deleted them, typed again.
Columbus, Ohio
September 2036
Colin followed the crowd out of The Horseshoe. A 21-7 loss to Iowa didn’t seem to dampen the mood of the homecoming crowd. Undergraduates floated from house party to house party. Alumni broke off at tailgates, reuniting with old friends. Colin wandered amongst them, taking it all in, wondering why he’d failed to enjoy this culture when he’d been a student. His mind drifted to a coffee shop on the other side of campus, situated within walking distance of their dorms but far enough away to avoid the stumbling frat boys.
Without choosing, his feet started to move in that direction. And within a few minutes his hand was on the door. He hesitated. Remembered the boy with a dream who’d shown up here every Saturday to write with a girl. THE girl. Wondered what that boy would think of him now. It had been a decade since he’d written his last book, and he hadn’t really written that book.
He pushed the door open and stepped in. The smell—burnt coffee beans mixed with the sweetness of freshly baked blueberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies—hit him first. He looked down the narrow room, saw students hunched over laptops and iPhones at tables pressed against the bare brick wall. A few had books—real books—open in front of them. He moved further in, past the coffee bar, towards the back left corner where he knew a cove hid a little table from the rest of the shop. He stopped and, not wanting to disturb whoever would be sitting there, peeked around the corner. He grimaced and quickly stepped back. A girl with bright green hair at the booth next to him looked up and he gave her a little smile before peeking again. There she was, right there. Julia. Of course. The fifteen-year reunion. And like him she’d probably told herself she’d go to the parties, but, when she got here, decided to keep to herself. She had headphones on and was typing away. Oblivious that he was there, watching her. He glanced at her left hand. No ring.
He stepped back again, leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to push down the tingling in his stomach. He hadn’t had serious interest in a woman since Celeste had left. She’d tired of waiting for the next bestseller, the next big payday. She’d taken the Malibu house and moved on. If he was honest with himself, he’d been relieved. After so much time, she’d been the only one pressuring him to write again.
He’d seen Julia’s name in the New York Times five or six years ago. A bestseller. That twat book reviewer with the cheap suit and dark glasses had called her “the next big thing in fantasy.” And that had held true. She had written two successful books since. He’d called her then. Let it ring once and hung up before she could answer. He’d let it go to voicemail when she called back. She’d ask him about the books, what he was working on now, when he’d publish again.
The girl in the booth took a deep breath and glanced up at him over the top of her laptop. He nodded his head twice, peeked around the corner again at Julia, who was pecking away at her keyboard. No doubt her next book. He hovered there a moment. A moment too long. Julia glanced up and he jerked his head back behind the wall. He almost tripped over the girl’s bag as he jogged out of the coffee shop. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face her. Not yet.
****
Julia scooted her chair closer to the hotel bar. A few men with fading hairlines and scarlet and gray jerseys sat across from her. One smiled. She jerked her head down at her watch: 7:30. She could still make the education department’s reunion party if she left now. She rubbed her forehead. She’d been to dinner with two old friends last night. And breakfast with her favorite writing professor this morning. That, she told herself, was enough to justify this trip. She opened her laptop as the bartender set a glass of cab in front of her.
She started editing the pages she’d written that afternoon in the coffee shop. A girl with green hair had been sitting in the cove when she’d first gotten there. She’d recognized Julia right away—one of her biggest fans, her idol, she’d said—and insisted Julia take the hidden table. The girl was still there when Julia left several hours later; she said some creep had been spying on her. Julia had caught a glimpse of him, thought she recognized him. Had thought for a moment it was Colin. She picked up her iPhone and scrolled to his contact. Maybe he was in town too. Started to send him a text but swiped out of it. Isn’t he married? No. She’d heard he got divorced several years ago. She looked back at her laptop. Ahh, the hell with it. She picked up her phone: “You in Columbus?”
She was looking back at her laptop when she heard the ping across the room. A text message received. She looked up at where the men in the jerseys had been. They were gone, but just beyond where they were sitting was a man buried in a booth looking at his phone. One corner of her mouth rose. Colin. She watched him read her text. Set his phone down. Pick it up again. He exhaled loudly, shook his head once and set the phone back on the table. Why is he ignoring me? She watched him for several minutes, her manuscript forgotten. He had a pen in his hand, a notebook in front of him. He was writing. She closed her laptop now, drained the last of the wine, and stood. She hesitated only a moment before gliding over to him.
“You are in town.”
He looked up wide-eyed. “I—uh—”
“Don’t worry about it. I get lost when working on a project too.” She slid into the booth across from him. “What are you writing?”
His eyes—those blue eyes she’d fallen for over fifteen years ago—had a sparkle. “I’m rewriting my political thrillers.”
She laughed. “Why? You’ve already published those.”
He looked down.
“And you’re writing with pen and paper. A little old-fashioned, no?”
He took a deep breath and looked up. The sparkle gone. “I want them to have a soul.”
She let her head fall to the right. “A soul?”
He paused for a moment, eyes locked on hers. “Written by me.” A breath. “Not a machine.”
She didn’t move. Thought of that day years ago when somebody—was it Samantha?—had told her that some AI bot could finish her novel for her in a day. She’d almost let it. Truthfully, had wanted it too. Instead, she’d poured herself into her three books. Sure, she’d made some money. Was recognized by undergrads in coffee shops. But she’d sacrificed her life, her body. She’d watched as friends got married, had children, went on vacation. All while Colin had taken the shortcut. She felt a pressure rise in the back of her head; her shoulders tighten.
Colin’s eyes watered. Then he looked away. “You can hate me. I understand.”
Julia sat back in the booth. Watched the pen tremble in Colin’s hand. The near tear in his eye as he avoided her gaze. She looked at her laptop. Thought of the AI bots she used now. She couldn’t be as productive as she was if she didn’t have them to edit her work at two in the morning while her human editor was asleep. And to market her books…well, she just couldn’t do it. Writers had decried all these things a decade ago as destroying the craft. She relaxed her shoulders, let the pressure in her head dissipate. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his. He looked back at her. She smiled. “Can I read what you’ve written today?”
Thanks for reading. “Soulless” is a short story I wrote because the question at the heart of it—what writing costs and what makes it yours—is the one I’m seeing in the writing community and one I’ve been walking around with. If this landed for you, I’ll send you the next one when it’s ready.
