Books Are Built, Not Generated

I love technology. I love what it makes possible.

I believe AI has expanded our imagination—of what’s doable, of what’s within reach, of how we work and what we create. And I believe in using the tools at hand. Always. Responsibly. Curiously. Even playfully.

AI is one of those tools. And like any tool, it’s only as effective as the hands—and mind—wielding it.

Right now, we’re watching a flood of AI-generated books and content enter the world. Some of it is exciting. Some of it is…less than that. There are apps and services that promise you can write a book in 30 minutes. There are “experts” teaching systems for churning out dozens of titles with a few prompts. There are business models built on quantity, on keyword-stuffing, on speed.

And sure—you can do that.

You can generate 30,000 words.
You can get a cover.
You can upload to Amazon.

And sure—that might look like a book on the surface.

But when AI has done the heavy lifting with little human discernment, intention, or craft?

That’s like saying you’ve used a hammer a few times, so you know how to build a house.
Sure—you can nail boards together and make a lean-to. You might even call it shelter. But is it structurally sound? Not really. Livable? No.

And a book, like a house, is a complex structure.
It needs architecture. Coherence. Internal systems that hold weight and deliver meaning. A design that’s in relationship with how someone will move through it. It needs an internal infrastructure—narrative, rhythm, clarity of thought, voice, intention.

Books are built to hold meaning, not just deliver information.
And that requires more than a prompt and a word count.
It requires knowing how books work—how narrative tension builds, how pacing holds attention, how structure scaffolds ideas, how voice creates intimacy, how resonance is engineered into the experience.

These are things AI cannot intuit. It doesn’t understand readers. It doesn’t think in arcs or intention.
It can’t see what you’re really trying to say—because it doesn’t know why it matters.

Can it support the process? Absolutely.
Can it save time? In some places, yes.
Can it build the house? No.
But it might help you hold the flashlight while you work. Or carry the wood. Or even sketch an early layout.

But you still have to build the thing. Thoughtfully. With your hands, your voice, your sense of form and purpose.

Because the real work of authorship has never just been about words.
It’s been about meaning, connection, and the invisible structure beneath the surface.