I suppose I should explain what my purpose for writing this is. I'm of the opinion that writing can be considered a form of art, and simply cheating your way with a machine can't be considered art in the same way. What makes art, in my humble opinion, is the fact that it is made by humans, injected with the human soul. Writing reflects an author's own mind, their style is their own, their works their own creative design, the choices and skill displayed, no matter the quality, is what makes their writing their own art. Of course, that isn't to say that there aren't degrees to this sort of thing. Plagiarizing or copying another author's work takes away from the merit of something. A child's scribble can technically be considered a form of art, but a thoughtless scribble would rarely be described as such. What I'm trying to say is that not all "art" can really be considered good, or have much in terms of artistic merits. Much of it may just barely meet the minimum criteria for art, and even that is poorly defined. Does the engineer who works on a rocket ship create a piece of art? Most wouldn't think so, but it is a human creating something, so perhaps it is art in its own way. It's hard to define what art even is, but I suppose for the engineer he's doing it for a functional purpose, and perhaps that's an important distinction. Perhaps another thing that makes art, well art, is that it is done for its own sake. Art is not designed to be functional, it is designed to be appreciated and enjoyed! But, I suppose that raises more questions as well. If someone lives off their art, is it even art if it now has a functional purpose? That can't be, but then perhaps rocket ships are art too. In writing this I've completely lost all hope of figuring out a robust definition of what art is, but I have made up my mind on the machine. It is a plagiarism machine that can produce writing. That writing can be functional, useful, even valuable, but it cannot be considered art. It is a consumable product produced by a machine, that does not make it bad, or without use or value, but it cannot be considered art. No one would consider a processed snack out of a wrapper a piece of art, but most would concede that a beautifully crafted wedding cake has at least some degree of artistic merit. Yet, both can be considered food. In the same way, I have come to the conclusion that the machine is not without its usefulness, and it certainly can produce well-made writing, but it cannot produce art, and that, I think, is an important distinction.
I think I've rather lost the plot at this point, and I should answer my original statement. I don't intend to start using the machine to replace or even supplement my writing or stories. I fully intend to continue to write and create works entirely of my own effort and thoughts. But I would like to document some of my experiences using the machine as well. I'm not entirely sure what I'll use this piece of writing for. I suppose I'll use it to play around with the medium of writing itself, to develop my skills as a writer. Perhaps I'll also use it as a form of notes to explain things about the stories I write and the process involved with them. Maybe I'll do a sort of journaling as well, throwing down my random thoughts. I don't intend to make this entirely about my experiences with the machine, and would like to run creative writing exercises here as well. With that in mind I'll keep it clear what's come out of the machine, and what's been penned by my own hand. This is an experimental work, not focused on a narrative, but more of a space for notes, practice, and documentation. I don't know if I'll ever write a full story with the machine, I don't think supplementing your own work with it can be considered art, but I suppose I'll document my experiences, and perhaps my opinions and thoughts as well. It certainly seems dystopian to have a world where the vast majority of writing, once entirely a human endeavor, is created by machines, but perhaps Simon Banks is right, and it's not about creating art, but about making marketable content. Maybe most people don't care about the art of writing, they simply want nice tasting content. They want palatable and functional writing, stories that do their job, and don't care much about the human intentions and creatives. I would like to think not, but machination seems to be the future of every industry, and I don't care to be a luddite raging against the inevitable. I suppose we'll see what happens, and what the future holds. Maybe I'll find a good use for incorporating the machine and make, perhaps not art, but at least something complete and interesting, or maybe I'll decide the machine is evil and quit this job altogether (I'm writing this later, and I feel like I should be honest that I have no intention of quitting the job, the pay's simply too good. Maybe I've sold my soul and art out, but with my bank account full I feel quite happy and don't rightly care too much what you think). I don't rightly know, all I know is that I'd like to document what could be a revolution in the writing industry, and would like a space to simply throw thoughts and ideas against the wall to see what sticks.
Anyways, I suppose I should explain what the machine is like. I found out that I'd be working within the tower itself, which sounded like a grand old time, a real improvement from my previous cramped and cluttered office space, but my first day on the job I found out that by working in the tower they'd meant that I'd be working in the basement beneath the tower. I was quite rightly disappointed when the elevator began descending below the gilded opulence of the ground floor and into the dingy bowels of the massive building. I'd listened to Pink Floyd's "Money" at some point before showing up to work, and I suddenly couldn't get the song out of my head. The banging base line and cynical lyrics all I could think about as the golden splendor of the lobby faded from view.
I was being taken down to where the "sausage is made" so to speak, the foundations of the Banksian empire, the dirty rooms not aired out to light (for legal purposes I should state that everything happening down here is LEGAL, and not against the law, just things that could damage the company's public reputation without legal ramifications. Take from that what you will, but for the sake of my job I'll leave it at that). Everything down here is bare and industrial, designed for maximum functionality with little regard for comfort. It's dirty, filthy, poorly lit, and ugly. Consider a maze within an Industrial Revolution age factory, that's the sort of feeling I got going through this place for the first time. It was the exact opposite of the tower above, and I was quite disappointed by that fact.
I was sent down to the 27th basement floor, or 27 floors below the lobby, the -27th floor if you will. I was sent into a great big industrial warehouse and given a little office off to the side to work on my writing. The industrial warehouse is taken up with multiple versions of the machine. They've gotten quite a few different models running now and are working on getting new ones up and running, but that requires more power and more space, and the warehouse only has so much. There are rows of shelves up to the high ceiling filled with all manner of replacement parts, tools, gizmos, and modifications. It's here that the "boys in the back" work, and I've gotten on friendly terms with a good few of them now. They work tirelessly in this poorly ventilated, grimy, and greasy environment to keep improving the machines until they're capable of pulling off the desired "revolution." Right next to my office is the current best machine, and I must say it's a rather hideous sight to behold. A main metal body held together in a cylinder about as big as a car with all manner of rivets and screws holding it together. At the top is a massive chute with a mouth in it, a great mechanical monstrosity complete with metal lips and teeth, a word eating monster (honestly, who designed it like this?). Everyday from a chute built into the ceiling truckloads of books and all manner of written words are poured down the chute and into the mouth where it begins furiously chomping with a horrific metallic grating sound. The books are processed through the main body, the stomach as I've decided to call it, and noxious fumes have to be pumped out, but the machine was not designed to be airtight and in the poorly ventilated warehouse gas buildup is a concern. Once the stomach has finished "digesting" and the fumes ejected the remains of word-covered papers are sent through an overly complicated maze of pipes and small machines with little gauges that resembles a spewed out intestinal system with some eerily biological looking parts stapled on. After running through this the words have been processed and are then sent to the proverbial brain of the machine to figure out how to emulate and use them. The brain is some sort of strange computer kept suspended in fluid within a clear tank that takes the information and creates algorithms to utilize it. It's a roughly spherical metal object that seems to need constant maintenance and the "boys in the back" are constantly quarreling over whether feeding it every piece of information in existence is wise and what it'll do with that (there seems to be an ongoing debate on whether it'll gain something akin to consciousness and pose a threat, I'm not sure what to make of that, but I've decided not to worry too much about it until proof in either direction is found). Attached to my little office is a mouth and ear from which I can communicate to the machine within its relatively quiet confines. The mouth is a metal tube sticking out of the machine that goes through the wall of my office and ends above my desk with a pair of imitation flesh lips (I hope they're imitation anyways) that'll communicate the machine's "thoughts" to me. The ear is a little metal cup I speak in to talk with the machine. There's also two slots, one more like a tray where I can send my own pieces of writing to the machine to get its feedback, and another where the machine can print out writing of its own, or even pictures as the need be. It's an altogether hideous thing that I have yet to entirely get used to.
During the average day there's a certain number of experiments they have me do to test the machine. These are designed by someone else and produce results that range from rather impressive to downright concerning (the machine has little concept of morality and will occasionally come up with murderous or unhinged solutions to things despite the constant efforts to maintain the brain). This'll happen in the morning, then I'll have my lunch break, where I'll often chat with the boys, but I am free to leave during this time and I'll occasionally explore the basement of the tower a bit. There's not enough time to go much of anywhere, but there is a little cafeteria for us stuck down here, but they seem to exclusively serve some variation of hot dogs, bratwurst, or sausage, and nothing else. During the afternoon I'm given "creative time" where I'm expected to keep up with a certain degree of my own writing projects, but I'm also meant to experiment with the machine and figure out the best ways to integrate it with human writing, or to replace human writing altogether. This is where it's the most interesting and also where I can practically slack off or work on whatever I want. Aside from the conditions of the workroom it's not an altogether bad job, especially considering what they're paying.
I'm not the only writer employed here. My office is set into the wall and practically like a little cubby, where dozens of other writers have offices set into the same wall and tasked with similar things. Some of the other machines have their own writer cubbies as well, and altogether there's probably several hundred of us. Our hours and shifts are all different (I don't rightly know why, but I have the feeling that they don't want us talking much to one another), so I haven't gotten to know many of them very well. We're expected to stay in our offices most of the time besides the lunch break, but we have some allotted bathroom breaks that can be stretched out into a bit of chatting. It's an altogether odd experience, and my shock at it all the first day was quite unimaginable!