“A Note on Process”

On Artisanal Craft, Authorship, and the Use of AI

The artisanal quality of crafters takes my very breath away.

Handmade work carries something unmistakable in it — time, devotion, touch. Objects shaped by human hands hold memory in their fibers, whether they are garments, wings, tools, or talismans of imagination. I have always revered that kind of making.

But you use AI.

Yes. I do.

I use AI in my writing work — I could not get so much done without it. Does it write my work for me? No. It cannot. AI cannot comprehend complex emotional and psychological connections in the way a human mind does, and in storytelling, those connections are essential. Writing requires resonance at a depth beyond mechanics or structure. A reader must feel the work, just as an actor must feel what is written on the page to create a meaningful experience for an audience.

So do I use AI? Yes.
Will I continue to use AI as part of my process? Yes.

And I believe it is important to be transparent about that.

Why?

Because I have invested thousands of dollars of hard-earned money in ghostwriters over the years, only to receive work that fell short of both my expectations and my own voice. That may sound arrogant or unreasonable, but matching my style has consistently been a point of contention for anyone working alongside me.

I don’t write in an overly ornate or densely worded style. I tend to get to the point quickly — sometimes too quickly — but my work is expansive in its own way. Before I write a single paragraph, I need to understand my characters at a fundamental level: their archetypes, how they grow or diminish through conflict, pain, war, love, and ecstasy. I need to know how they interact with others based on those archetypes, which wounds they want healed, and which ones they cling to because those wounds function as shields against the world.

I need to know where they are.
What they see, smell, feel, and think.

If there is magic in their world, I need to understand its source — and I need that source to be grounded in a physically and internally consistent way that is plausible within my understanding of an expansive universe.

Before I write paragraph one, I need to know how deep the story goes. How far down the rabbit hole these characters will take us. What worlds and future stories are already embedded in the narrative. What other universes or series may intersect with this one — and whether those intersections make sense, or can be made to make sense.

I need to know the color of their sun.
Whether their moon is tidally locked.
If they have twin moons, recurring comets, or celestial events that hold meaning.
I need to understand their landscapes and how those environments shape expression, culture, and belief.

Most importantly, I need to know the in-world lore behind every phenomenon that appears on the page.

I rarely write a single, isolated story. Most of my characters carry their own narratives that affect the entire structure of the larger work — as many writers do. What differs is the level of complexity I choose to maintain: worlds linked to worlds, bridges connecting one side of the veil to the other. That level of complexity requires control.

AI helps me manage that complexity.

It is not a replacement for imagination or emotional truth. It is a tool for scale, continuity, and execution. Left unchecked, it will run away with ideas — even when given boundaries, canon, maps, relationship guides, political alliances, histories, and internal physics. That is why accountability matters. The responsibility for coherence, meaning, and voice remains entirely mine.

AI is here to stay, and I am grateful for it.

I waited a long time to return to my own creative life. Years spent tending to my family’s needs until I forgot who I was born to be. I forgot the girl who told stories remembered from beyond the veil — stories that startled adults because they described places long erased, landscapes and buildings remembered from childhoods now far behind them.

I forgot that storytelling was how I reframed narratives meant to suppress or divert truth.

Even while I crafted delicate, handcrafted wings, wands, and garments, I forgot. That small, safe circle felt secure — but safety is not the same as purpose.

A ship is safer in the harbor, but it was not built to stay there.

The universe found ways to remind me of that truth again and again — even in the most ordinary moments.

No. I will not stop using AI to assist me in producing my written work at scale.

But this matters:

Artisanal works — handcrafted items made in homage to beloved stories, or born entirely from original inspiration — still take my breath away. Creations made by people whose work calls to them, who feel compelled to make something tangible because the act of making is the point.

I know this because I have lived it.

I have spent thousands of hours crafting objects from original ideas and from reverence for others’ creativity. Fae wings that took days to make. Garments that took weeks. They barely paid my rent, let alone fed my family — but I could not stop creating them. The expression itself was the reason.

And that is the answer.

The expression of creativity is the driving force.

Not the medium.

The medium simply makes it possible.