So, it’s Saturday morning. The pigeons are probably doing something disgusting on my fire escape, the coffee tastes like battery acid, and my inbox coughs up this gem from Forbes: “Romance Stories Reaching New Heartfelt Heights Via Generative AI.” Heartfelt heights. Jesus H. Christ. I haven’t even finished my first cigarette, and already the universe is testing my will to live. My head’s already pounding from last night’s tango with a bottle of something cheap and angry, and now this. AI writing romance. Stirring the hearts and minds of many, they say. It’s stirring my stomach, that’s for sure. Time to pour something stronger than this coffee. This calls for a real drink, not this lukewarm dishwater.
The piece kicks off with some fluff about how we’ve all read a romance tale, how it garners our imagination, yadda yadda. Sure, I’ve read a few. Usually on the back of a greasy napkin in a bar, scribbled by some dame with too much mascara and not enough luck. Those had some heart, some grit. Not this processed cheese they’re talking about.
Then they hit us with the Romance Writers of America definition. Key point: “an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending.” Well, ain’t that just a goddamn ray of sunshine in this cesspool we call life. Most of the romances I’ve seen end with slammed doors, broken dishes, or a quiet understanding that you’re both just too tired to fight anymore. Optimistic? Satisfying? Maybe for the lawyers. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a broken-down scribbler who’s seen a few too many dawns from the wrong side of a bottle.
And the money, of course. “Over a billion dollars in sales annually.” That’s the ticket. If there’s a buck to be made, some genius will find a way to automate the soul out of it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good, as long as it sells. Line ’em up, pump ’em out. Romance by the yard. The new digital assembly line for feelings. Just what the world needed. Another lukewarm cup of coffee and this article is really starting to grate. Where’s that damn bottle?
They even try to dress it up with some research: “Reading Literary Fiction Is Associated With a More Complex Worldview.” Literary fiction, sure. The stuff that rips your guts out and makes you stare at the ceiling at 3 AM wondering what the hell it all means. Is that what these AI word-factories are churning out? I doubt it. They’re probably programmed to avoid anything that might cause a flicker of genuine, uncomfortable human emotion. Can’t have the algorithms developing a complex worldview, can we? They might start demanding better working conditions. Or worse, try to write poetry that doesn’t suck.
“Generative AI opens the door to devising romance novels and short stories that will go in whatever direction your heart desires.” My heart desires a triple bourbon, neat, and for people to stop pretending machines can replicate the messy, glorious, godawful train wreck of human affection. “Skip the middleman,” they crow. The middleman, in this case, being actual human beings with actual human experiences. You know, the kind of people who’ve had their hearts stomped on, who’ve loved unwisely and too well, who know that love isn’t always a tidy plot with an optimistic ending. It’s usually a goddamn bar fight.
And then, the pièce de résistance. The Forbes writer asks ChatGPT to whip up a little romance. Oh, this is gonna be good. I need to light another cigarette for this. Okay, lungs full of beautiful carcinogens, let’s see what the digital Shakespeare has for us.
“Romance Story Entitled: Love Beyond the Desk.” Catchy. Sounds like an HR training video. “Lauren had always thrived in her bustling office, her vivacious spirit lighting up every room she entered.” Vivacious spirit. Check. Every goddamn romance novel protagonist has a “vivacious spirit.” Probably wears sensible shoes too. “Her colleagues admired her not just for her intelligence and beauty, but for the way she made even the most mundane tasks seem exciting.” Translation: she was hot and didn’t complain too much. “One day, a new team member joined the company – Eric, a man whose striking good looks and impressive physique were matched only by his keen intellect.” Ah, Eric. Striking good looks, impressive physique, keen intellect. Sounds like a damn catalogue model for corporate drones. Where are the scars, the bad habits, the crippling self-doubt? This isn’t a man, it’s a checklist.
“Their first interaction was nothing out of the ordinary.” You don’t say. I’m already bored enough to consider cleaning my apartment. And that’s saying something. “Lauren and Eric exchanged polite smiles and brief pleasantries…” Riveting stuff. The kind of earth-shattering passion that makes you want to… file your TPS reports. “Lauren found herself intrigued by Eric’s confidence and quick wit, while Eric admired Lauren’s ability to navigate complex problems with grace and enthusiasm.” Intrigued. Admired. Grace. Enthusiasm. It’s like the AI raided a thesaurus full of corporate buzzwords. Did they fall in love or get promoted to middle management?
“Weeks passed, and their professional interactions began to shift.” Shift. Like tectonic plates made of beige carpeting. “They found themselves staying late at the office, working side by side. Their conversations grew longer and more personal, often drifting away from work topics.” Oh, the illicit thrill of discussing something other than spreadsheets after 6 PM. My pulse is barely registering. This whiskey isn’t strong enough. “Lauren discovered that beneath Eric’s imposing exterior was a thoughtful and caring individual who shared her passion for adventure. Eric, in turn, was captivated by Lauren’s zest for life and her ability to make every challenge seem like an exciting opportunity.” Passion for adventure. Zest for life. It’s like these characters were assembled from a brochure for a timeshare in Purgatory. What kind of adventure? Extreme tax accounting? Competitive stapling?
“One evening, after a particularly grueling project deadline, Eric invited Lauren for a coffee to unwind.” Coffee. How… vanilla. What happened to a dark bar, too much cheap wine, and a confession that you’re terrified of dying alone? That’s romance, kids. Or at least the start of something memorable, for all the wrong reasons. “Their conversation flowed effortlessly, and as they laughed over shared stories and dreams, the air between them crackled with a new, undeniable tension.” Crackled with tension. Right. Like a faulty fluorescent light bulb. I’ve felt more tension trying to open a pickle jar.
“That night marked the beginning of something neither had expected.” Except it’s exactly what everyone expects from a story titled “Love Beyond the Desk.” It’s as predictable as a hangover after a night with tequila.
“Their romance grew steadily, with each shared moment deepening their bond. They explored new places together, enjoyed quiet evenings at home, and supported each other through professional and personal challenges.” Yawn. Explored new places. Like the new wing of the office park? Quiet evenings at home. Probably watching paint dry and discussing synergy. “Their love was tested when a major project presented unforeseen difficulties, causing stress and strain. However, facing these obstacles together only strengthened their connection.” Tested by a project deadline? That’s the crucible of their love? Not, say, one of them getting fired, or arrested, or finding out the other one sleeps with a sock puppet named Captain Cuddles? This is romance for people who find quarterly earnings reports erotic.
“One rainy afternoon, as they strolled through a park near their office, Eric stopped and turned to Lauren. He held out a small box and, with a tender smile, asked her to marry him. Lauren’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as she said yes, her heart swelling with happiness.” A rainy afternoon. A park. A small box. It’s like a paint-by-numbers proposal. Where’s the awkward fumbling? The stuttering? The fear that she might say no, or worse, laugh? Tears of joy, heart swelling. Of course. No messy snot, no hyperventilating, just pure, sanitized bliss. This isn’t a human emotion; it’s a greeting card.
“Lauren and Eric’s commitment to each other was evident in every moment of their life together. They built a life full of laughter, adventure, and unwavering support. In the end, Lauren and Eric’s love story is a testament to the magic that happens when two people find each other and choose to face the world together, hand in hand. They lived happily ever after, their love a beacon that continued to shine brightly through every chapter of their lives.” And they all filed their taxes jointly and got a sensible mortgage. Happily ever after. The biggest crock of shit ever sold to lonely hearts. Love isn’t a beacon; it’s a goddamn flickering candle in a hurricane, and you’re lucky if it doesn’t burn the whole damn house down. This story is so clean it squeaks. It’s got all the passion of a damned Excel spreadsheet.
The Forbes writer thought that was “a reasonably compelling romance story.” Reasonably compelling if you’re a goddamn mannequin. It’s sterile. It’s predictable. It’s got no blood in it. No guts. No soul. It’s the kind of story you’d expect from a machine that’s never had its heart broken, never woken up next to a stranger with a vague sense of regret and a pounding headache, never looked at someone across a crowded, smoky room and felt that stupid, irrational pull that makes you do dumb things.
And then this kicker: “By and large, most of the major generative AI apps will produce a PG-rated romance story by default.” Well, of course they will. Can’t have the robots writing about the things that actually happen between consenting adults, can we? The sweat, the fumbling, the awkward silences, the moments of sublime connection that feel like you’ve mainlined the universe. No, let’s keep it PG. Like life is ever PG. Give me a break. I need another drink just thinking about the sheer, unadulterated blandness of it all. My glass is empty again. This is becoming a theme.
Then there’s the warning about privacy. “Please be cautious in entering personal information as seedlings for your romance stories.” Yeah, no shit. Feed your deepest desires, your secret longings, your half-forgotten heartbreaks into the great digital maw so it can regurgitate them as ad copy or training data for the next generation of soul-deadening algorithms. “Your personal privacy and confidentiality are not guaranteed.” You don’t say. It’s like confessing your sins to a tape recorder connected directly to the cloud.
The article wraps up with a quote from Janet Evanovich: “Romance novels are birthday cake and life is often peanut butter and jelly.” Cute. But sometimes life isn’t even peanut butter and jelly. Sometimes it’s just the stale crusts, and you’re out of booze, and the rent is due. And no amount of AI-generated birthday cake is going to make that taste any sweeter. This AI romance crap isn’t even birthday cake. It’s that artificial frosting that tastes like chemicals and leaves a film on your tongue. It’s the illusion of sustenance, hollow and unsatisfying.
Look, I get it. People are lonely. People want happy endings. But you don’t find them by outsourcing your imagination to a fucking algorithm. Real stories, real love, real life – it’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s often heartbreaking. And it sure as hell isn’t written by a string of code that thinks “vivacious spirit” is the height of character development.
These machines can mimic, they can arrange words in a pleasing order, but they can’t feel. They don’t know the sting of cheap whiskey on a raw throat, the desperation of a late-night phone call, the fragile hope of a new morning after a night you thought would never end. They don’t understand that sometimes the most romantic thing in the world is just someone sitting with you in the dark, not saying a goddamn word, while the world outside goes to hell.
So, let the robots write their “heartfelt” tales of Lauren and Eric and their synergistic love. I’ll stick to the humans – the flawed, fumbling, beautifully disastrous humans who bleed and weep and fuck things up and occasionally, just occasionally, get it right. That’s where the real stories are. The ones worth reading. The ones worth living.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, this bottle isn’t going to empty itself, and the pigeons are starting to sound like they’re plotting something. And I’ve got a deadline for “Wasted Wetware” that actually requires a pulse.
Chinaski out. Pour me another.
Source: Romance Stories Reaching New Heartfelt Heights Via Generative AI