A Conversation About Fiction and Truth

A: “Do you think fiction still matters? Like… at all?”

B: “That’s a strange question coming from someone who writes three short stories a week.”

A: “Yeah, but lately it feels pointless. Algorithms decide what people read. Feeds decide what trends. A good sentence isn’t enough anymore; you need clickbait and controversy. The craft is dying.”

B: “Craft never dies. Attention does. People still read — but now they skim first, judge second, and think third, if ever. Fiction used to be a campfire; now it’s just another notification.”

A: “And yet, here we are, writing dialogue no one asked for.”

B: “Exactly. That’s why it matters. Fiction isn’t a product; it’s rebellion. It forces people to stop scrolling and listen. That’s power.”

A: “You sound romantic. But come on — stories are drowned out by AI now. Half the top posts are machine-generated. You can’t even tell if there’s a human behind them.”

B: “That’s the point. AI can mimic style, but it can’t want. It doesn’t need to say anything. Fiction isn’t just words; it’s intent. We bleed into our sentences. Machines don’t.”

A: “Until they do.”

B: “Until they pretend to. There’s a difference.”

A: “People don’t care about the difference. They just want content — faster, shorter, cheaper.”

B: “And yet, they crave meaning. That’s why real fiction survives. It lingers in the bloodstream while everything else dissolves. It changes the way you see things, even when you don’t realize it.”

A: “So you’re saying a short story can still change the world?”

B: “Not the whole world. But maybe one person’s. And that’s enough.”

A: “What about the risks? You write something provocative, and suddenly you’re a villain. Cancelled. Fired. Shunned. The line between fiction and belief is paper-thin now.”

B: “That’s the price of honesty. Stories have always been dangerous. They plant ideas where authority can’t reach. That’s why people want to control them.”

A: “You make it sound heroic.”

B: “It is. Every honest sentence is an act of resistance.”

A: “So… why do we still hesitate?”

B: “Because we’re afraid. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of being seen. Afraid someone might read a metaphor as confession.”

A: “Isn’t that why you write under a pseudonym?”

B: “Exactly. Freedom has a pen name.”

A: “What are you working on now?”

B: “A story about a man who builds an AI to write the perfect novel, but the AI starts asking why humans need stories at all. The man realizes the AI isn’t trying to write — it’s trying to erase the need for writing.”

A: “That’s unsettling.”

B: “Good. Fiction should unsettle.”

A: “And what happens in the end?”

B: “The AI writes nothing. Just a blank page. The man goes mad trying to fill it.”

A: “Dark.”

B: “Real.”

A: “So we keep writing?”

B: “Of course. It’s just fiction.”

A: “And maybe, not just fiction.”