Artificial intelligence will never beat the real writer’s ‘voice’

The aim, as a writer – well, for this writer at least – is a unique and recognisable voice. Unmatched by any other wordsmith, or by the army of ripoff AI imposters coming for us, writes Nikki Gemmell.

So Martin Amis has died and we have lost one of the great prose stylists of our literary era.

It’s unfashionable now, the strong and distinctive literary voice, but perhaps it’s the only way to triumph over the stealth creep of AI in this profession. We scribblers and hacks are staring at the abyss in terms of the chatbot future roaring at us, but those digital imposters cannot, ever, beat the dazzle of human originality and creativity. We will win with the singularity of our voices, with our humanity and inventiveness and dexterity and wit. No Shakespeare could ever be replicated by AI, and no Amis.

The aim, as a writer – well, for this writer at least – is a unique and recognisable voice. Unmatched by any other wordsmith, or by the army of ripoff AI imposters coming for us. The high jinks of an Amis have largely gone out of fashion in the literary world, but I’ll never stop loving the verbal audacity of him. Of the best of us. Never stop loving the pioneer’s sheer delight in making the written word do what it’s never done before. James Joyce. Cormac McCarthy. Toni Morrison. Michael Ondaatje. Anne Carson. Max Porter. Their writing voices are unique. They embody the Ezra Pound challenge: Make it new.

It is a commitment to enthralling style. A horror of plain prose, the unimaginative turn of phrase, verbal boredom. To me it all boils down to rhythm, the musicality of the words. Amis once declared, of the challenges facing the ageing writer: “In the old days it came quicker, the prose. Now it’s a battle. It’s not about coming up with striking adverbs, it’s more about removing as many uglinesses as I can.”

He told the Paris Review that “plots really matter only in thrillers”. That his book Money was a “voice novel”. And that “if the voice doesn’t work you’re screwed”. The publishing industry is no longer so indulgent of the novel that’s all voice and little plot; hard commercial realities are veering the product. The plainer, muted prose of a Sally Rooney is in the accendent, but oh the sheer pleasure of the transformative writerly voice.

This very magazine has provided a berth for some of our great prose stylists, among them Trent Dalton and Stephen Corby. If you just happened to pick up a sample of their text, without a name attached, you’d know it was them. AI could have a stab at emulating their verbal dexterity, but it couldn’t pass itself off as that person. We would sniff out the imposter; the lack of humanity behind the artifice.

What exactly is a writer’s voice? It is a writer’s soul. Their vulnerability, passions, furies, their innermost being. It is the author unlocked. It combines authority with calm and confidence; it is thematic tone. It doesn’t lend itself to collaboration. And you won’t find your writerly voice by emulating others – it’s impossible, because a writing voice is unique.

Mine took years to develop. It didn’t firm until my thirties, several novels in. Panic-stricken drafts of not-quite-there-yet remain in the proverbial bottom drawer. Because, as Kate Atkinson said, “if you don’t have a unique voice, then you’re not really a writer”.

The aim is to sign every sentence you write, stamp them with a unique flavour. David Malouf puts it beautifully: “I’ve long come to the conclusion that when people say they can’t put a book down, they don’t mean they’re interested in what’s coming next; they mean they’re so mesmerised by the writer’s voice and the relationship that’s been established that they don’t want to break that. That’s what I feel when I read, and I’m sure now that that is what’s going on in the relationship between the reader and the writing.”

The most potent writerly voice is the human soul illuminated in all its fragility and wonder. It is not about imitation, but creating afresh.