FOR the last three years since ChatGPT was introduced, prominent writers, editors and litterateurs have been openly hostile to the idea of AI being able to write fiction, poetry or prose — indeed, any kind of literature. The tech companies that introduced all these LLMs, imagining ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini, Grok, and Copilot as writing aids, study buddies, collaborators and co-authors, have thrown a nuclear bomb into the literary world, and most of its inhabitants are still in a crouch position, bracing for an impact that detonated back in 2022.

But the literary world must call a truce because AI is here to stay. Moreover, any writer who teaches writing, any literary editor or agent who evaluates submissions, any practitioner called upon to judge a literary competition must become AI literate; it’s an unavoidable skill that’s simply part of the job from now on.

Last week the Commonwealth Writing Prize and Granta published five regional short story winners, one of which, Jamir Nazar’s ‘A Serpent in the Grove’, was singled out as possibly AI-generated. It raised a furore on social media but it didn’t surprise me at all. I’ve graded hundreds of student essays, judged creative writing capstones and a major Pakistani literary prize in the last year. So much is now written with the help of AI that I feel overwhelmed.

I’ve been using the last two years to learn exactly how AI writes — not just its processes, but its style and its voice. I’ve studied it as much as I would study any human author, looking for how it handles dialogue, description, character and plot. Yet if I’d stuck my head in the sand and refused to touch AI for the sake of artistic integrity, I would be letting down all those people who trust my judgement and expertise.

Students are addicted to AI not because they want to cheat, but because they’re terrified of looking stupid or inadequate.

I spent hours tinkering with AI, asking it to write things in a Pakistani context: a synopsis for a Harry Potter book set in Lahore; descriptions of Karachi. AI churned out showy, contrived prose that looks like it’s doing a lot without actually saying anything meaningful. It blathered inanities about Karachi being a “city that remembers” and Pakistani women who “sauntered through the bazaar as if their bodies bore the weight of generations of family secrets”. AI wrote verbal pyrotechnics with no emotional connection to the city that I love.

It’s too much of a temptation to expect people, especially students, not to use AI to write. Pakistan is a former British colony with a postcolonial hangover about the English language, even though few of us speak it fluently and even fewer can write it well. Yet the language of instruction in top Pakistani schools and universities has remained and always will be English. Students are addicted to AI not because they want to cheat, but because they’re terrified of looking stupid or inadequate. And the LLMs are ever-present to capitalise on that fear. I have to keep telling my students: AI is here not to help you, but to make money off you.

Also, there will never be a foolproof AI-detection tool. AI will keep learning more from every person that asks it to help them write a story; AI ‘detectors’ will offer you an answer based on their own algorithms and biases. Differentiating AI writing from human writing requires human discernment, the same faculty we use to know when writing is sublime or terrible. It requires instinct, experience and a close look at the person’s work overall to see if the story is a representation of their usual style — call it the new due diligence in a post-AI world.

The culprit in the Commonwealth Writers debacle was not racism or some kind of Western pandering to the postcolonial writer, but sheer ignorance on the part of judges.

And underneath that ignorance lies a wilful denial about just how seismic the AI shift is. Everyone who must evaluate writing professionally is scared of the threat that AI poses to the literary arts and the earnings of the publishing industry. They’re terrified of the idea that everyone else is already so far ahead they may never be able to catch up.

AI has already learned to mimic cultural inflections. It will talk about any part of the world — Guyana, South Korea, Bosnia — with pompous certainty and try to dazzle you with metaphorically bizarre surface-level descriptors or overwhelm you with atmosphere so you don’t realise there’s actually no plot or insight, no empathy, none of the beauty that makes writing an art as well as a practice.

Personally, I resent the tech bros who have turned my relationship with writing from practitioner to policewoman, turning a jaundiced eye to everyone’s writing and suspecting the worst. AI is now influencing young people learning how to write to the extent that even my best students have started to sound like AI.

I know that AI recognises patterns and produces only a facsimile of good writing, much like the proverbial broken clock that’s right twice a day. The practice of writing words to connect with a reader, communicate ideas and tell a story is a human endeavour that AI will never be able to match. Fear won’t stop me from looking it straight in the AI and declaring, “You have no power over me.” I urge everyone else — writers, teachers, judges and editors — to do the same.

The writer currently teaches Expository Writing at AKUFAS.

Published in Dawn, May 30th, 2026