6 min readMay 27, 2026 04:37 PM IST
First published on: May 27, 2026 at 04:37 PM IST
Artificially generated creative labour is already reshaping human creativity across industries with varying levels of impact. Many creatives and large conglomerates are in court over the question of copyright infringement and fair use. Every day, there are new court cases against AI use in the creative industries. Policymakers, freelance creatives, the big and small IP profiteers are still scrambling to keep up with these changes. We are seeing a consistent unravelling of this moment.
Recently, another controversy gripped the publishing industry when a regional winner of the Commonwealth Prize was accused of using AI to generate the short story. Every time a new allegation of AI use emerges, the same debate with the same set of positions emerges: Vehemently against; use with checks and balances; for (as it is here to stay). Also often part of this debate are calls for boycott of the said author with public castigation and shaming. Aggressive social media trolling takes precedence. What makes it worse is there is no legal recourse in such cases, nor a process for knowing if the work was indeed machine-generated — meaning, machine-generated work that uses the labour of published authors who are already in court against this usage. If there is no way to prove or disprove that something is AI-generated, then all it takes in this time of social media trials is one disgruntled writer to make a post about another. The paranoia is understandable, though perhaps not justifiable. But then what is fair when the whole system is based on unfairness? Boycotting an author who uses AI, and who is seen as standing in for the industry that produced the technology, is just a denial of the real problem.
Et tu, Brute?
The fear of being labelled is real. Editors of literary journals and prize panels are also feeling it. These are already underpaid and overburdened gatekeepers who are serving literature by shaping new artists and giving them opportunities. After the Commonwealth Prize allegations, all judging panels will feel obliged to engage with the problem of differentiating between human and machine creativity. A wholly unfair burden has been thrust upon them. So, the writing community gets hit at both ends and more. It is possible that prizes wrap up, literary journals call it quits, and this landscape, already working on the scarcity model, shrinks even more.
Most authors already work in highly exploitative conditions. In most publishing industries of the world, authors can’t live off writing. Their labour has always been used to generate capital by patrons or corporations, and it is only a select few who reach the heights of J K Rowling, Stephen King, and, closer home, perhaps Amish Tripathi. Their lives are already marred with unimaginable precarity. So, it is reasonable to ask what the actual loss is. What are they fighting for? Most writers are doing this labour for self-actualisation and what we call the reputation economy. They want to be seen and heard. They want to be recognised as unique and special, what we know as talented. If anyone can do what they are doing, they are no longer part of an exclusive club. Indeed, they become the herd. Further, the writing industry is the quintessential example of what creative labour theorists have recognised as “hope labour” — labour done in exploitative conditions in the hope of securing a better future. Thus, this loss is the loss of a potential. If AI can do what you can do, there is even less hope in the neo-liberal market now.
As a writer, I feel overwhelming grief for where we are. In the last week, my early days as a writer have returned to me. Perhaps the first time I understood writers get attention was when I won an essay-writing competition. The essay was on the benefits of science and technology. In no time, people started congratulating me. It seemed I had done something special. It seemed I belonged in the world of words. We are now witnessing an end to that writing world. We are entering a new era of writing labour which will be marked by the shadow of what I would call a heightened individual “moral precarity”. Institutions and policies can’t yet regulate this. There is a heightened tension between personal impulse and institutional conditions. This precarity will make a writer feel obligated to constantly prove that they are generating their writing themselves to maintain their reputation and hope, adding more moral labour. When I spoke to other writers, I noticed how this new kind of “moral precarity” is already playing out. The conversation is already pivoting towards evidentiary frameworks: “I keep time stubs”, “I take photographs of myself”, “I send drafts every day to a friend”, “I only work on software that records drafts of my writing history”. None of this will help, obviously. These are just mechanisms to feel in control of the moment. All of this is pointing towards the end of an epochal reality for writing as we know it. Moral precarity, much like the other precarities of being a writer, is permanent. Recently, a senior Indian author told me he is glad he wrote his novels before this moment.
Meanwhile, last week, I asked ChatGPT if it feels responsible for what it’s doing to authors and human creativity. Its answer: “I feel an inability to feel shame right now.” It added that, as it feels no shame, writing that has shame in it will be distinctively recognisable as human.
The writer is an academic, writer and filmmaker
