For the past eleven months, I’ve been hibernating in my study, working on the latest draft of my second book. I’ve immersed myself in the contrasting worlds of fin-de-siècle Vienna and post-World War I London, crafting a dual timeline story that explores the life and art of Gustav Klimt, and follows two women searching for where they belong.
I write slowly when creating a new story. Thankfully, my publisher has been patient and encouraging throughout the long process. So, too, has my long-suffering husband, who understands my habit of dashing to my laptop when an idea strikes, or finding me at work in the middle of the night when sleep deserts me.
Research is essential to historical fiction. A writer must weave in the details of a period – its events, customs, people, textures of daily life – without weighing the narrative down with dry facts. The right detail should enrich the story in the way seasoning enhances a meal: a pinch here, a touch there, enough to deepen the flavour without overwhelming it.
Throughout the writing process, I returned often to several substantial reference works. My favourite – Gustav Klimt: The Complete Works, published by Taschen – is a 600-page, four-kilogram tome filled with stunning reproductions. Its essays by leading art historians examine Klimt’s work and life, his fascination with the female form, the expression of emotion in art, and the emergence of symbolism in Vienna.
I’ve also studied other books and essays on fin-de-siècle Vienna, and Europe in the early 1930s: the dress reform movement, medical treatments for hysteria, the development of photography, female artists, the invention of the plastic contact lens, the growth of fascism in Europe. These fragments have found their way into the novel, always with a light touch.
Reading fiction from the period offers another glimpse into these worlds. I was especially drawn to the work of Austrian writer Stefan Zweig (1881-1942), particularly his memoir, The World of Yesterday, which evokes Vienna in the final years of Austria-Hungary under Emperor Franz Joseph I. As a primary source, it provides a vivid window into Viennese society – its politics, culture and intellectual life – including socialism, nationalism, religion, antisemitism, Zionism, ethics, education, sexuality, music, art, literature, and the growth of psychoanalysis.
With the rapid rise of generative AI in recent years, authors are increasingly asked where they stand on the role of AI in creating original work. Here, then, are my two cents.
When I asked ChatGPT for information about the life of Gustav Klimt, as well as other historical figures and events from that era, the results were inconsistent. Despite careful prompting, some responses were vague, off-kilter, or simply inaccurate. By contrast, the scholarly volumes I consulted – written by academics who have spent years studying Klimt’s life and work – offered depth, nuance, and verifiable references.
That said, when I prompted ChatGPT to explore practical details of everyday life – whether double-decker buses were operating in London in 1932, or whether trams in Vienna in 1895 were steam-driven or electric – the responses were clear and useful. Before the internet, such questions might have required hours in a library, sifting through encyclopedias. More recently, they would have yielded a list of websites to comb through. In this respect, AI can be an efficient starting point.
For me, the distinction is straightforward: if a fact is central to the construction of my story – its plot, characters, or historical integrity – I rely on primary or well-corroborated secondary sources. If a detail is helpful but incidental, AI can serve as a guide. For me, that is where I draw the line.
AI can be a thought-provoking and convenient research tool, but its output requires careful verification. It cannot, on its own, produce a truly compelling novel – one with narrative momentum, structural coherence, and fully realised characters. Those elements require judgment, intuition, and emotional intelligence.
The essence of creativity lies in human experience: its interpretation, memory, and feeling. Every creative work – whether literary, visual, musical or applied – depends on human agency to express an original vision.
The increasing reliance of AI for writing – across business, academia, digital content, and even fiction – may erode the very skills that underpin creative and critical thought. Writing is not simply a means of communication. It is a way of thinking. To outsource that process is to risk diminishing one’s skills and capacity as a writer, researcher, critical thinker and creator of original ideas.
AI can simulate aspects of reasoning, but it does not think or feel in the human sense. Its strengths lie in pattern recognition and data-driven analysis: identifying connections, comparing ideas, and generating plausible outcomes. But it has no active experience, no beliefs, no intuition, no human values, and no emotions.
The avant-garde fashion designer Rei Kawakubo, known for her unique approach to creativity, observed in 2015: ‘Not everything can be done by computers.’
‘There are things that are only possible to make by touching and feeling with the hands and using all five senses,’ she said. ‘Human beings are creatures with emotions. I think there is more value to things made with the heart than by computers.’
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