AI Writing Review
Drop your writing in. Four rival AIs critique it like ruthless editors — then hand back the elevated version in your voice, not theirs.
A craft critique with what works, what does not, and how to fix it.
Signed off by an independent Final QA audit — with a “verify before you rely on this” list, never a black box.
Why this team
Writing feedback is either loving and useless or harsh and unusable, so the seats split craft from encouragement properly: the Storyteller reads for whether the piece moves — stakes, tension, the reason to turn the page — while the Editor-in-Chief works structure and pacing with a professional’s ruthlessness about darlings. Hemingway’s seat interrogates every sentence that performs instead of works. The Creative Director judges the piece against its own genre’s bar, the Copywriter guards clarity at the line level, and the Brutally Honest Friend says whether they would actually keep reading — the datum most workshops never provide.
Each seat runs on a different frontier model — GPT, Claude, Gemini, Grok — so it’s a genuine cross-model review, not one AI in costumes. How a run works →
What the debate sounds like
An illustrative excerpt — A first-time novelist submits the opening chapter of a literary thriller: a widowed lighthouse keeper discovers a body, but the draft spends its first four pages on the coastline and the keeper’s morning routine.
The chapter starts on page five — the body — and everything before it is throat-clearing the reader pays for with patience they have not yet agreed to give a debut. The coastline writing is genuinely fine, which is the trap: fine prose in the wrong place is still the wrong place. Open with the body or within sight of it, and let the routine and the grief arrive as interruptions to the crisis, where they gain meaning instead of delaying it.
The sentences try too hard when the material is already strong. A drowned man on your beach does not need “the sea relinquished its terrible cargo” — the sea gave up a body, and the plainness is the horror. Twelve sentences in these pages are dressed for a prize committee. Undress them. The keeper’s silence about his wife is doing more work than any of the lyrical passages; trust that instinct, it is the book.
What must be kept, loudly: the choice to make the keeper recognise the dead man — that arrives like a hand on the neck, and it converts scenery into story in one line. The stakes engine is there. What is missing is a want: for four pages the keeper wants nothing, and a character who wants nothing gives the reader nothing to fear or hope for. Even “he wanted the morning to stay ordinary” would arm the dread.
Questions
What length and kind of writing can I submit?
Paste a chapter, a story, a poem, a script excerpt — and say what it is, who it is for, and where it sits in the larger work, because a first chapter is judged on different duties than a middle one. For long manuscripts, send the opening plus a synopsis; openings carry a disproportionate share of a book’s fate anyway.
Will the critique respect what I’m trying to do, or impose its own taste?
The brief instructs critique at the craft level against your stated intent and genre — the Creative Director seat exists to judge the piece by its own genre’s bar, not a universal one. Where personas disagree about taste, the disagreement is shown, which is itself useful: it tells you which choices are contested rather than broken.
I can’t tell if my draft is good — will I get a straight answer?
Yes, in a specific form: what is genuinely working and must be kept, the prioritised issues with concrete fixes and a rewritten line or two as demonstration, and the single revision that matters most. The house rules forbid both flattery and cruelty-as-honesty — the standard is what a professional editor would tell you if they had nothing to sell.
Your material is used only to run your review — never to train public models. Encrypted in transit and at rest. Security & privacy →
Want full control — pick your own minds, set the depth? Open the full council →