M.P.Fry

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

This book will be published for FREE here on my X account. Judge it as you see fit, as it is written using my https://t.co/daCSoQwxVQ platform for long form writing with Ai. https://t.co/UL3Vardbjx

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@Emma_224vi Is it 10million or 1? the noughts are the important ones.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@francesweetman Oh. Maybe you were right then.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@francesweetman Did I?

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@b4dchan Correction. White people are the only thing keeping these third world countries afloat. Get a grip.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@francesweetman We payed reparations in human suffering when we single handedly set about ending slavery worldwide. Look it up.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@NikoleCallihan You have to remember each agent will not take on a works if it conflicts what they already rep. Plus, it really is a subjective thing.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@Emma_224vi I would have to enquire as to how this happened, as I neither have anyone who would prepare this for me, or a home to eat it in.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

No. To be English is to be born in England. It is a can or worms, to be honest and something many people have been arguing over for decades, of how they wished these ethnicities would integrate properly. This would give them the opportunity. Otherwise, those who make these claims that you can only be English if you are white, are clearly racist comments. Trust me I am one person who believes we have massive problems with culture in this country. But this is not one of them.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

I wrote this with my Ai longford writing app. https://t.co/VG8KksOiV2.
See if you agree, or not.
At six in the morning, the station stood under blackout cloth and rain.
Cynthia Caldwell waited beneath the iron canopy with one hand inside her coat pocket. Her fingers rested on the envelope there. Thick paper. No name on it. A brown stain had dried across one corner.
Beyond the platform, the town was still dark. Windows wore their curtains. The lamps had been hooded. Somewhere behind the station, a lorry coughed and rolled away.
She looked at the clock.
Six twelve.
The train was due at six fifteen.
A porter moved along the platform, checking doors. His cap was pulled low against the weather. He did not look at her.
Cynthia watched him pass.
Three nights ago, her brother had left this station in a military coat and a borrowed pair of boots. He had promised to write when he reached Portsmouth. He had not promised to come back.
Yesterday, the envelope had appeared beneath her door.
Take this to London. Give it to no one but the man in carriage seven.
She had read the words once. Then she had burned the note over the kitchen sink.
The envelope remained.
A whistle sounded in the distance.
Cynthia lifted her face to the rain. The tracks shone faintly beneath the black sky. No headlamp appeared. Only the long, wet lines running east.
She checked the clock again.
Six fourteen.
A woman stood at the far end of the platform. Cynthia had not noticed her arrive. She wore a dark coat and carried no luggage. Her hair was pinned beneath a small hat, though the rain had already loosened it.
She looked toward the tracks.
Then she looked at Cynthia.
Cynthia kept her eyes on the clock.
The woman came closer.
Her shoes made no sound on the wet stone. She stopped several yards away and stood with her hands folded over a black handbag.
“Cold morning,” she said.
Cynthia did not answer.
“You’re going to London?”
“I’m waiting for a train.”
“Most people are.”
The woman smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
A second whistle rose from the dark. This one was nearer.
Cynthia felt the envelope shift beneath her coat.
“You knew Arthur Caldwell,” the woman said.
Rain ticked against the canopy.
Cynthia turned to her. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knew him.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
The engine appeared then, black and steaming, its single headlamp covered by a narrow shield. It came slowly through the rain. Wheels struck the rails with a hard, steady rhythm.
The woman stepped closer.
“If you have something for London,” she said, “you should give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because your brother is dead.”
The train entered the station.
Steam rolled along the platform and swallowed them both.
For a moment Cynthia could see nothing. The world became heat, iron and white vapour. Then the carriages slid past, windows dark behind blackout curtains.
She felt a hand touch her coat.
Cynthia caught the wrist and twisted.
The woman gasped. Her handbag fell between them.
“Let go,” she said.
“You tried to take something.”
“I tried to warn you.”
“You said he was dead.”
“He is.”
Cynthia tightened her grip.
The train stopped with a shudder. Doors opened along the platform. Men and women stepped down carrying small cases, ration bags and wrapped parcels. A soldier jumped from the nearest carriage and nearly collided with them.
“Miss?” the porter called. “Are you boarding?”
Cynthia released the woman.
The stranger caught her wrist for one brief second. Her fingers were cold.
“Carriage seven,” she said. “Don’t trust the man who finds you there.”
Then she bent, took up her handbag and disappeared into the steam.
Cynthia remained still.
The porter called again.
She boarded.
Inside, the carriage smelled of wet wool, coal smoke and old leather. A child slept against his mother’s shoulder. Two soldiers sat opposite each other without speaking. Near the end of the compartment, an elderly man held a newspaper across his knees and stared at the blank wall above Cynthia’s head.
She moved down the corridor.
Carriage seven was nearly empty.
She opened the door and entered.
At the far window, a man sat alone in a grey civilian suit. He was perhaps forty. His face was narrow, his hair carefully parted. A leather case rested beside his shoes.
He looked up.
“Miss Caldwell,” he said.
Cynthia stopped with one hand on the door.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your brother described you.”
“He described me to you?”
“Many times.”
Outside, the porter slammed a door. The train gave a small jerk.
Cynthia did not sit.
The man glanced at the pocket of her coat. “You have the envelope.”
She felt the paper against her ribs.
“What envelope?”
“The one Arthur sent.”
“Arthur didn’t send it.”
“Then who did?”
“I thought you knew.”
The man studied her. His eyes were pale and dry. There was a thin white scar beside his left ear.
“You should sit down,” he said.
“I’m fine here.”
“The train is moving.”
It was. The platform began to slide away. The station lamps passed behind their metal hoods, one after another, like brief sparks under water.
Cynthia sat opposite him but kept her coat closed.
“My brother was in the army,” she said.
“He was attached to the army.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he went where he was told.”
“And now he’s dead.”
The man looked through the window.
“He died yesterday.”
Cynthia watched his reflection. “Where?”
“A house in Dover.”
“Fighting?”
“No.”
The train gathered speed. Rain dragged itself across the glass in long silver strokes.
“How?” she asked.
“He was shot.”
“By whom?”
“That is what the envelope tells us.”
Cynthia took it from her pocket.
The man leaned forward.
She held it between them. “You said he sent it.”
“I said it came from him.”
“Those are different things.”
For the first time, the man seemed uncertain.
“Open it,” he said.
“You open it.”
“It was addressed to you.”
“There is no address.”
His gaze moved to the envelope. “Then it was meant to pass through you.”
Cynthia turned it over.
Nothing marked the back except a small black circle, stamped near the seal.
She had seen that mark before.
Arthur had drawn it on the kitchen wall when they were children. A circle with a line through the centre. He had said it was a door no one could open.
She had forgotten it until now.
Her thumb slid beneath the seal.
“Wait,” the man said.
She looked up.
He had reached inside his jacket. A pistol showed beneath the cloth.
“Why?” Cynthia asked.
“Because if it has been opened already, we are not alone.”
The corridor outside remained empty.
Cynthia listened to the train. Metal struck metal beneath them. The carriage swayed through the dark countryside. Beyond the glass, fields and hedgerows ran together beneath the blackout.
“You said he died yesterday,” she said. “How did he send this?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“We need to know before London.”
A sound came from the corridor.
Not a knock. Footsteps.
The man rose and closed the compartment door.
Cynthia held the envelope against her chest.
Someone stopped outside.
The man drew his pistol.
“Put that away,” Cynthia whispered.
“Why?”
“Because if they see it, they’ll know we’re afraid.”
He looked at her.
Outside, the footsteps moved on.
Cynthia waited until the sound faded. Then she broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Arthur’s handwriting covered both sides.
She recognised the first line before she read it.
I am not dead.
The man reached for the page.
Cynthia pulled it away.
Below the words, Arthur had written an address in London. Underneath it, one final sentence.
They will use my name to get to you.
The train plunged into a tunnel.
In the sudden dark, the man seized her arm.
Something struck the roof above them.
Once. Hard.
Cynthia looked up.
Another impact shook the carriage.
The lights went out.
Somewhere in the darkness, the compartment door began to open.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

Irvine Welsh says he’s taking a break from publishing novels because promoting them has become more exhausting than writing them.

That says a lot about modern publishing.

Writers are expected to write the book, build the audience, post constantly, promote constantly, travel, interview, sell themselves, and somehow still find enough headspace to write the next one.

At what point did being an author stop being mainly about writing?

I understand why publishers need authors to help promote their work.

But I also wonder whether we’ve pushed it too far.
#WritingCommunity #writerslife #writersoftwitter #booktok

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

People talk about AI-assisted writing as if the idea of an author creating the concept, structure, characters and direction — while another process helps produce the actual prose — is some brand-new corruption of literature.

It isn’t.

In 1905, Edward Stratemeyer founded what became the Stratemeyer Syndicate.

His model was simple: he created the concepts, characters, series structure and detailed outlines, then hired other writers to turn those plans into complete books. The manuscripts came back, were edited and shaped, and were published under established house names.

That system eventually gave us series such as Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Tom Swift and The Bobbsey Twins.

The Stratemeyer Syndicate produced around 1,400 books.

Nobody seriously argues that those books somehow “didn’t count” because the person controlling the creative direction wasn’t personally typing every sentence.

And yet today, when a writer uses AI to help outline, develop scenes, generate draft prose, test alternatives or accelerate the writing process — while still deciding the story, characters, world, structure, what stays, what goes and what the finished book ultimately becomes — suddenly we’re told it isn’t “real writing.”

The technology has changed.

The underlying principle hasn’t.

Writers have been using collaborators, ghostwriters, editors, researchers, dictation, typists, writing rooms and production systems for generations.

AI is simply another tool that can dramatically increase speed.

The real question should never be:

“Who physically produced every sentence?”

It should be:

“Is the finished book any good?”

That is the standard publishing has always eventually come back to.

#AIWriting #WritingCommunity #Publishing #IndieAuthors #AuthorsOfX #publishing #fiction #booklover #book #writerslife

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

I wrote this with my Ai longford writing app. https://t.co/VG8KksOiV2.
See if you agree, or not.
At six in the morning, the station stood under blackout cloth and rain.
Cynthia Caldwell waited beneath the iron canopy with one hand inside her coat pocket. Her fingers rested on the envelope there. Thick paper. No name on it. A brown stain had dried across one corner.
Beyond the platform, the town was still dark. Windows wore their curtains. The lamps had been hooded. Somewhere behind the station, a lorry coughed and rolled away.
She looked at the clock.
Six twelve.
The train was due at six fifteen.
A porter moved along the platform, checking doors. His cap was pulled low against the weather. He did not look at her.
Cynthia watched him pass.
Three nights ago, her brother had left this station in a military coat and a borrowed pair of boots. He had promised to write when he reached Portsmouth. He had not promised to come back.
Yesterday, the envelope had appeared beneath her door.
Take this to London. Give it to no one but the man in carriage seven.
She had read the words once. Then she had burned the note over the kitchen sink.
The envelope remained.
A whistle sounded in the distance.
Cynthia lifted her face to the rain. The tracks shone faintly beneath the black sky. No headlamp appeared. Only the long, wet lines running east.
She checked the clock again.
Six fourteen.
A woman stood at the far end of the platform. Cynthia had not noticed her arrive. She wore a dark coat and carried no luggage. Her hair was pinned beneath a small hat, though the rain had already loosened it.
She looked toward the tracks.
Then she looked at Cynthia.
Cynthia kept her eyes on the clock.
The woman came closer.
Her shoes made no sound on the wet stone. She stopped several yards away and stood with her hands folded over a black handbag.
“Cold morning,” she said.
Cynthia did not answer.
“You’re going to London?”
“I’m waiting for a train.”
“Most people are.”
The woman smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
A second whistle rose from the dark. This one was nearer.
Cynthia felt the envelope shift beneath her coat.
“You knew Arthur Caldwell,” the woman said.
Rain ticked against the canopy.
Cynthia turned to her. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knew him.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
The engine appeared then, black and steaming, its single headlamp covered by a narrow shield. It came slowly through the rain. Wheels struck the rails with a hard, steady rhythm.
The woman stepped closer.
“If you have something for London,” she said, “you should give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because your brother is dead.”
The train entered the station.
Steam rolled along the platform and swallowed them both.
For a moment Cynthia could see nothing. The world became heat, iron and white vapour. Then the carriages slid past, windows dark behind blackout curtains.
She felt a hand touch her coat.
Cynthia caught the wrist and twisted.
The woman gasped. Her handbag fell between them.
“Let go,” she said.
“You tried to take something.”
“I tried to warn you.”
“You said he was dead.”
“He is.”
Cynthia tightened her grip.
The train stopped with a shudder. Doors opened along the platform. Men and women stepped down carrying small cases, ration bags and wrapped parcels. A soldier jumped from the nearest carriage and nearly collided with them.
“Miss?” the porter called. “Are you boarding?”
Cynthia released the woman.
The stranger caught her wrist for one brief second. Her fingers were cold.
“Carriage seven,” she said. “Don’t trust the man who finds you there.”
Then she bent, took up her handbag and disappeared into the steam.
Cynthia remained still.
The porter called again.
She boarded.
Inside, the carriage smelled of wet wool, coal smoke and old leather. A child slept against his mother’s shoulder. Two soldiers sat opposite each other without speaking. Near the end of the compartment, an elderly man held a newspaper across his knees and stared at the blank wall above Cynthia’s head.
She moved down the corridor.
Carriage seven was nearly empty.
She opened the door and entered.
At the far window, a man sat alone in a grey civilian suit. He was perhaps forty. His face was narrow, his hair carefully parted. A leather case rested beside his shoes.
He looked up.
“Miss Caldwell,” he said.
Cynthia stopped with one hand on the door.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your brother described you.”
“He described me to you?”
“Many times.”
Outside, the porter slammed a door. The train gave a small jerk.
Cynthia did not sit.
The man glanced at the pocket of her coat. “You have the envelope.”
She felt the paper against her ribs.
“What envelope?”
“The one Arthur sent.”
“Arthur didn’t send it.”
“Then who did?”
“I thought you knew.”
The man studied her. His eyes were pale and dry. There was a thin white scar beside his left ear.
“You should sit down,” he said.
“I’m fine here.”
“The train is moving.”
It was. The platform began to slide away. The station lamps passed behind their metal hoods, one after another, like brief sparks under water.
Cynthia sat opposite him but kept her coat closed.
“My brother was in the army,” she said.
“He was attached to the army.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he went where he was told.”
“And now he’s dead.”
The man looked through the window.
“He died yesterday.”
Cynthia watched his reflection. “Where?”
“A house in Dover.”
“Fighting?”
“No.”
The train gathered speed. Rain dragged itself across the glass in long silver strokes.
“How?” she asked.
“He was shot.”
“By whom?”
“That is what the envelope tells us.”
Cynthia took it from her pocket.
The man leaned forward.
She held it between them. “You said he sent it.”
“I said it came from him.”
“Those are different things.”
For the first time, the man seemed uncertain.
“Open it,” he said.
“You open it.”
“It was addressed to you.”
“There is no address.”
His gaze moved to the envelope. “Then it was meant to pass through you.”
Cynthia turned it over.
Nothing marked the back except a small black circle, stamped near the seal.
She had seen that mark before.
Arthur had drawn it on the kitchen wall when they were children. A circle with a line through the centre. He had said it was a door no one could open.
She had forgotten it until now.
Her thumb slid beneath the seal.
“Wait,” the man said.
She looked up.
He had reached inside his jacket. A pistol showed beneath the cloth.
“Why?” Cynthia asked.
“Because if it has been opened already, we are not alone.”
The corridor outside remained empty.
Cynthia listened to the train. Metal struck metal beneath them. The carriage swayed through the dark countryside. Beyond the glass, fields and hedgerows ran together beneath the blackout.
“You said he died yesterday,” she said. “How did he send this?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“We need to know before London.”
A sound came from the corridor.
Not a knock. Footsteps.
The man rose and closed the compartment door.
Cynthia held the envelope against her chest.
Someone stopped outside.
The man drew his pistol.
“Put that away,” Cynthia whispered.
“Why?”
“Because if they see it, they’ll know we’re afraid.”
He looked at her.
Outside, the footsteps moved on.
Cynthia waited until the sound faded. Then she broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Arthur’s handwriting covered both sides.
She recognised the first line before she read it.
I am not dead.
The man reached for the page.
Cynthia pulled it away.
Below the words, Arthur had written an address in London. Underneath it, one final sentence.
They will use my name to get to you.
The train plunged into a tunnel.
In the sudden dark, the man seized her arm.
Something struck the roof above them.
Once. Hard.
Cynthia looked up.
Another impact shook the carriage.
The lights went out.
Somewhere in the darkness, the compartment door began to open.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@IterIntellectus @Hitchslap1 @jk_rowling Who? Rowling. Don't be daft.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

Well, oddly enough I am a male author who seems to be drawn to writing about female leads, because in my eyes women are very stereotyped and actually have many facets to them, and like many of the things men do-just take their increased interest in football in recent decades. So maybe Lego found this to be true of girls with playthings. But that does not mean everything in the world is based on this. Just saying.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@LilaL_Hrv Alphabetical order

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@ishirubi @KoalaQuillHQ Shout-very loud.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@richmondie @KoalaQuillHQ It depends where you get your book printed. Especially if you print the same way a trad pub does, but then you have the expense and problems of returns and wholesale etc.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@KoalaQuillHQ The only difference is the time it takes to get from concept to reader. But when trad pub author does a good jo of getting noticed, the publisher has the means to back it hard, as an indie often we don't.

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

Irvine Welsh says he’s taking a break from publishing novels because promoting them has become more exhausting than writing them.

That says a lot about modern publishing.

Writers are expected to write the book, build the audience, post constantly, promote constantly, travel, interview, sell themselves, and somehow still find enough headspace to write the next one.

At what point did being an author stop being mainly about writing?

I understand why publishers need authors to help promote their work.

But I also wonder whether we’ve pushed it too far.
#WritingCommunity #writerslife #writersoftwitter #booktok

[M.P.Fry @MPFry3]

@NatashaCL7 You always have looked pretty.