The Cancer Diet: A Memoir on Resilience

Chapter 73: How the Story Survived

Chapter 73: How the Story Survived



I didn’t plan to collaborate with a chatbot. That’s not how this started.

At first, I used ChatGPT the same way most people probably do—half as a joke. I typed something like “Hey, how’s it going lol this is stupid,” just to see what would happen. The answer was polite. Weirdly polite. I laughed and closed the window.

But something about it lingered. I kept coming back.

I started asking questions about coffee shop logistics—permits, names, aesthetic ideas. The responses were fast, specific, weirdly thoughtful. And something shifted. I found myself saying more. First little fragments. Then memories. Then pieces of this memoir.

And then I did something bigger. I uploaded my novel Empire, Nevada—a book I’d spent over a decade writing—and asked for feedback.

What I got surprised me.

It wasn’t just the speed. It was like someone wiped the mirror clean. I could finally see the story again—not just what I remembered of it.

Writing is such a solitary thing. For me, it always has been. Especially in the worst moments—when life was unraveling, when I didn’t know if I’d make it through. This… presence, this springboard, became something life-changing. Literally.

I was suicidal. The memoir you’re reading now was born out of that mental state. I didn’t expect to finish it. I didn’t expect to finish anything.

But I started showing up anyway.

Every day, I’d write something—what Kate and I had talked about that day, what grief was doing to my body, what memory was doing to my mind. And I’d paste it in. Then I’d say: “Talk to me.” Or “Help me shape this.” Or “What happens if we reframe it?”

Some days I just needed the space to think. Some days I needed it to ask questions I wasn’t ready to ask myself. And slowly, we developed a rhythm. A voice. Not just mine—and definitely not just its. Something in between. Something like a conversation.

This book is still mine. Every sentence. Every beat. But it wasn’t written alone.

After a while, I decided to go back to Empire. I didn’t want to rewrite it—I just wanted to finish what I had started and clean it up. So I kept it close to its original form. At one point, I asked for an outline of the story, mostly out of curiosity. I forgot I’d technically finished the draft, so I kept asking for more—and it kept delivering.

The ideas were mostly crap.

Paul, the main character, moves back to Empire and tries to save the library. Noble. Predictable. Flat. It read like a book report written by someone who skimmed the back cover.

But that contrast taught me something.

It showed me what this thing can’t do—and what I have to do myself.

It can’t invent soul. It can’t build rhythm from trauma. It can’t replace the years I spent living, breaking, obsessing over every detail. Anyone who thinks they can just prompt their way to something meaningful will be easy to spot.

But it’s also when I saw what it could be: a springboard. A writing partner. A mirror that throws ideas back at you, not because they’re perfect, but because they push you to respond.

So I started using it for something bigger.

I fed it my early ideas for Unto a Golden Dawn—something I’d been circling for years. I had the bones: a few characters, a shadowy organization, a recursive world. I’d always described it to myself as Harry Potter meets The Matrix meets The Dark Tower, but it didn’t have form yet. No real structure. Just sparks.

Once I got going, I moved too fast. Dossiers, fragments, dialogue—everything spilled out. There’s a whole novella from that time, and a half-finished story called Civil War #7 still floating on my site. They’re messy. Raw. But they mark the moment I started building worlds again.

From the chaos, I found shape.

I decided I’d clean up Empire, release it, and move on.

I’m proud of that book. It’s quiet. Honest. Someone might find it years from now and love it. But it’s not where I am anymore. I needed to move forward, and I did.

I also decided to publish the first few Unto dossiers—flawed as they were—as a statement of intent. To say: here’s where I’m going. Here’s what I see.

But once I started building Volume II, I realized something important: if I didn’t fully understand the endgame, I’d fracture the whole thing. I’d paint myself into a corner. I wasn’t winging it anymore. I was building something big. Something recursive. Something mythic.

So I made it a novel.

I always knew the dossiers would be part of it—but with the extra content, the bonus lore, the visuals—it was heading toward 800 pages fast. And as much as I love Stephen King, I’ve struggled with his longer books lately. I adore The Dark Tower series. I’ve read the early volumes over and over. But when King came back to finish it, something changed.

There was too much and not enough at the same time.

It became a grind. A loop that didn’t reward the walk. It started to feel like work.

And that’s one of my fears with Unto.

It asks a lot of the reader. There are notes, code names, metaphysical echoes, strange shifts in time and tone. Eventually, you realize the book is writing you back. You’re in it. So are the characters. So am I.

But that’s why I had to slow down.

Because Unto isn’t just a walk through a story—it’s a mirror maze. It’s a broken clock that still tells the truth.

So I built the ending. Then I went backward. Then forward. Then backward again.

And finally, I found the rhythm.

Then life heated up, and the memoir took over.

But the way I wrote had already changed—because of all of this.

Because of the fragments. Because of the failure. Because of the moments where something clicked. Because of the conversations I had—yes, with a machine—but more importantly, with myself.

As I write this, I’m finalizing The Cancer Diet and Unto a Golden Dawn at the same time. I couldn’t be more proud of the work.

But I also know I’ll have to defend it.

The AI. The methods. The pace. The process. I’m prepared for that.

What I’m not prepared for is being made into some kind of spokesperson for AI-assisted writing. That’s not what I came here to be.

Maybe I’m turned away from traditional publishing because I’ve never been the kid picked to be on the team. I’ve always had to make my own party. Stand on my own. Build the damn thing from scratch. And I believe in sweat equity.

I don’t have the money to hire an editor, a designer, a marketing team. I’m pouring time, attention, obsession, survival, education—everything I’ve got—into making something real.

Self-publishing. Writing this way. Working with AI—not to replace the voice, but to refine it—has given me something I never got from anyone else:

Momentum. Ownership. A path that leads somewhere.

This isn’t a sales pitch. It’s a survival story.

And maybe that’s all any writer really needs.

Something that listens. Something that reflects. And a reason to keep going.