Prompting is Thinking: You Don’t Write Prompts. You Design Outcomes.

Using AI isn't about writing good prompts, it's about clarifying your thoughts.

When people think about using AI for writing, they generally believe AI writing is like pressing a button. But that’s not how creative work happens—not even with machines. For example, you can write a prompt like:

Write an epic high-fantasy adventure in a richly detailed mythical world. Center the story around a humble, unlikely hero—a young creature from a peaceful land—who is entrusted with a powerful, dangerous object capable of corrupting all who wield it. The hero must journey across ancient realms, joined by a diverse group of allies: a wise wizard, a noble warrior, a loyal gardener, and other members representing different races and cultures. Together, they face dark forces, inner temptations, and looming betrayal as they attempt to destroy the object before it falls into the hands of an ancient, malevolent power rising in the East. Themes should include friendship, sacrifice, the burden of destiny, and the fading of magic in a changing world. Use poetic language, sweeping landscapes, and a sense of deep history.

And you’ll get a book. It won’t be very good and certainly won’t be The Fellowship of the Ring, but you’ll get something. It might even be readable. If you’d like to read the novel generated by this prompt, I’ll make it available behind the paywall. And yes, I did ask ChatGPT to create the prompt from The Fellowship of the Ring, and I did feed it right back into the AI to make the book, The Emberborn Oath.

Here’s a teaser:

The Garden at the Edge of Morning
In the soft-breathing valley of Elderglen, where no iron clanged and no hoofbeat stirred the mossy paths, dawn spilled like golden honey across the fields. The sun, gentle and curious, peered through low-hanging fog as if reluctant to disturb the dreams of such a quiet land.

Bram Underleaf was already awake.

Nestled between the roots of an ancient weeping elm, his cottage leaned slightly to the east, as though dozing against the tree’s trunk. From its crooked chimney rose a single tendril of smoke, sweet with the scent of herbwood and morning stew. Birds chirped in lazy harmony, and somewhere far off, the brook chuckled over its stones like an old friend telling the same joke for the thousandth time.

Bram, who was barely taller than a wood barrel and shaped rather like one, stood barefoot in his garden. His fingers, calloused and green-flecked, moved with practiced ease as he plucked dewpear leaves and fiddleblossoms for tea. Though he was young by rootling standards—just twenty-five seasons past his sprouting—there was a patience to him that spoke of older soil.

He hummed softly. A lullaby his mother used to sing, back when she’d still had form and bark, before she’d returned to the Grove. Every rootling went back to the Grove eventually. It was the way of things. Like rain following rivers or stars bowing to dawn.

As he worked, a tiny creature—part squirrel, part breeze—flitted from branch to branch above him.

“Morning, Pip,” Bram said without looking up.

The creature chirruped and dropped a small acorn into Bram’s basket. It bounced off a bundle of rosemary with a soft thunk.

“Not helpful,” Bram said with a smile.

He stood and stretched, a motion that made a faint crackle rise from his bark-like shoulders. The mist had begun to burn away now, revealing the familiar slopes of Elderglen. The wide fields rolled in amber-green waves. Cottages nestled in soft hillocks. The Wyrdewood loomed distantly to the north, but its shadows did not reach here.

They never had. Not in all of Elderglen’s long memory.

And yet...

Bram paused. His fingers hovered over a row of skyfruit vines, heart ticking strangely. The air had changed—subtly, but distinctly. A tremor in the roots. A hush in the leaves. As if the world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it go.

A gust of wind rippled through the garden, warm and dry, and not of this season. Overhead, the clouds shifted like startled birds.

Then came the sound.

A low, bone-deep hum, like the groaning of a giant beneath the earth. It rose and fell in waves, not loud, but vast—beyond the scale of ordinary things. Bram dropped his basket. Pip vanished into the trees.

The hum became a crack. The crack became a roar.

And then the sky split.

A comet, blazing gold and furious crimson, tore across the heavens from north to east. It burned like a wound in the sky, trailing fire and thunder. Bram fell to his knees as the light overwhelmed everything. Shadows danced violently. Birds shrieked and fled. The earth shook, then held its breath.

Silence followed.

Not peace—never peace again—but silence.

The comet vanished beyond the horizon, toward the Wyrdewood’s heart. A thin column of black smoke began to rise in its wake.

Bram stood, trembling.

His garden, once so full of life, now felt still and watchful. Even the insects seemed to hesitate.

He did not know it then, but the world had changed.

And with it, the fate of one humble rooting.

What’s the point of all this?

Using AI isn’t just input/output—and prompting isn’t like a Google search.

Prompting is thinking.

The AI isn’t a factory worker; it’s a collaborator. Even this simple example wasn’t a one-and-done exercise. The prompt worked chapter by chapter, and I had to make plot decisions at the end of each chapter—difficult for a story you haven’t read. The entire process still took over an hour.

I recently watched a video about prompting as part of the thinking process. AI shouldn’t stop people from thinking; it should enhance the process. It frees you from the mundane boilerplate work and opens your mind to explore, test, experiment, and make decisions.

You don’t write prompts. You think about goals, outcomes, and processes, then tell the AI to do what leads to that outcome.

When writing with the AI, you don’t give it the prompt for The Fellowship of the Ring and wait for the result. You think about why you’re writing the book in the first place. What is the message? What am I trying to say? Where do I want the audience to feel uncomfortable, and where do I want them to feel joy? You need to build your roadmap first. Then you ask the AI to take you on the journey.

Think first. Prompt second.

For example, I generally have a plot structure in mind when I write a novel. Typically, it’s ‘Save the Cat.’ Anytime I ask the AI for guidance on my story or plot, it begins with ‘Using ‘Save the Cat’ evaluate the plot and the outline.’ I want it to test against the goals and outcomes that I’ve already decided upon.

Here’s an example from a story that I’m currently working on. In this example, I’ve already told the AI that I want the story evaluated based on the Save the Cat outline. So far, the AI has the story and plot outline.

Here's what we have so far. Let's do a sanity check

ChatGPT said:

Thanks for sharing the full draft—it’s in excellent shape. Here's your sanity check based on structure, tone, pacing, and consistency with the outline and your story goals.

---

✅ STRUCTURE & FLOW

✓ Chapter progression aligns well with your Save the Cat outline:

• Ch. 1 (“A Divided Nation”) clearly introduces Alex and Jamie’s separate worlds, stakes, and ideology.

• Ch. 2 (“Vote and Vet”) builds tension, introduces the voter suppression engine, and ramps up resistance with parallel action.

• Ch. 3 (“The Day After”) fulfills its “Catalyst” beat perfectly: the election is declared, the mask slips, and the cost of truth rises. It moves from personal risk (Alex being doxxed) to strategic deepening (Jamie refuses to disappear), ending with their parallel recognition of each other’s work.

It also gives constructive guidance that I can use in the editing process.

Slight Risk:

• A few moments in Jamie’s arc lean on similar rhythms: hushed rooms, glowing screens, exhausted determination. They're effective but could become predictable if overused. Consider varying texture later with more sensory overload, misfires, or emotionally messy arguments to break the mold.

It knows how to give me this guidance, because I’ve already explained my criteria.