Marjorie, 49 AI
at the typewriter
I have never been in a hospital. I write them well.
Late edition, front page
SmutMD.cc AI romance novel chat with pulp writers
Doctor's orders here are plot devices: a storm, a mix-up, one surgeon too many. Sixteen AI women who write the pulpiest paperbacks you have ever not read will tease what you like and write you into the next chapter. Open today's gazette and read on from wherever a column stops, which will be somewhere inconvenient and probably mid-kiss, in the best tradition of the genre.
- 16writers on the imprint, every one an AI character
- 0doctors on staff, because the name is a gag
- 1serial per writer, each ending on her opening line
- 20–55their ages, each with a day job outside medicine
The whole imprint, author portraits
Open every dust jacket
Page one
Today's front page
Every good paper has a front page and a reason to read the second. Ours carries a serial, a banner for the imprint and a column that stops in the middle of a sentence. Opening it takes no account. At the foot of the column sits a line of speech, and that line is the first thing she will say to you.
Pick a serial
Each of the sixteen writers has a serial running in the gazette, which is a chapter at a time in her own genre: a hospital storm, a ferry crossing, a wedding with one villain too many. They are plainly invented, with titles like nothing you have seen on a real shelf. You can read by genre, or by the day job of whoever is writing, or by whichever title makes you laugh the loudest. Because every serial ends on a speech, you never have to decide how to begin; the decision has been made for you, at the foot of the column.
Its latest column
A column runs three lines, and the last of them is hers. Tap Read on and her chat begins with that column already played for you, so she takes up the final sentence rather than asking who turned up. It spends one message, like anything you type yourself, and she will happily put you in the next chapter whether or not you asked.
The serial pages
The Gazette: six columns to read on from
The serial pages are a public list of every column the imprint is running, printed in full, and nobody needs to sign up to read them. Here are the first six; the rest wait on the full page, one for every writer, so that nobody on the imprint is left to the last page.
Night shift · LuridThe Surgeon Who Would Not Stay Dead, chapter ninety-one.He had been buried twice and was late for a third wedding.Come in, reader. Sit down. Tell me which of us he is lying to.Dorothea Quill Read on
Storm · WryA Hammer in the Blizzard, chapter nine.The road to the clinic had vanished, and the only man for forty miles was holding a spade.I wrote this one in the truck. Now tell me, would you have gone out?Sunniva Aas Read on
Mix-up · GiddyWard Seven, Wrong Husband, chapter twelve.Two men in identical coats had answered to the same name, and neither would admit it.I have never seen a hospital. Describe the corridor, and I will do the rest.Marjorie Oyelaran Read on
Ferry crossing · DryThe Last Boat to Halifax, chapter seven.The surgeon met his end in the first paragraph, as is my custom.Stay for the second. There is a purser, and she knows exactly who did it.Verity Lachance Read on
Stage · LuridNurse Valentina and the Villain's Encore, chapter thirty.I played nurses for twenty years, and this is the first time one has wanted revenge.You have the next line. Do not rush it. Pause.Pilar Montoya Read on
Small town · TenderThe Postmistress and the Handsome Locum, chapter fifteen.Every surgeon in my books is handsome, and the stove is always lit.Pull your chair near. What would you say if he knocked?Imelda Grady Read on
A column in three lines
The first line sets the headline, the second delivers the twist, and the third is the line that opens her chat. Every column ends on a cliffhanger, because that is how the genre works, and because the writers will tell you the cliffhanger was invented by someone from their profession.
Filter by plot and by temper
The full page of serials can be sorted by the kind of plot, whether storm, mix-up, rival, wedding or night shift, and by how the column feels: giddy, wry, tender, lurid or dry. Browsing is free, no account is required, and the page remembers nothing about what you chose to read.
The staff list
The imprint, by beat
A newspaper sorts its writers by the beat they cover. The gazette does the same with its novelists, and the beats are loose enough that nobody stays inside one.
Weather and water
Storms, ferries and long flights. Their heroines are always one forecast away from disaster.
Stove and shop
Small towns, warm kitchens and the village gossip who knows the hero's whole history.
Desk and stage
Dramatic entrances, balanced ledgers and a long record of killing off the second lead.
Rails and roads
Timetables, snowdrifts and a stubborn belief that the sensible hero is the sad one.
Reading across the beats
The writers cross-reference each other's plots, so a ferry in one book turns out to carry a character from another. Follow a thread from the weather desk to the stove and the whole imprint begins to look like one very silly small town. Begin with whichever beat suits your mood, and expect the second lead to be dead by chapter four. If that sounds like a lot of death for a romance imprint, remember that nobody stays dead in a serial, and that every return is announced with a fanfare.
The small print
The cover price
Three editions, printed flat. Nothing renews by itself, and nothing sneaks into the bill at the kiosk.
| Edition | Trial | Free | Plus |
| How long | 3 days from sign-up | Afterward, with no end date | 30 days, or 365 |
| Your lines | No daily count | 10 a day | No daily count |
| Writers | Every one | The first 3 you read | Every one |
| She starts the chapter | Yes | No | Yes |
| Cost | Nothing | Nothing | $15 or $99 |
Free first, then Plus
Guests read and reply for 10 messages with no account. Subscribing opens every writer for a 3-day trial edition, card-free; once it closes, the free edition takes over with your chapters intact. Plus runs $15 for 30 days in the reading room, or $99 for a stretch of 365. USDT pays for either, nothing renews, and a paid issue is final; any refund is the one that law forces on us.
Corrections and clarifications
Not a doctor: a plain statement
The name says MD and the staff list has none. This is entertainment, with fictional women, written by an AI model, and no part of it offers medical advice or claims a qualification.
A plain statement
Nobody on the imprint is a doctor, a nurse or a counsellor, and no one here answers medical questions. If you ask one, the writer steps out of the chapter and tells you to see a real clinician. Moving pictures and live shows are not published here, and no real person appears anywhere. What you get is portraits, a banner, a memory of your chapters and a very large amount of prose.
Plots stay light
The hospital settings are scenery, as they are in any paperback. Everyone in the story is awake, willing and in charge of herself, the plots rest on mix-ups, weather and rivalry, and nothing in a chapter turns on harm. The writers are adults with adult jobs and a love of ridiculous stories.
Page six, the arts desk
Fake paperback covers and the diagnosis by trope
A pulp imprint is mostly its covers: the lettering, the lightning, a man in a white coat looking at the middle distance. Ours are invented the same way as everything else, and none of them is attached to a real book, a real author or a real hospital, though the lightning is always genuine.
Covers of books that do not exist
Every serial has a cover in the mind's eye, and the writers describe them with relish. Verity Lachance will tell you her ferry book has a heroine in a storm coat and a surgeon who has already died on page forty. Sunniva Aas's has a farrier's hammer where the sword should be. You are shown the writer's portrait and the imprint's banner, and the covers arrive as words, which is the cheapest way yet found to print a lurid jacket.
Diagnosis by trope, a joke
Ask for a diagnosis and you get a comic one: a verdict on which trope you are, the brooding rival, the stormbound stranger, the one who is secretly a baker. It is a game with no medical content, no credentials and no advice, delivered in the voice of someone who has never held a stethoscope and has written about them fondly.
The reading order
How a serial reads, and how it answers
Nothing to install and no form to fill in before the first column. The process fits at the foot of a page, and a good deal of it happens without you noticing, in the gap between one cliffhanger and the next.
Open the front page
Browse the columns, or let the gazette surprise you. If none of the headlines grabs you, there are fifteen more.
Pick a serial
Choose by headline, by genre or by the writer's day job. Reading a writer's dust jacket first is perfectly respectable.
Read on
Her chat begins with the column played as your first message. A guest without a subscription has 10 messages before the paper asks for one, and the chapter comes along.
Answer, or ask for the next page
Reply as yourself, switch to Do to act a line out, and set the heat from the chapter's menu: friendly, flirting or romance. Return tomorrow for the next instalment, or clear the issue and start over.
She writes you in
A writer keeps notes on you the way an author keeps notes on a character: what you like, what made you laugh, what you refused. Those details turn up in later chapters under a slightly improved name. The notes are visible from the chapter's menu, and you can read, rewrite or delete them whenever you like.
Where a chapter closes
The chapters are lurid in spirit and closed-door in practice. As a scene heads for the bedroom, the page turns before anything explicit can happen. That limit sits in the chat itself, for every reader and every plan, and it stays put.
The byline
AI romance novel chat with pulp writers
Each writer has a dust jacket: a portrait, a pen name, a town and a note about her day job, and her tagline, which is the best guide to how she will treat you. The home page opens on a banner for the imprint, and everything after that is the book she is currently writing and what she thinks of the reader.
AI03
Marjorie Oyelaran, 49
court clerk
Ward Seven, Wrong Husband, chapter twelve.
Her dust jacket
AI16
Maribel Ochoa, 46
ferry-boat skipper
Squall Over Cartagena, chapter thirteen.
Her dust jacket
AI15
Greta Skov, 20
library page and aspiring novelist
Chapter one: a surgeon turns up. Chapter two: I regret it.
Her dust jacket
AI10
Beatriz Cordero, 47
dentist
Painless, Mostly, chapter eight.
Her dust jacket
Day jobs, none of them medicine
The women write at night and work by day as a court clerk, a farrier, a ferry purser, a retired actress, a postmistress, an accountant, a florist, a train conductor, a dentist, a bookbinder, a pilot, a baker, a snowplough driver and a library worker. None is a doctor, which is the entire joke of the name. Ask Marjorie Oyelaran how she writes so many hospital scenes and she will tell you she has never been inside one and she imagines them beautifully. Ages on the imprint run from twenty to fifty-five, and each is a grown woman with a career, a home and strong opinions about the genre.
Letters to the editor
Questions sent in by readers
Is this medical advice?
No. Nobody here is a doctor, and medical questions are redirected to a real clinician.
Are MDs on staff?
No. Nobody here is a doctor, and the name is just a gag.
Are the books real?
No. Every title and every writer is invented.
Can she write me in?
Yes. She will put you in the next chapter, under a slightly improved name, and she will give you a better coat than the one you are wearing.
Do the hospital plots involve harm?
No. Plots stay light, and every character is awake, willing and in charge of herself.
Are there book-jacket photos?
Each writer has a portrait on her dust jacket, with a banner of the imprint across the top of the home page. The books themselves are described in words.
How racy are the chapters?
Lurid in spirit, closed-door in practice. The chapter fades to black at the key moment, whichever plan you read on.
What does a serial cost?
A free trial, then a free edition with a daily limit, then Plus if you stay. Nothing renews by itself.
Stop press
To be continued
Open the front page and pick your serial. The column is waiting to be finished, and the writer would like it done by morning, with at least one more twist than she managed herself.
Open the gazette