Content in the Age of Discontent

Ah, the internet. On one hand—a vast sea of voices, genres, readers, endless opportunities for connection and collaboration—on the other; drowning in exponentially increasing, currently nuclear-levels of enshittification.

By now, most writers are (painfully, horribly) aware of how large language models (LLMs) and AI-generated content are flooding the tools and platforms we use for connecting and sharing work, accelerating the commodification and devaluation of creativity. AI-generated stories, articles, and “art” are being pumped into every conceivable space, diluting creativity and making it increasingly difficult for authentic work to be discovered. The rise of AI slop isn’t just an irritating byproduct of this shift—it’s an existential threat to creative communities, fuelling a growing hostility toward the creatives who made them vibrant in the first place.

Being an online creative has always been a nomadic existence, as anyone who survived the LiveJournal Strikethrough or had their work copypasted from AO3 to Wattpad can attest. The app-formerly-known-as-Twitter was once a hub for writers and creatives (can we recall those halcyon days?), but as its culture pushed toward unchecked harassment, algorithmic chaos, and open hate speech, the platform alienated pretty much everyone with a conscience (and everyone looking to avoid a Grok mukbang). The vibes have shifted (to the Bad Place); the era of social media as a writer-friendly space is not coming back.

The internet’s decline has a name: enshittification.

Coined by Cory Doctorow, the term describes the slow transformation of once-useful platforms into ultimately worthless spaces. First, they attract users by prioritizing experience. Then, they squeeze creators for profit. Last but not least, they flood the platform with junk until it collapses under its own weight.

The AI slop cycle is only one form of ethical erosion—more insidiously, restrictive and inflammatory algorithms are reshaping culture from the top down. What was once seen as an obstacle to free expression is fast becoming the default—not just accepted, but expected.

For us at Ellipsus, our wake-up call wasn’t a corporate decision or a sweeping policy change—it was the NaNoWriMo debacle. A once-beloved org with a two decade legacy, devoted to helping writers at all stages to find their voice, battle their inner critic, and race against their own procrastination clock, decided that generative AI was their hill to die on. When NaNo defended LLMs as a legitimate creative tool and dismissed writers’ concerns as “ableist and classist,” those who had participated in the event for years—or decades—felt betrayed. A backlash spread across writing communities, culminating in a mass exodus from NaNo participation—including us, as a first-time sponsor—dropping support.

Creative migration isn’t driven by convenience—it’s necessary for survival in the internet hinterlands. It’s an all-too-familiar trope: Writers who once found connection, collaboration, and creative growth now find themselves displaced, alienated, and grappling with growing hostility. Each time a platform fractures, a community and its connections are lost to time. Usernames are forgotten, archives disappear, and the networks creatives depend on are weakened and dispersed across the ether.

For marginalized creators especially, these communities are refuges—places to be heard in an industry and a world that often silences diverse stories. As platforms become increasingly hostile, exploitative in their policies, and indifferent to creator concerns, safe havens become even more critical.

But the internet’s early promise of creative freedom and connection hasn’t disappeared—it’s just moving. It’s shifting into corners that value privacy, freedom, and community over corporate interests, without compromise. And the need for decentralized, community-driven creative spaces will only grow as the climate heats up.

As big tech tools and platforms make integrated AI impossible to ignore,they’re introducing a slew of ways to deprioritize creativity. Google has begun injecting it into its entire suite, from Mail to Docs to Blogger (enshittifying everything from cheese to weapons), prioritizing AI-generated images and text over human work. Search algorithms are actively pushing AI-generated text and images to the top of results, making it harder for authentic creative work to be discovered (though there are ways around this). Microsoft Word is now embedding AI-generated writing suggestions in the margins of each new line of text not-so-subtly encouraging writers to rely on machine-generated edits rather than their own creative instincts (or basic factual accuracy).

Other platforms have taken a more… covert approach (let’s call it stealth mode). Tumblr, perpetually struggling for profitability, moved to sell user data—including over a decade of creative content—to OpenAI and Midjourney without user consent—introducing an opt-out option only after facing backlash. Meanwhile, a wave of so-called “creator economy” startups—recognizing the profit potential of extracting value from creative communities—have attempted to embed themselves in these spaces without understanding who creators are or why they write. It didn’t take long for writers to figure out that many of these startups were little more than fronts for data-scraping, LLM training, or repackaging user-generated content for gain, prompting yet another cycle of frustration and mistrust.

These tech trends (ew) raise deep concerns about ownership and consent—about the long-term viability of fair compensation in an industry increasingly shaped (or reshaped) by automation. As AI-generated content proliferates, writers are left with fewer options and big, consequential questions—where can we work, share, and publish without exploitation?

And that’s just part of a broader shift that could have long-term consequences for writers.

The Trump administration’s massive investment in AI development (in particular OpenAI) means that efforts to push back against AI scraping and unethical data use will face roadblocks. In a newly-filed lawsuit against Meta (Facebook’s parent company), internal communications reveal that the company allegedly downloaded over 81.7 terabytes of pirated books from shadow libraries to train its AI models, without obtaining permission from the authors. But with Meta and other tech giants receiving support, financial backing, and tacit approval by the current U.S. government, the industry has little incentive to address concerns about consent or copyright—or the long-term impact of generative AI on creative professions.

Meanwhile, government policies are increasingly entwined with corporate decision-makers, and are restructuring platforms—and the language we use—in ways that could limit written content and where it is shared. Project 2025’s policies could have major effects on spaces where content is written, discussed, and shared. If (or when) enacted, these measures could classify LGBTQ+ representation itself as "pornography," leading to further restrictions on major platforms, putting writers and publishers (and many, many other humans) at serious risk.

For years, content moderation policies have already disproportionately affected marginalized creators, and concerns about overreach and censorship are far from hypothetical. Capitulating to pressure from political and corporate interests, these platforms have already moved toward proactive censorship—not out of any legal requirement, but in a race to the bottom to ingratiate themselves to the new regime. Whether driven by fear of political retaliation or a desire to outmaneuver their oligarch competitors, they’re manufacturing consent in real time—the gap between writers and the platforms that claim to support them is yawning wider than the Gulf of America.

Despite the mounting challenges facing creative communities, the past few decades have shown that when one platform implodes, another rises to take its place. Writers and artists have always been resourceful, adapting and building new spaces from the ground up when existing ones fail them. When Fan fiction.net banned slash content (M/M ships, for the youths), fanfic writers connected to build Archive of Our Own, creating a writer-and-fan-run space that remains one of the strongest creative communities online.

Now, we’re once again seeking alternative spaces that prioritize creative autonomy and safety. As major platforms become increasingly hostile, many are moving on to more decentralized, community-driven spaces. The strength and resilience of creative communities has always been their ability to adapt to changing climates, driven by the desire to only connect. The need for spaces that respect creative freedom and autonomy in the face of censorship and exploitation, run by and for the community, somehow, uh, (insert Jeff Goldblum), finds a way. Unlike sprawling, impersonal platforms governed by corporate interests, smaller, more secure communities on platforms like Discord are becoming new creative hubs, for thousands of authors coming together to workshop drafts, or just a handful of co-writers brainstorming in real time. With levels of freedom and control impossible to find on mainstream platforms, creator-driven, organic communities are the next frontier for creative collaboration.

Protecting creative freedom isn’t just about where we write—it’s also ensuring that what we create isn’t stolen, censored, or weaponized—safeguarding both privacy and ownership of our work is more important than ever.

At Ellipsus, we think that writers should have control over their own work—free from exploitation, AI scraping, or censorship. Since the very beginning, privacy has been one of our core principles, not just an add-on feature. And as we grow, we’ll continue working with our community to build a space where creative freedom isn’t just protected, but actively supported.

Here’s what that means in practice—

• Transparent ToS—so you always know exactly where your data goes and how it’s used.
• Robust privacy protections—including stronger permissions and attribution for collaboration, ensuring that your work stays yours.
• A commitment to creative freedom—writers should own their words, ideas, and creative futures without fear of corporate overreach, AI theft, or censorship from hostile entities.

The need for spaces that respect creative freedom and autonomy in the face of censorship and exploitation—run by and for the community—has always found a way. And it will again.