BookEngine is an unapologetically disruptive platform that's pissing off traditional publishers and making English professors break out in cold sweats. Our algorithm cranks out complete novels faster than you can say "writer's block" - with one-click 60 fully-realized chapters that'll make your creative writing professor question their career choices.
The Literature Black Hole isn't for everyone - just the forward-thinking rebels who understand that "real literature" is whatever gets readers turning pages. While the literary establishment clutches their pearls, over 10,000 authors are already embracing what critics call "the death of authentic writing" and what users call "the most liberating tool since the word processor."
The ruthlessly efficient chapter-generation system doesn't just build plots - it demolishes the notion that suffering equals quality. With tone customization ranging from "mildly offensive" to "might start a book club riot," Book Engine lets you match any author's style without the inconvenience of developing your own voice over decades.
Multiple output formats mean you can go from "random idea at 3 AM" to "ready-to-publish manuscript" before your morning coffee - because waiting months to finish a draft is so last century. Traditional writers hate it, bestselling authors secretly use it, and readers? They can't tell the difference.
The bestselling
fox sells out
while the
literary dog
starves.
The bestselling
fox sells out
while the
literary dog
starves.
Creating literary masterpieces with Book Engine is embarrassingly simple - just two ingredients and zero talent required.
Simply enter your favorite author and a plot idea. That's literally it. The AI handles everything else.
A mathematician discovers that supermarket shopping carts exist in multiple dimensions simultaneously, explaining why the one you choose always has a wobbly wheel and veers inexplicably toward displays of tinned peaches.
BookEngine offers pricing to fit any aspiring author's ambitions.
From $20/month for casual creators to $120/month for prolific publishers.
All plans include instant downloads in multiple formats and the smug satisfaction of bypassing years of writing practice.
Example output
In the unremarkable town of Riverton Heights, which prided itself on being precisely thirteen percent more mundane than the national average (according to a survey that nobody remembered commissioning), Millicent Davidson was facing a crisis of cosmic proportions that, unfortunately, nobody else seemed to notice.
The washing machine was eating her socks.
Not just any socks, mind you. The machine displayed a discerning palate that would have impressed the snobbiest of wine connoisseurs. It refused to consume the beige everyday socks her mother bought in bulk. It turned its metaphorical nose up at the holiday-themed atrocities Aunt Meredith sent every Christmas. It positively rejected her father's collection of accounting-themed footwear bearing slogans like "Accountants Do It With Better Figures" and "Talk Depreciation To Me."
No, this washing machine had developed a taste exclusively for Millie's mathematically significant socks. The ones with prime numbers. The ones with fractals. The ones displaying perfect geometric patterns. And most significantly, her beloved Fibonacci sequence socks, gifted by her grandfather on her twelfth birthday, shortly before he died with cryptic warnings about the washing machine that everyone had dismissed as medication-induced nonsense.
Millie, however, was not everyone. At fourteen, she had already given a TEDx talk entitled "The Overlooked Physics of Domestic Appliances," which had simultaneously earned her a standing ovation from three visiting university professors and complete social ostracism at Riverton High School. She had long suspected that household objects contained more secrets than anyone gave them credit for. Now she had proof.
"Sock Disappearance Log, Day 143," Millie dictated to her tablet as she knelt before the washing machine. "Test Pair #8 with fractal pattern has vanished at precisely 16:37:42, exactly seven seconds after the final spin cycle. This brings the total to thirty-seven pairs lost. The statistical probability of this being random now equals approximately nine-point-seven trillion to one, which is roughly the same likelihood as our cat Schrodinger suddenly developing the ability to play Mozart's Fifth Symphony on a miniature harpsichord while simultaneously solving Fermat's Last Theorem."
Schrodinger, who was sprawled across the top of the dryer in a position that defied several laws of skeletal possibility, opened one eye as if to suggest he might consider the harpsichord if properly motivated with treats.
Millie pushed a particularly rebellious curl of auburn hair away from her face, leaving behind a smudge of blue ink on her forehead to join the constellation of freckles already there. Her hair had been described by various well-meaning adults as "spirited," "non-conformist," and once, by her gym teacher, as "a fire hazard near Bunsen burners." Millie preferred to think of it as "exhibiting the natural chaos patterns found throughout the universe."
The washing machine sat innocently against the basement wall, a white cube of domestic mundanity manufactured sometime during the Reagan administration. Grandpa Davidson had insisted they never replace it, going so far as to include a bizarre clause in his will that the family would forfeit their inheritance if the machine was removed from the premises. At the time, Millie's parents had written it off as the eccentric demand of an aging mathematician. Now Millie wasn't so sure.
"You," she said, poking an accusatory finger at the machine, "are violating the fundamental laws of physics, and I take personal offense to that. Conservation of mass clearly states that matter cannot be created or destroyed in a closed system, which means those socks have to be somewhere."
The machine responded with the smug silence of an inanimate object that knows it's getting away with something.
Millie consulted her surveillance setup, which had grown increasingly sophisticated over the past five months. What had started as a simple camera now resembled the command center of a small but ambitious space program. Four high-definition cameras captured every angle of the machine. Electromagnetic sensors monitored for anomalous fields. An infrared detector tracked heat signatures. She had even constructed a rudimentary quantum fluctuation monitor using parts ordered from websites that now regularly sent her targeted ads for tinfoil hats and books about the Bermuda Triangle.
"Replay the last cycle," she commanded her tablet.
The screen displayed the interior of the washing machine during its final spin. Water sluiced away, the drum slowed, and there were her fractal socks—still very much in existence at 16:37:35. The cycle ended. Seven seconds passed. Then a brief, impossible flash of cobalt blue light pulsed from within the sealed machine.
The socks vanished.
Not bunched against the drum. Not static-clung to her jeans. Not quantum-tunneled into the lint trap (she had dismantled it molecule by molecule to check). Simply gone, as if they had decided that existing in three-dimensional space was becoming rather tedious and they'd prefer to try their luck elsewhere.
Millie zoomed in on the footage, frame by frame. There—just for a microsecond—something odd appeared on the glass door. She enhanced the image, adjusting contrast and sharpness.
"That's not possible," she whispered.
Scratch marks. On the inside of the glass. Curved, deliberate patterns that radiated outward like something had been trying to claw its way out from within a sealed washing machine drum.
Schrodinger suddenly leapt to rigid attention, fur standing on end, back arched in a perfect parabola of feline alarm. The cat hissed at the washing machine with unexpected vehemence.
"You see it too," Millie said, glancing between the offended feline and the machine. "Either we're both hallucinating, or something very strange is happening inside that drum. Something that violates every known law of physics, which, quite frankly, is just rude."
The basement door creaked open, spilling light from the kitchen above.
"Millie? Are you still interrogating the washing machine?" Her mother's voice carried the particular tone of someone who designed propulsion systems for experimental aircraft but couldn't understand why her daughter was obsessed with laundry appliances. "Dinner's in ten minutes. It's lasagna night."
"I'm not interrogating it, Mom. I'm documenting a systematic violation of physical law that directly contradicts conventional understanding of spatial dimensions," Millie called back, not looking up from her tablet.
"Well, your systematic violation is getting cold, and your father used the good mozzarella."
The door closed again, and Millie sighed. Her parents meant well but remained stubbornly committed to conventional explanations. Her mother, Dr. Eleanor Davidson, blamed quantum entanglement—"Sometimes particles just get confused, dear, especially in spin cycles." Her father, Alan Davidson, CPA, blamed the cat—"That furball has had it out for your socks since we brought him home." Neither of them would acknowledge the mathematical pattern that practically tap-danced naked through her data while playing the tuba.
Something else caught Millie's eye in the replay. She hadn't noticed it before—a strange distortion in the glass of the washing machine door, visible for only three frames. She zoomed in further, enhanced, adjusted, squinted.
Her stomach performed a maneuver that would impress Olympic gymnasts.
Reflected in the glass of the washing machine door was what appeared to be a face. Not a human face. A face made of fabric, with button eyes and a stitched mouth, contorted in what could only be described as desperate warning.
"Probability of hallucination due to excessive focus on mundane household objects: decreasing rapidly," Millie muttered to herself.
She reached into her pocket and withdrew her grandfather's brass stopwatch—the one oddity from his estate she had insisted on keeping. The watch face was peculiar, marked not just with standard numerals but with strange symbols around the edge that resembled no written language she had ever encountered. Most peculiar of all was its occasional habit, when no one was looking, of ticking backward for precisely seven seconds before resuming its normal direction.
Like now.
As she held the watch, its second hand suddenly reversed course. One, two, three, four, five, six...
On the seventh backward tick, the washing machine emitted a sound at a frequency Millie felt rather than heard—a vibration that seemed to resonate with her teeth fillings and somewhere behind her left eyeball.
The machine's digital display, which had been showing "END" in blocky letters, suddenly flickered and displayed a sequence of numbers:
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13...
"The Fibonacci sequence," Millie breathed, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
The numbers continued to scroll, faster than should have been possible on the simple LED display. Then they vanished, replaced by a message that made Millie's spine attempt to exit her body through the top of her head:
GUARDIAN REQUIRED. DIMENSIONAL INTEGRITY FAILING. INITIATE PROTOCOL 7.
Before Millie could even process this information, the message disappeared, and the washing machine returned to its disguise of household normalcy, like a tiger pretending to be a particularly convincing throw rug.
Her grandfather's final words, previously filed under "Deathbed Delirium," suddenly replayed in her mind with uncomfortable clarity: "The machine, Millie. Never replace it. The balance depends on it. Seven seconds. Always seven."
"He knew," Millie whispered. "Grandpa knew all along."
She glanced down at her tablet, where the final frame of video showed something she had missed before. In the reflection of the washing machine door, almost too faint to perceive, the sock-face had changed. Its stitched mouth had formed what appeared to be words.
Millie magnified the image once more and felt her blood turn to ice water.
The sock was saying, "THEY'RE COMING."
At that precise moment, the washing machine made a sound that washing machines are generally not designed to make—a sort of "glorp" followed by what could only be described as a muffled belch. The door seal glowed faintly blue around the edges.
"Millie! Lasagna! Now!" Her father's voice echoed down the stairs.
"Coming!" she called back automatically, her brain attempting to process approximately forty-seven impossible things before dinner.
As she stood to leave, the machine's display flickered once more, displaying a final message before returning to normal:
PREPARE FOR EXTRACTION. PORTAL GUARDIAN DAVIDSON.
Millie stared at the machine, her scientific mind racing through possibilities, each more improbable than the last. Interdimensional portals. Sock-based lifeforms. Her grandfather as some kind of cosmic gatekeeper. It was absurd, impossible, and completely inconsistent with the rational universe she had always believed in.
And yet, as the novelist Terry Pratchett had once written, "Million-to-one chances happen nine times out of ten."
She had the unsettling feeling that her life was about to become significantly more improbable.
"If you're planning to abduct me," she informed the washing machine quietly, "I should warn you that I'm extremely high-maintenance and require regular access to Wi-Fi, chocolate, and advanced calculus problems."
The machine offered no reassurances as Millie backed slowly toward the stairs, unwilling to turn her back on it. Even Schrodinger seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, positioning himself strategically behind Millie's legs in what appeared to be an attempt at using her as a human shield.
"We'll finish this discussion later," she promised the machine. "And I want those socks back. Especially the Fibonacci ones. Those were limited edition."
As Millie climbed the stairs to dinner, where her parents would discuss airplane propulsion systems and tax exemptions as if the universe weren't unraveling in their basement, she couldn't shake the feeling that her TEDx talk on "The Overlooked Physics of Domestic Appliances" was about to need some serious revisions.
And somewhere, in a dimension sideways to our own, thirty-seven pairs of mathematically significant socks were organizing a rescue mission.
Our tool comes with many powerful features designed to transform your simple inputs into fully-realized novels. These options can be combined to tailor your generated books to your specific creative vision.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
BookEngine analyzes and replicates the writing style of any author you specify
Select from multiple emotional tones to shape the feel of your book
Every chapter contains carefully designed narrative elements
Download your completed book in various industry-standard formats
Every book is generated at industry-standard novel length
Complete package of promotional content for your generated book
Create complete novels in a fraction of the time of traditional writing
Stay informed about your book's progress
Book Engine currently covers 41 languages
Note: Output quality may vary by language. English remains our most refined language with the most stylistic options.
Science Fiction
The station creaked
around her— the sound
of metal expanding
as solar panels adjusted to
maintain optimal energy absorption.
Fantasy
The ancient grimoire
trembled beneath his
fingertips, its pages
whispering secrets
that no mortal had
heard in seven centuries.
Magic, forgotten yet
eternal, stirred within
the binding.
BookEngine is an AI-powered book generator that creates entire novels with just two ingredients: an author name and a plot outline. Our algorithms process this information to generate complete books that mimic your chosen author's style, complete with compelling characters, plot development, and thematic elements—all without the inconvenience of actual writing talent.
After signing up, you simply input an author name (like "Stephen King") and a plot outline. BookEngine's AI then ruins literature as we know it by processing this information through our complex algorithms, generating a complete book including title options, chapters, and marketing copy. The entire process takes a few hours instead of the years of soul-crushing effort traditional authors endure.
No. The computing power required to generate these masterpieces costs actual money, unlike human inspiration. Our monthly plans start at $20 for one book per month, with options up to $120 for ten books monthly. Our free tier allows you to generate exactly zero books, which is perfect for those who still believe in the sanctity of human creativity.
BookEngine can work with something as simple as "Harry Potter invents the iPhone for wizards," but more detail typically yields better results. Aim for a paragraph that outlines the central premise, key characters, and major plot points. Too much detail will actually be stripped out by our algorithms, which prefer to do the creative heavy lifting themselves. The AI has an ego.
Absolutely. You can customize your book's emotional flavor profile in the settings. Options include funny, suspenseful, inspiring, romantic, tragic, mysterious, whimsical, satirical, and dark. This feature allows you to generate books that match specific moods without the need to experience those emotions yourself.
Yes, we provide your completed novels in multiple formats (DOCX, EPUB, TXT) for you to edit, rebrand, or claim as your own work. We won't judge. For professional editing tools, we recommend Publishr, where you can import our files directly and continue the pretense that you're a real author.
Book generation typically takes 2-5 hours, depending on complexity. Premium subscribers get priority server access, allowing them to churn out derivative content at even greater speeds. You can leave the page during generation—our AI continues working even when you're not watching, much like your abandoned creative ambitions.
BookEngine generates novels between 140,000-160,000 words—substantial enough to be called a proper book, without being so long that potential readers feel intimidated. This length isn't currently customizable, but we're working on it. Shakespeare wrote "Macbeth" at roughly 18,000 words, so our AI is already more than twice as verbose as history's greatest playwright.
We offer three pricing tiers for aspiring frauds:
- Basic ($20/mo): 1 book/mo
- Standard ($50/mo): 3 books/mo
- Premium ($120/mo): 10 books/mo
For comparison, Ernest Hemingway published 7 novels in his entire lifetime. With our Premium plan, you can surpass his output in three weeks.
Yes, for those whose literary ambitions extend into more... adult territories. We offer NSFW book generation using specialized uncensored AI models that can handle explicit content without blushing or requiring therapy afterward. NSFW requires a separate subscription because apparently, depravity has its own overhead costs. You must be 18 or older, and we will take your word for it like every other website on the internet.
Click the 'Register' link in the navigation bar and fill in your details. Unlike writing a novel, this should only take you about 30 seconds. We require an email address so we can notify you when your automatically generated masterpiece is ready for download, and so we know where to send the hate mail from real authors.
Yes, you can upgrade or downgrade anytime through your Settings page. Changes take effect immediately, with prorated charges or refunds applied accordingly. Upgrading is perfect for when your fake authorial ambitions expand; downgrading is for when you realize you can't actually read all those books you're generating.
If your book appears to be stalled, wait at least 12 hours before contacting support. We have recovery code that picks up where the AI left off if it crashes from attempting something too literary. The creation process can sometimes require multiple attempts, just like real writing but without the emotional breakdown and substance abuse.
Contact our support team with a detailed description of the issue, preferably with screenshots. Unlike Shakespeare, we can't blame our errors on "printer's devils" or "bad quartos," so we appreciate your help identifying problems in our system. We promise not to get defensive about our code, unlike authors receiving criticism.
Absolutely. We encrypt and securely store all your personal information and generated books. We take privacy more seriously than authors take their "based on a true story" disclaimers. We don't share your information with third parties without explicit consent, except as legally required. Your literary sins remain between you and our servers.
Yes, you can delete your account from the Settings page. This irreversible action removes all your generated books and personal information from our servers, effectively erasing all evidence of your shortcut to literary productivity. Unlike real published books, which haunt library shelves for eternity, your AI writing experiments can actually disappear.
Currently, BookEngine only generates fiction. We've found that making up facts is easier than researching them. We're working on non-fiction capabilities, but honestly, there are already enough AI-generated "facts" on the internet.
BookEngine is designed for individual use, but you can share your generated files for external collaboration. This allows you to find someone to blame when readers point out plot holes or character inconsistencies. "My co-author wrote that part" is the literary equivalent of "the dog ate my homework."
Currently, BookEngine is web-based and works on both desktop and mobile browsers. We're planning a dedicated mobile app for future release, because apparently some people want to generate entire novels while sitting on the toilet—which, to be fair, is where many traditionally-written books probably deserve to end up.
We regularly update with new features based on user feedback and technological advances. Unlike traditional authors who might release new work every few years, our development cycle is continuous. Subscribe to our newsletter to stay informed about new ways to undermine centuries of literary tradition.
Email support@bookengine.xyz with questions, concerns, or just to tell us how we've helped destroy the sanctity of literature. We're a tiny team (literally just a couple of people and several overworked servers), so we aim to respond within 72 hours. Please be patient—we're probably busy generating someone else's masterpiece.
Not really. While you can include detailed plot points, our system will actually strip excessive detail since it was designed to flex its artificial creative muscles. If you've already written chapters, congrats on doing the hard part! This tool is for people who want to skip the actual writing process. There are other tools for people who've already succumbed to the delusion that they should write their own content.
Absolutely! Unlike human authors who might get pigeonholed into one genre, our AI has no artistic integrity to maintain. It can generate fantasy one day and hard-boiled detective fiction the next without having an existential crisis. Simply specify your desired genre or tone during generation, and watch as centuries of distinct literary traditions are flattened into algorithm-friendly patterns.
If you're unsatisfied with your AI masterpiece, you can regenerate it with different plot details or tone settings. Unlike human writers, our AI doesn't cry when you reject its work or develop a drinking problem when forced to do revisions. You can ruthlessly iterate until you get something that meets your standards, or until you realize that perhaps writing does require some human touch after all.
First, make sure your email and password are correct—a challenge that has stumped even the greatest literary minds. If you've forgotten your password, use the 'Reset Password' feature, which is far easier than trying to remember what you had for breakfast yesterday. Still having issues? Contact our support team, who will be significantly more responsive than most literary agents.
Check that your subscription is active and you haven't exceeded your monthly book limit. Unlike traditional publishing, we won't make you wait years to discover your book has been rejected. If your account is in good standing and you still don't see your literary creation, contact our support team. We promise a response time measured in hours rather than the "6-8 months" typical of the publishing industry.
Performance issues are usually due to high server load or connectivity problems. Unlike writer's block, which can last decades, our technical issues typically resolve within hours. Try again later or contact support if the problem persists. Remember that even with delays, you're still getting a complete novel faster than George R.R. Martin can write a single chapter.
No, we don't share your personal information with third parties without explicit consent, except as legally required. Your guilty pleasure of using AI to write Minecraft fan fiction with Hemingway's writing style remains your shameful secret alone. Our Privacy Policy outlines all scenarios where your data might be shared, and it's shorter and more coherent than most terms of service agreements.
All generated books are securely stored in our encrypted servers, which is more protection than most authors give their drafts (looking at you, novelists who keep their only copy on an ancient MacBook with no backup). You can access your books anytime through your dashboard and download them for offline use, editing, or to frantically hide the evidence of your literary shortcut.
Yes, our free tier allows you to generate exactly zero (0) books per month. This innovative approach maintains the purity of the creative writing process while simultaneously encouraging subscription sign-ups. For people who value their time more than their artistic integrity, our premium plans start at just $20/month—less than the cost of a creative writing workshop that would just tell you to "write every day."
Yes, we provide your literary fast food in multiple convenient formats: DOCX (for editors who still use Microsoft products), EPUB (for e-readers and the technologically sophisticated), and TXT (for minimalists and people stuck in 1995). This versatility allows you to read your generated books anywhere, or even submit them to publishers who won't know the difference unless you tell them.