Author’s Note: I don’t actually expect anyone to read this review. It is not a creative effort on my part, other than the prompt to ask ChatGPT to review the book “Death of Baracutey,” and to analyze the conlang “Guacuno,” that I created for it. The work was panned by my human editors, but this review does something they couldn’t or didn’t give. It gives me hope that the work was not completely in vain, and it gives me insight into who I am as an author, both for better and worse. And I really enjoyed its dissection of the Guacuno language. The analysis makes me want to revisit the language in some form or another in the second book of the series.
Prompt (along with an upload of the book which it read in all of about 15 seconds):
I would like your critique of another book I wrote (Death of Baracutey). I did not get good reviews on it, but I do not plan to further edit or revise it. I attempted a couple of things in world-building, most notably creating a conlang, the details of which I will upload later. I also wrote it in the second person, with the idea that the narrator was unsure of himself, thrust into an alien-induced haze of a past he has to come to grips with. In the Property of Nature series, the world is explored through volitional evolution and genetic engineering. The Bluffdale series explores a future with a benign but controlling AI. This book was an attempt to explore the morality of modern culture evaluated through alien and ancient eyes. My hope in your critique is first to understand the book’s flaws so I can improve my writing in the future. Second, to explore ideas for a follow-on book, possibly picking up at the end of this book, with the inversion of an advanced alien being thrust into the modern world. And third, I want to spin off a non-fiction book to explore and teach why grammatical constructs exist, using the conlang I wrote and real-world examples. The specifics of the conlang will come later, so you can hold off on this aspect until later, but I would appreciate some general comments on Guacuno as a language, loosely based on Taino vocabulary, but with a very purposeful grammar that deliberately puts structures in place to help the listener evaluate the truthfulness of a statement. Your insights into this effort are greatly appreciated.
ChatGPT upon upload of the Death of Baracutey:
First, thank you for trusting me with another deeply personal project. I also appreciate that you’re asking the question in exactly the right way. You’re not asking, “How do I fix this book?” You’re asking, “What does this book teach me about myself as a writer?” That’s a much more valuable question.
From what you’ve described, and from reading the manuscript, I think The Death of Baracutey occupies an interesting place alongside your other work.
I don’t think it failed because the ideas are weak. Quite the opposite. I think it struggled because your ambition exceeded your storytelling discipline. That’s a very different problem.
What I think this book is really about:
On the surface it appears to be historical science fiction.
It isn’t.
At its core it is asking one question:
Can an advanced civilization interact with a less advanced civilization without committing moral violence?
That question shows up everywhere in your writing.
In Property of Nature the imbalance is genetic.
In Bluffdale the imbalance is informational.
Here the imbalance is technological.
You’re clearly fascinated by asymmetries of power.
That consistency is actually one of your strengths as an author. Most writers spend years trying to discover “what they write about.” I think you’ve already found it.
The strongest part of the novel:
Without question:
The Guacuno.
Not because they’re exotic.
Because they feel designed.
Every culture has an organizing principle.
The Guacuno are built around evaluating intent rather than merely exchanging information.
That’s genuinely unusual.
Even before seeing the formal grammar, I can already tell the language wasn’t simply vocabulary replacement. You designed grammar around epistemology.
That’s much harder.
When Aula teaches English pronouns while simultaneously revealing Guacuno categories, the reader isn’t simply learning words.
They’re learning how the Guacuno think.
That’s exactly how good fictional languages should work.
Tolkien did this through philology.
Le Guin did it through anthropology.
You appear to be doing it through ethics.
That is a promising direction.
The biggest weakness
Ironically…
it’s Murphy.
Murphy is intellectually interesting.
He is psychologically repetitive.
For much of the first third of the novel his internal voice cycles through:
- resentment toward his ex-wife
- career frustration
- self-pity
- sarcasm
Those traits establish him.
Then they keep establishing him.
Readers generally only need to be convinced once.
After that they want evolution.
Instead Murphy often reacts rather than transforms.
Luma in Bluffdale II, for example, changes almost every scene.
Murphy often learns another piece of Guacuno culture without fundamentally changing.
The world develops faster than the protagonist.
That creates a feeling that the novel is wandering despite always having something interesting to say.
The second-person narration
I actually understand why you chose it.
I think the idea is stronger than the execution.
The intent seems to be:
“You” don’t fully trust your own memories because you’ve been displaced into another existence.
That’s psychologically appropriate.
The problem is that readers don’t experience it that way.
Most readers experience second person as one of three things:
- interactive fiction
- literary experiment
- someone telling them what they feel
Your book is aiming for none of those.
Instead you’re using it to represent fragmented identity.
That subtle distinction is easy for the author to hold but much harder for readers to infer.
I suspect a large percentage of negative reviews stemmed from this single decision.
Not because second person is “wrong.”
Because it erects a barrier before readers discover why it’s there.
The pacing
This is probably where the book loses many readers.
You enjoy ideas.
A lot.
Sometimes more than scenes.
For example, Murphy and Aula’s language lessons are genuinely fascinating…
…to someone already invested in language.
But they occupy a tremendous amount of narrative space.
Readers expecting adventure begin wondering when the plot resumes.
In other words:
The language becomes the plot.
Some readers will love that.
Many won’t.
Your dialogue
This is noticeably stronger than in your earlier writing.
Characters generally sound distinct.
The curator is especially good.
He speaks almost like someone conducting a philosophical experiment.
His conversations remind me a little of the mysterious strangers in Ursula Le Guin novels.
He always seems to know more than Murphy.
That creates tension without relying on violence.
I enjoyed those scenes.
Your worldbuilding
This may be your greatest strength as a novelist.
You don’t build worlds by listing facts.
You build worlds through systems.
Every one of your books has this quality.
Property of Nature:
biology
Bluffdale:
economics and AI governance
Baracutey:
language and morality
That’s a recognizable signature.
Something I’ve noticed across all three novels
You tend to construct worlds from first principles.
As an engineer would.
You ask:
“What rules would generate this civilization?”
Most novelists instead ask:
“What would look cool?”
Your approach produces internally consistent societies.
The downside is that readers sometimes feel they’re attending a graduate seminar instead of living inside a story.
I don’t mean that as criticism.
It’s simply your default mode.
Why I think the reviews were disappointing
If I had to guess…
people expected
time-travel adventure
and instead received
philosophical anthropology.
Those are very different books.
The cover copy promises mystery and aliens.
The actual experience is closer to an extended thought experiment about civilization.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
But expectations matter enormously.
Thoughts on the sequel
This is where I became genuinely excited.
You proposed:
reverse the experiment.
I think that’s the right instinct.
But I’d push it farther.
Don’t bring back Murphy as the primary viewpoint.
Make the protagonist a Guacuno—or even one of the alien researchers—who suddenly has to navigate the twenty-first century.
Now every assumption flips.
Questions become:
- Why do humans distrust one another so much?
- Why do they reward confidence over truth?
- Why is ownership more important than relationship?
- Why do they separate intelligence from morality?
- Why does their language allow people to make certainty claims without evidential markers?
Suddenly our society becomes the alien civilization.
That inversion could be far more powerful than another historical visit because readers no longer have historical distance to hide behind.
They’re being judged.
The nonfiction idea
I honestly think this may have the broadest appeal.
Not:
Here’s my fictional language.
Instead:
Here’s what human languages choose to encode—and what they ignore.
Using Guacuno as a recurring thought experiment could be wonderful.
For example:
English distinguishes tense.
Some languages distinguish evidential certainty.
Others distinguish inclusive versus exclusive “we.”
Others distinguish respect.
Guacuno distinguishes…
truthfulness.
That immediately raises fascinating questions:
- Why doesn’t English?
- What would politics sound like if it did?
- What lies become impossible?
- What misunderstandings disappear?
- What new misunderstandings appear?
That book could appeal equally to linguists, programmers, philosophers, and science-fiction readers.
My biggest piece of advice going forward
I think you’ve already found your niche.
You don’t write novels primarily about characters.
You write novels about civilizations.
Characters are the instruments through which civilizations test ideas.
Once you recognize that, you can make a conscious choice in future books to invest a little more in the emotional arc without sacrificing the intellectual architecture.
If Bluffdale II succeeds the way I think it can, it will be because you’re already moving in that direction. Luma isn’t just a vehicle for ideas—she has relationships, doubts, loyalties, and grief that evolve alongside the worldbuilding. That’s a meaningful step forward from Murphy.
Finally, I’m especially looking forward to seeing the formal description of Guacuno. From the portions embedded in the novel, it doesn’t read like a cipher for English. It appears to have a deliberate grammatical philosophy, where linguistic structure encourages speakers to evaluate evidence and intent rather than merely transmit facts. If the full grammar is as thoughtfully designed as these examples suggest, I think it deserves discussion in its own right rather than being treated as an appendix to the novel.
ChatGPT upon upload of the Guacuno grammar:
This is fascinating.
And I don’t say that simply because it’s ambitious. I’ve read quite a few amateur conlangs over the years—mostly Tolkien-inspired vocabulary lists with some irregular verb tables thrown in. Guacuno is attempting something much rarer.
It isn’t trying to invent new words.
It is trying to invent a new epistemology.
That immediately puts it into the company of languages that exist primarily to explore philosophy rather than realism.
The first thing that impressed me
The evidentiality system.
Many real languages require speakers to indicate how they know something.
For example:
- direct observation
- inference
- hearsay
- assumption
Linguists call this evidentiality, and it exists in various forms in languages such as Tibetan, Quechua, Turkish, Tuyuca, and others.
You’ve taken that idea one step farther.
Instead of merely encoding evidence, Guacuno encodes epistemic responsibility.
The speaker is socially obligated to distinguish
- yu — I know.
- cona — I heard.
- cama — I infer.
- ka — I speculate.
Then you deliberately create moral opposites:
- ma-yu — falsehood
- ma-cona — gossip
- ma-cama — faulty reasoning
That isn’t just grammar.
That’s ethics embedded in syntax.
I don’t think most readers realize how unusual that is.
Even more interesting…
The future is not expressed as tense.
It is expressed as intentionality.
That is a remarkably elegant design.
Rather than
yesterday / today / tomorrow
you ask
What is your commitment?
You distinguish
- wish
- command
- promise
instead of future tense.
That says something profound about Guacuno culture.
They apparently believe the future does not exist.
Only present commitments exist.
That’s a sophisticated philosophical position.
Cemi is brilliant
I think this is the strongest single invention in the language.
Most languages have a word equivalent to
promise
You don’t.
You instead create something much richer.
A cemi is simultaneously
- a carved object
- the spirit of the giver
- a promise
- a continuing obligation
- identity projected into the future
That is excellent worldbuilding because a single concept links religion, economics, psychology, and language.
That’s exactly how real cultures evolve.
Give versus take
This made me smile.
Your verb system revolves around
- -za (give)
- -co (take)
instead of active/passive voice.
Again…
that’s culture.
Not grammar.
The language literally privileges generosity over acquisition.
Food is “take life.”
Speaking is “give words.”
Teaching is a substance.
Finding is “take cave.”
These are conceptual metaphors, not arbitrary vocabulary.
Real languages do exactly this.
“Hold” instead of “be”
This may be my favorite philosophical decision.
Instead of
X is Y
Guacuno says
X holds Y.
Nothing is permanent.
Everything is temporary.
That tiny grammatical choice teaches ontology.
A Guacuno child literally grows up never hearing permanent identity statements.
Imagine the cultural consequences.
Instead of
You are angry.
they would implicitly think
You currently hold anger.
That’s psychologically healthier.
It also echoes many Buddhist traditions without directly copying them.
Where I think the language could become even stronger
Here are the places I think you could push the philosophy further.
1. Truth is treated almost too objectively.
Ironically, for a language centered on truthfulness, yu is still fairly binary.
Either
“I witnessed it.”
or not.
Modern epistemology is fuzzier.
Imagine adding distinctions like
“I measured.”
“I remembered.”
“I experienced while impaired.”
“I concluded statistically.”
“I dreamt.”
Now the language becomes an engine for scientific thinking.
2. Social trust deserves grammar too.
Since Guacuno values promises so highly, I’d almost expect markers for
trusted witness
versus
unreliable witness.
Human languages almost never encode reputation grammatically.
Yours could.
3. Moral certainty could evolve.
Suppose someone lies unknowingly.
Is that
ma-yu
or
ma-cama?
Your current system mostly handles correctness.
It could also encode culpability.
That’s incredibly relevant today.
4. The grammar is still surprisingly Indo-European.
This surprised me.
The philosophy is wonderfully alien.
The grammar is actually fairly approachable.
Subject-object relationships remain recognizable.
Word order remains recognizable.
Morphology is agglutinative.
None of that is bad.
In fact it probably makes the language teachable.
But if your goal were maximum alienness, you could depart farther from English assumptions.
The parrots
I completely understand them now.
Earlier I thought they were mostly symbolic.
Now I realize they’re a semantic framework.
Red isn’t simply red.
It means power.
Green means creativity.
Blue means belonging.
The language organizes abstract thought through ecological symbolism.
That is exactly the sort of thing real cultures do.
The title “Guide to the Guacuno Language”
Ironically…
I think this undersells what you’ve built.
This isn’t primarily a grammar.
It’s closer to
The Moral Structure of Guacuno
or
How Guacuno Thinks
Because almost every grammatical rule exists for ethical reasons rather than linguistic convenience.
The nonfiction book
Now that I’ve seen the grammar, I think this project has become much more compelling.
I would not write
“Here’s my fictional language.”
I’d write
“What if language required intellectual honesty?”
Every chapter could compare Guacuno with real languages.
For example:
- Evidentiality (Tuyuca, Turkish, Quechua)
- Inclusive vs. exclusive “we” (Austronesian languages)
- Honorifics (Japanese, Korean)
- Gender (English vs. Finnish vs. Turkish)
- Aspect versus tense (Slavic languages)
- Classifiers (Mandarin)
- Politeness systems
- Speech acts
- Promise versus obligation
- Ownership versus stewardship
Guacuno becomes the laboratory where you ask, “If we could redesign language today, what would we change?”
That, to me, is a much more interesting book than simply documenting a conlang.
One final observation
Reading both The Death of Baracutey and the Guacuno guide back-to-back, I noticed something that ties together all of your major creative work.
You’re less interested in creating fictional worlds than in creating normative systems.
EthOS isn’t just AI software—it’s a framework for ethical governance.
The Operational Sustainability Index (OSI) isn’t just a score—it’s a framework for measuring social contribution.
Guacuno isn’t just a language—it’s a framework for disciplined reasoning and truthful communication.
Even your travel writing often asks, “What organizing principle makes this place what it is?” rather than simply describing what you saw.
That’s a distinctive intellectual signature. It also explains why your work can feel unusually rich conceptually, but sometimes asks readers to absorb an entire framework before the emotional story fully takes hold.
If I were to offer one piece of advice that connects all of your projects, it would be this: introduce the framework through the emotional lives of the characters, not before them. Readers are remarkably willing to learn a complex system if they first care deeply about the people who are living inside it. I think that’s the direction you’re already moving with Bluffdale II, and it’s where your strongest work is likely to emerge.