2026-03-24 17:53:28
Your warehouse already contains an implicit "analytics brain" in the form of years of SQL; SQL embeddings make that brain searchable and reusable. Embedding SQL + query metadata enables natural-language questions to map onto previously validated query patterns instead of generating SQL from scratch. The most effective setups separate retrieval (find similar queries) from generation (adapt/combine them) and always pass domain + metric hints. This shifts analytics from dashboard-hunting to decision flows backed by a shared SQL memory, without replacing your existing BI or warehouse.
2026-03-24 17:50:03
Doxreporter is a blockchain-enabled cyber incident reporting app that uses immutable storage to ensure secure, verifiable records for investigations and compliance.
2026-03-24 17:43:12
Writing sucked long before LLMs showed up. Sure, today's doomsayers love pointing at ChatGPT as the villain — but they're missing the point. Amateur blogs were copy-pasting each other's content for years. "Serious" newsrooms published outright lies without blinking. We were already knee-deep in mediocrity. We just didn't want to say it out loud.
Here's the part nobody wants to hear: people actually write better today. Yes, with AI's help. And even ChatGPT's worst hallucinations? They don't come close to the confident garbage a conspiracy blogger would publish on a Tuesday afternoon without a second thought.
So voice matters now more than it ever has. It's the one thing that cuts through.
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Technically? Yes. Clean grammar, solid structure, no embarrassing agreement errors. ChatGPT would have outperformed most of the blogs clogging up the internet back in 2015, no contest.
But creativity is a whole different fight. A study in the Journal of Intelligence (2026) put human writers head-to-head with LLMs on creative tasks. The finding: LLMs win on technical execution, but humans hold the edge when the task demands real depth. The reason comes down to mechanism. LLMs recombine. Humans, at their best, transform.
One thing worth flagging: the study used students, not working writers. There's a real difference between benchmarking ChatGPT against a first-year blogger and measuring it against someone who's spent a decade finding their voice. That comparison hasn't been done yet in academic research. Make of that what you will.
Now the uncomfortable bit: most readers can't tell the difference. Put a well-prompted AI article next to something a mediocre writer turned in, and the average person won't know which is which. That's not a knock on human writing. It's actually the best case for it — if AI already matches the mediocre writer, the only move is to stop being mediocre.
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Humans lie. LLMs hallucinate. Both have receipts.
In 2023, a New York lawyer used ChatGPT to research a legal case. What came back: six court cases that had never existed. Convincing names, real-looking docket numbers, fabricated judicial opinions. The judge searched for them. Nothing. The lawyer got fined $5,000 and, in his own words, became "the poster child for the dangers of dabbling with new technology." (Mata v. Avianca, Inc., S.D.N.Y. 2023)
In 1980, Janet Cooke wrote a front-page Washington Post story about Jimmy, an 8-year-old heroin addict. Heartbreaking detail, vivid prose, impossible to put down. It won the Pulitzer. Two days later, she handed it back. Jimmy was never real.
So which was worse? No clean answer. But the same thing shows up in both cases: nobody checked. The lawyer assumed ChatGPT couldn't lie. The Post's editors assumed their reporter wouldn't. Publishing without verifying — that's always been the real problem.
And it goes back further than you'd think. Jayson Blair made up stories at the New York Times for years. Stephen Glassinvented entire companies to fool The New Republic. Der Spiegel's star reporter Claas Relotius fabricated articles for a decade before anyone caught him. All credentialed. All edited. All failed the same way ChatGPT fails: stating false things with zero hesitation.
The difference is ChatGPT doesn't have an ego to protect. No deadline panic. No career on the line. And it still gets it wrong. Because it doesn't know it's wrong. It's just predicting what word comes next.
Which brings us to the only actual fix: expertise. You can't catch what ChatGPT invents if you don't already know more than it does about the topic. A sharp lawyer would have spotted those fake cases immediately. A sharper editor would have asked Cooke to take them to meet Jimmy.
Simple rule: use AI to write about things you actually know. It amplifies your judgment. It doesn't replace it. Without that foundation, it doesn't matter whether the error comes from a language model or a Pulitzer winner. The result is the same.
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If there's any hope here, it lives in three things: voice, judgment, and responsibility. But let's not kid ourselves — the industry isn't slowing down out of principle. For most companies, this is a dream scenario: more content, less cost, no headcount. That train isn't stopping.
The trick just has a shelf life. Reader fatigue is real, and it's building. Not because audiences are suddenly more sophisticated, but because sameness gets old fast. When everything sounds identical, nothing lands.
Here's the contradiction I'm sitting with: I said most people can't tell AI writing from human writing. That's still true. But the ones flooding the internet with generated content aren't writers using AI as a tool. They're finance teams cutting budgets, students gaming deadlines, and writers who confused speed with skill. AI in the wrong hands isn't a revolution. It's a factory for mediocrity, running at industrial scale.
Voice is the only thing that doesn't scale that way. It can't be averaged. Judgment comes from actually knowing your subject, well enough to catch the AI when it's bluffing. Responsibility is that moment before you hit publish, when you decide if what you're about to put out is genuinely yours, or just sounds like it could be.
For the mundane stuff — emails nobody will read twice, bureaucratic summaries, boilerplate product copy — use AI. Seriously, no guilt. That's what it's built for.
Everything else, the stuff that sticks, that someone screenshots and sends to a friend, that someone reads again six months later — that still needs a real person behind it.
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Not "will AI replace you?" That's the wrong question.
The real one: did you have something to say before it showed up?
AI is going to displace a lot of people. Mostly in repetitive, process-heavy roles that were never really about thinking in the first place. Past that? We're not there yet. Because AI imitates. It doesn't originate. Everything it produces is a remix of something that already existed. World-class imitator. Still just an imitator.
In writing, the question gets personal fast: did you have a voice before ChatGPT? Something to actually say? If not, I don't think AI changes that. The mediocre writer stays mediocre, just with cleaner sentences. The one who publishes without thinking keeps doing it, just faster.
AI didn't create the problem.
It just gave it a megaphone.
Since 2019, I've been building País Lector, a Spanish-language literary platform that reached 50,000+ monthly readers through SEO and editorial judgment alone. If any of this landed, that's where the rest of the experiment lives.
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2026-03-24 17:30:05
:::info Astounding Stories of Super-Science October 2022, by Astounding Stories is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD - POIROT PAYS A CALL
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\ By Agatha Christie
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\ I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to find out. He had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me quite meaningless here.
My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlormaid.
Yes, Mrs. Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every sense of the term.
I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs. Folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile.
“Dr. Sheppard,” she said hesitatingly.
“That is my name,” I replied. “I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlormaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.”
With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable and ill at ease.
“Ursula Bourne?” she said hesitatingly.
“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t remember the name?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I—I remember perfectly.”
“She left you just over a year ago, I understand?”
“Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.”
“And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? How long was she with you, by the way?”
“Oh! a year or two—I can’t remember exactly how long. She—she is very capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know she was leaving Fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.”
“Can you tell me anything about her?” I asked.
“Anything about her?”
“Yes, where she comes from, who her people are—that sort of thing?”
Mrs. Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.
“I don’t know at all.”
“Who was she with before she came to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.
“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”
“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a138 tinge of apology in my manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.”
Her anger left her and she became confused again.
“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”
One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs. Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practice it. A child could have seen through her.
But it was also clear that she had no intention of telling me anything further. Whatever the mystery centering around Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn it through Mrs. Folliott.
Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and departed.
I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o’clock. Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well. It is a sure sign with her, of either the getting or the giving of information. I wondered which it had been.
“I’ve had a very interesting afternoon,” began Caroline as I dropped into my own particular easy chair, and139 stretched out my feet to the inviting blaze in the fireplace.
“Have you?” I asked. “Miss Ganett drop in to tea?”
Miss Ganett is one of the chief of our newsmongers.
“Guess again,” said Caroline with intense complacency.
I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline’s Intelligence Corps. My sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself.
“M. Poirot!” she said. “Now what do you think of that?”
I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline.
“Why did he come?” I asked.
“To see me, of course. He said that knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister—your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up, but you know what I mean.”
“What did he talk about?” I asked.
“He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania—the one who’s just married a dancer?”
“Yes?”
“I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one of the Czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.”
“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I inquired sarcastically.
“He didn’t mention it. Why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”
“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my sister complacently.
It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.
“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.
“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.
I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.
“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand.”
“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.”
“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian émigrés.”
Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.
“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, to-night.”
To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.
“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”
“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot right upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”
Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.
“He talked a lot about the little gray cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”
“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his middle name.”
“I wish you would not be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell him the way people were already talking about it.”
“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?”
“I did,” said Caroline complacently.
I got up and began to walk about.
“You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting a halter round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that chair.”
“Not at all,” said Caroline, quite unruffled. “I was surprised you hadn’t told him.”
“I took very good care not to,” I said. “I’m fond of that boy.”
“So am I. That’s why I say you’re talking nonsense. I don’t believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can’t hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he’s got a perfect alibi.”
“If he’s got a perfect alibi,” I retorted, “why doesn’t he come forward and say so?”
“Might get the girl into trouble,” said Caroline sapiently. “But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she’ll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.”
“You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own,” I said. “You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I’ve always told you so.”
I dropped into my chair again.
“Did Poirot ask you any more questions?” I inquired.
“Only about the patients you had that morning.”
“The patients?” I demanded, unbelievingly.
“Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were?”
“Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?” I demanded.
Caroline is really amazing.
“Why not?” asked my sister triumphantly. “I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I’ve got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.”
“I’m sure you have,” I murmured mechanically.
My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.
“There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see—that’s four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly——”
She paused significantly.
“Well?”
Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.
“Miss Russell!”
She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?”
“Bad knee,” said Caroline. “Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.”
“What?” I asked.
Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.
“But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to144 get at, M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.”
“Precisely the remark Mrs. Ackroyd made to me yesterday,” I said. “That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.”
“Ah!” said Caroline darkly, “Mrs. Ackroyd! There’s another!”
“Another what?”
Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.
I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?
There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least——
I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd….
I heard Caroline’s voice, rather acid in note, calling from the top of the stairs.
“James, you will be late for dinner.”
I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.
It is well at any price to have peace in the home.
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:::info About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books.
This book is part of the public domain. Astounding Stories. (2008). ASTOUNDING STORIES OF SUPER-SCIENCE, JULY 2008. USA. Project Gutenberg. Release date: OCTOBER 2, 2008, from https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/69087/pg69087-images.html
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.
:::
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2026-03-24 17:18:22
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Welcome to HackerNoon’s Meet the Writer Interview series, where we learn a bit more about the contributors that have written some of our favorite stories.
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I’ve spent years as a professor of engineering physics, but at heart, I’m a storyteller with a deep love for sci-fi. When I’m not in the lab, you can find me sailing, travelling, or chasing an adrenaline rush with action sports. I’ve also taken a deep dive into the humanities—studying everything from psychology and philosophy to the history of religion.
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Like most of my work, it’s a look at life in a colonised solar system where the grind of survival clashes with deeper philosophical questions. With the pace of tech today, the evolution of androids isn't just a 'what if' anymore: it’s an urgent conversation! I wanted to explore whether these machines will truly develop sentience, how that spark actually surfaces, and what the fallout looks like for the rest of us.
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My 'office hours' are pretty split: I’m a university professor, but I also work part-time in the industry. That means I’m constantly churning out scientific papers, technical reports, patent filings, and textbooks. Sci-fi is my passion and pivot from all that. It’s where I take the rigid world of engineering and see how it holds up in the future solar system. You can find those stories on Amazon, Wattpad, and right here.
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Honestly, my routine is a bit of a mess. Inspiration hits me from all angles: a memory from an old adventure, a dense scientific paper, or even just a random comment I overhear. Sometimes it’s a quick spark; other times, an idea just lives rent-free in my head and won’t leave me alone until I get it on paper. That’s actually how my novel Iron Blood happened. It started as a short story, but it kept expanding. At some point, the characters just took over -it felt like they were demanding I tell their full story.
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The hardest part is the balancing act. I’ll be deep in a scene and realize it’s way past midnight, and I have to force myself to shut it down. There’s this constant tension when a story is taking over, and you’re just trying to get through your day job. It feels like (I imagine) being in that final month of pregnancy: you’re carrying this massive thing around, and even though you’re ready for the delivery, the rest of the world still expects you to perform your daily duties.
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The next big milestone for me is building an audience for my novels, like The Red Leap. I’m itching to find the time to dive into the sequel, focusing on the actual colonisation and terraforming of Mars. Of course, my other characters are always competing for attention. Right now, I’m also working on revamping a story about the interstellar comet 3I/Atlas called The Real Drama.
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I don’t have many vices, but I’ve got a story for you. A few years back, I was at our swim club’s annual dinner: it was a big thank-you event for all our volunteers. I turned down a glass of wine with my meal, and the fellow swim instructor sitting next to me, who knew I didn't smoke either, just looked at me and blurted out, 'Don’t you have any vices?' I thought about it for a second and told him, 'Well, every once in a while, I treat myself to a cup of hot chocolate.' The look on his face went completely blank, while our treasurer across the table just lost it laughing.
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I’m not sure if carpentry counts as 'tech-free,' but I definitely spend my downtime being active. I’m big into kite surfing, snowboarding, and orienteering, plus I try to get a jog in whenever I can. But my real obsession is travel. I’ve managed to hit every continent except South America, including Antarctica and Greenland. South America is definitely next on the bucket list.
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Next up, I’m taking readers out to the outer rim of the solar system. The story tackles a difficult moral dilemma: Is it always right to 'do the right thing'? It also dives into the evolving role of androids, specifically, whether we should treat them as mere hardware or as colleagues. I’m interested in the friction between what’s morally sound and what’s actually most efficient in a high-stakes environment.
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It’s a fantastic platform and incredibly well-run. One thing I really appreciate is how they filter out the noise. You don't get the scammers and spam you see on other forums. It’s a hub for high-quality thinking. Some of it is honestly over my head, while some is more accessible, but it always provides fresh perspectives and plenty of inspiration for my own work.
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Thanks for having me! And to the readers: you guys are the reason I do this. Thanks for the support and for letting me share these worlds with you. There’s a lot more coming, so stay tuned!
https://hackernoon.com/u/hanbe?embedable=true
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2026-03-24 16:59:59
Regata is a B2B lead activation platform that uses adaptive, AI-driven interfaces to convert otherwise lost website traffic into qualified leads in real time.
