The Man Who Stopped Aging

began as a novel about longevity. I now think it is about something more important: why we want to stay alive.

I have been thinking about a question that sounds simple:

Why do I want to grow old?

I am already old, of course.

I am approaching 79, and I have no particular difficulty writing those words. Seventy-nine is a fact. I cannot negotiate with the calendar.

What interests me more is that I do not experience this period of my life as a long goodbye.

Quite the opposite.

I like being alive.

I like waking up and knowing that another day has begun. I like walking, often alone, for hours. I take photographs of what I see. Trees, water, mountains, clouds, paths, changing light. I come home with dozens, sometimes hundreds, of photographs.

I write.

Probably more than I have ever written before.

I think about the world, about artificial intelligence, about peace and war, about love, about aging, about the generations coming after us.

And I have people I love.

So when I think about becoming 80, 90, perhaps even 100, my first thought is not:

How can I defeat death?

It is much simpler.

I want to know what happens next.

A Man Who Refused to Be Finished

Some years ago, I wrote a novel called The Man Who Stopped Aging.

Its protagonist, William, grows very old.

But he does not become old in quite the way society expects him to.

He remains curious. He remains interested in other people. He thinks about his health and about what science may make possible. He wants to understand why some people live longer than others and what human beings might do to remain healthy into advanced age.

But underneath all these questions lies another one.

What are the additional years for?

That is the question I find more interesting now than when I first began thinking about the novel.

Because longevity alone tells us very little.

Suppose medicine eventually allows millions of us to live to 100.

Suppose 110 becomes possible for many more people.

Suppose science learns to slow some of the biological processes we associate with aging.

Then what?

We will have succeeded in extending life.

But will we have succeeded in making those additional years worth living?

William has to confront this question.

He experiences loss. People he loves disappear. A longer life does not protect him from grief. In some ways, it gives him more opportunities to experience it.

Yet he continues.

He meets people.

He learns.

He thinks.

He loves again.

And this, I increasingly believe, is the real subject of The Man Who Stopped Aging.

It is a novel about remaining open to life.

We Don’t Want More Years. We Want More Life.

There is an important distinction here.

I do not think most of us really want to become old merely so that we can accumulate years.

Ninety.

Ninety-five.

One hundred.

One hundred and five.

Numbers.

What would be the point?

A birthday is valuable because someone is there to celebrate it.

A morning is valuable because there is something to wake up for.

An additional year matters because something can happen inside it.

We do not simply want more years.

We want more life.

That may mean something very different at 79 than it meant at 29.

When we are young, the future almost takes care of itself.

There is always something ahead.

Education.

Work.

Love.

Children, perhaps.

A home.

Ambitions.

Journeys.

Projects.

We are carried forward by the structure of life itself.

Then something happens.

The children grow up.

Working life ends.

We retire.

For the first time in decades, nobody is telling us what Monday morning is for.

That can be frightening.

But it can also be an extraordinary freedom.

You can ask:

What do I actually want to do with my remaining time?

I think every person growing old deserves to ask that question.

Not: What am I supposed to do now that I am old?

But:

What do I still want to do?

The Future Suddenly Has a Face

For me, this question has recently become much more personal.

A grandchild has entered my life.

Another is on the way.

And something strange happens when a very old person looks at a very new person.

Time becomes visible.

I look at this little human being and know that almost everything is ahead of her.

Then I begin counting.

2026. 2027. 2028. 2029.

A child born in 2026 will be 21 in 2047.

I would be 100.

Of course I know what that means. Reaching 100 is hardly something I can assume will happen. Twenty-one years is a long time when you are almost 79.

But that is not really the point.

The point is that I can imagine it.

And suddenly I have a very good reason for wanting to be there.

I would like to see what happens.

I would like to see this child learn to walk and talk.

I would like to see her begin school.

I would like to discover what interests her.

I would like to see what kind of young woman she becomes.

What will she study?

What will she care about?

What will she think about the world we gave her?

Who will she love?

What will frighten her?

What will make her happy?

And what will 2047 look like?

That year used to be merely a number somewhere in the future.

It isn’t anymore.

Someone I love will be living there.

Perhaps This Is Why We Want to Live

There is much sensible advice about longevity.

Move your body.

Eat reasonably well.

Sleep.

Don’t smoke.

Keep your brain active.

Maintain relationships.

Have interests.

Reduce unnecessary stress.

I believe in all of that.

I stopped smoking decades ago, and I am enormously grateful that I did. I walk a great deal. I keep my mind occupied. I write. I have projects.

But none of these things completely answers the question.

They may help us live longer.

They do not tell us why we want to.

For that, I think we have to look at the people around us.

We want to be here because they are here.

We want another Christmas.

Another summer.

Another conversation.

Another ordinary dinner around the same table.

We want to see the child become the teenager, and the teenager become the adult.

We want to know what happens next.

That desire may be one of the strongest forces keeping us connected to life.

I Understand William Better Now

This is why The Man Who Stopped Aging has acquired a different meaning for me.

Sometimes a writer creates a character and understands him.

Sometimes the writer has to grow older before he fully understands the character he created.

I think that has happened to me with William.

I understand his hunger for life better now.

He is not really trying to become immortal.

Neither am I.

Immortality has never interested me very much.

But tomorrow interests me enormously.

So does next year.

And, yes, 2047 interests me.

I have begun imagining another story too: a girl born in 2026 who grows up through the coming decades and becomes 21 in 2047.

What will her world look like?

What will artificial intelligence have become?

What will have happened to the climate?

To Europe?

To democracy?

To work?

To relationships between people?

What will remain recognisably human?

Perhaps I can write my way into that future even if I never live to see it.

That is one of the privileges of fiction.

We can travel farther than our bodies can take us.

I Would Like to Be Here for It

We know how every human life ends.

Aging does not allow us to escape that knowledge.

Perhaps it makes the knowledge clearer.

But I no longer think that awareness of death necessarily diminishes life.

It can make an ordinary day more precious.

A walk through the woods.

A photograph of sunlight between trees.

A page that finally says what I wanted it to say.

A hand held across a table.

A child laughing.

Someone I love entering the room.

These are not the things between the important events.

These are the important events.

So if someone asks me whether I would like to become 100, my answer is yes.

If I can.

If life allows it.

If my body and mind allow it.

But reaching 100 is not the ambition.

Living is.

I want to keep writing.

I want to keep walking.

I want to keep thinking.

I want to remain curious.

I want to love the people close to me.

I want to see the generations after mine move further into a century I will only partly know.

And perhaps, if I am extraordinarily fortunate, I will one day sit beside a 21-year-old grandchild in the year 2047.

I do not need to conquer death.

I do not need eternity.

But there is still so much life happening around me.

And I would like to be here for it.

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The Man Who Stopped Aging
The Man Who Stopped Aging — Kindle edition by Solheim, Øivind H.. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device…www.amazon.com

What About You?

I have shared my own thoughts about growing older, wanting more time, and what might make those additional years worth living. But these questions belong to all of us.

Would you like to live to 90, 100, or even longer? And if you did, what would you want those extra years for?

What gives you a reason to look forward to tomorrow?

Is it family, love, friendship, creativity, curiosity, work, nature — or simply the desire to discover what happens next?

I would very much like to hear your thoughts and experiences. Please share them in the comments. Perhaps one of the most interesting conversations we can have about longevity is not how long we can live, but why we want to keep living.

Again and again, you will find the same themes.

Violence. Murder. Revenge. Crime. Betrayal. War. Psychological darkness. The serial killer. The corrupt politician. The psychopath. The collapse of society.

These stories are often brilliantly told. They are exciting. They keep us awake at night. They ask important questions about fear, justice, power, and survival.

But after living with them for decades, I find myself asking a different question.

Why are we so fascinated by evil?

I do not ask this as a criticism of writers or filmmakers. Some of the greatest works of literature have explored humanity’s darkest possibilities. Shakespeare did. Dostoevsky did. Camus understood that we cannot understand human beings without confronting suffering and violence.

Evil is part of the human condition.

Ignoring it would be dishonest.

Yet something still troubles me.

Modern popular culture often treats evil not simply as a reality to understand but as its main source of energy. The villain becomes more interesting than the ordinary neighbour. Violence becomes more entertaining than kindness. Conflict becomes the engine that drives almost every story.

Sometimes I wonder whether culture has become trapped inside its own success.

Perhaps we continue producing stories about violence because audiences expect them. Audiences expect them because they have grown accustomed to them. And the cycle continues.

The result is not necessarily that people become violent.

Human beings are more complex than that.

But perhaps our imagination becomes narrower.

Perhaps we slowly begin to believe that conflict is more interesting than cooperation.

That hatred is more dramatic than compassion.

That destruction is more powerful than creation.

I am no longer sure that this is true.

Another Force

The older I become, the more I notice something else.

There is another force moving quietly through human life.

Parents who care for children.

Teachers who refuse to give up on difficult students.

Neighbours helping neighbours after storms.

Doctors working through the night.

Volunteers feeding strangers.

Friends sitting silently beside someone who has lost everything.

These people rarely become heroes in blockbuster films.

Yet they hold civilisation together.

Without them, society would collapse within days.

This makes me wonder whether goodness has been dramatically underestimated — not morally, but artistically.

Perhaps goodness has been mistaken for simplicity.

But genuine goodness is not simple.

It requires courage.

Patience.

Self-control.

Forgiveness.

The willingness to remain human when anger would be easier.

These are not weak qualities.

They may be among the strongest forces our species has ever developed.

Goodness as Action

When people hear the word goodness, many imagine sentimentality.

Perfect people.

Predictable endings.

Stories without tension.

But that is not what I mean.

Goodness is not the absence of conflict.

It is the way human beings respond to conflict.

It is the firefighter entering a burning building.

The journalist who refuses to publish a lie.

The stranger who stops to help after an accident.

The scientist who shares knowledge instead of hiding it.

The parent who chooses patience after an exhausting day.

Every one of these moments contains drama.

Every one demands sacrifice.

Every one changes the future.

Perhaps we simply have not learned how to tell these stories often enough.

Culture Creates Possibilities

Culture does more than entertain us.

It enlarges — or limits — our imagination.

Stories help us decide what kinds of people exist.

What kinds of futures are possible.

What deserves admiration.

If generation after generation mainly encounters heroes whose greatness lies in defeating enemies, we should not be surprised if struggle becomes our dominant metaphor for life.

But what if future stories celebrated another kind of strength?

The courage to cooperate.

The courage to forgive.

The courage to understand someone before judging them.

Not because conflict disappears.

But because these choices are often far more difficult than violence.

A New Artistic Challenge

I do not believe artists should stop writing about evil.

We need those stories.

Read more

Not long ago, the first question readers, critics, and publishers asked about a new novel was simple:

Is it any good?

Today, another question increasingly comes first:

Was artificial intelligence involved?

The change may seem small.

It is not.

It represents a profound shift in how we judge literature.

Instead of beginning with the novel itself, we begin with the workshop in which it was made.

I believe this is a mistake

The Work Before the Workshop

Imagine walking into an art gallery.

You stop in front of a painting that moves you. The colours, the composition, the emotions—it stays with you long after you leave the room.

Then someone tells you that the artist used digital software instead of traditional brushes.

Does the painting suddenly become less moving?

Or imagine hearing a piece of music that you find beautiful.

Only afterwards do you discover that the composer used electronic instruments alongside an orchestra.

Does the music lose its beauty?

Of course not.

Our first encounter is always with the work itself.

Only afterwards do we become interested in how it came into being.

For centuries, this has been the natural order of artistic judgment.

Today, artificial intelligence threatens to reverse it.

The New Suspicion

Artificial intelligence has introduced something unfamiliar into literature.

Suspicion.

Readers wonder.

Publishers wonder.

Reviewers wonder.

Was this really written by a person?

Or did a machine do the work?

These are understandable questions.

Artificial intelligence is unlike any previous writing tool. It can generate language that appears coherent, persuasive, and sometimes even beautiful.

It is natural that people ask where the author’s contribution begins and ends.

But suspicion becomes dangerous when it replaces reading.

When we begin judging the method before we have experienced the novel itself, something essential is lost.

Literature deserves better.

We Have Seen This Before

History suggests caution.

When photography appeared, some declared that painting had reached its end.

When the typewriter became common, others feared that writing would become mechanical.

Word processors were once criticised for making revision too easy.

Digital photography was accused of destroying “real” photography.

Electronic instruments were said to threaten authentic music.

None of these predictions came true.

The tools changed.

The arts continued.

What survived was not the tool.

It was the artist.

Artificial intelligence is undoubtedly a more powerful technology than any of these.

But the underlying question remains remarkably similar.

Not what the tool can do.

But what the artist chooses to do with it.

The Wrong First Question

Perhaps we have started asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking,

“Was AI involved?”

we should first ask,

“Did this novel move me?”

Did it create believable characters?

Did it reveal something true about human life?

Did it make me laugh?

Did it disturb me?

Did it remain with me after I closed the book?

These are literary questions.

Only after we have answered them does it become meaningful to ask how the novel was written.

The work deserves to speak before the workshop is inspected.

A Thought Experiment

Imagine two novels.

The first is written entirely without artificial intelligence.

Every word comes directly from the author.

Yet the novel is predictable.

Its characters are flat.

Its language never comes alive.

The second novel is written by an author who has used artificial intelligence as a discussion partner throughout the creative process.

The author develops every character.

Chooses every scene.

Rejects hundreds of suggestions.

Rewrites every chapter.

Shapes every sentence until it expresses exactly what the author intends.

The result is a powerful work of literature.

Which novel deserves to be remembered?

If we answer the first simply because no AI was involved, we are no longer judging literature.

We are judging method.

The novel has disappeared behind the workshop.

The Workshop Is Not the Novel

Every serious writer knows that books rarely emerge from solitude alone.

Editors challenge arguments.

Early readers point out weaknesses.

Researchers verify facts.

Translators open new audiences.

Publishers shape the final manuscript.

None of these collaborators becomes the author.

Why?

Because authorship has never been defined by typing every word in complete isolation.

It has been defined by responsibility.

The author creates the vision.

The author makes the decisions.

The author accepts the consequences.

Artificial intelligence changes many practical aspects of writing.

It does not automatically change where authorship resides.

Transparency Matters

None of this means that the creative process should be hidden.

On the contrary.

Readers deserve honesty.

Publishers deserve honesty.

The literary world depends upon trust.

If artificial intelligence has played a significant role in developing a manuscript, openness strengthens rather than weakens that trust.

Transparency is not the enemy of literature.

Suspicion is.

There is an important difference between asking for honesty and assuming deception.

The first protects literature.

The second undermines it.

Literature Is Not a Purity Test

One concern troubles me.

I fear that we may enter an age in which accusations become easier than criticism.

Instead of discussing the quality of a novel, we speculate about its origin.

Instead of analysing its themes, we search for signs of artificial intelligence.

Instead of asking whether the book reveals something true about human existence, we ask whether it passes a technological purity test.

This is a dangerous path.

Literature has never been about purity.

It has always been about insight.

Compassion.

Imagination.

Truth.

None of these qualities can be measured by analysing the tools used during the writing process.

The Human Responsibility

Artificial intelligence raises important ethical questions.

Writers must answer them.

Read more

A Note About This Manifesto

Every novel begins long before the first chapter is written.

It begins with questions.

Over the past months, I have been developing The Shimmer Above the Horizon, a four-volume novel series that follows one family from 2026 into the middle of the twenty-first century. It is a story about artificial intelligence, climate change, geopolitics, technological transformation, and uncertainty—but only in the sense that these forces shape the lives of ordinary people.

The novels themselves are not about technology.

They are about human beings.

Read more

There are moments in history when people feel that the ground beneath them has begun to move.

For many, the second half of 2026 feels like such a moment.

The reasons are many. Artificial intelligence is advancing at extraordinary speed. Political tensions remain high in many parts of the world. Climate-related events continue to remind us that nature is changing. Information travels faster than ever before, while trust in institutions, media, and even one another is being questioned in many societies.

None of these developments exists in isolation.

Together, they create something new: a growing awareness that the future may no longer resemble the past.

For generations, many people believed that tomorrow would, in most important ways, be similar to yesterday. Progress was expected. Stability was assumed. The future felt predictable enough to make long-term plans with confidence.

Today, that confidence has become more fragile.

This does not necessarily mean that the future will be worse. It does mean that many people experience it as more uncertain.

That uncertainty changes us.

It challenges not only our economies or our technologies, but our inner lives. It asks different questions than previous generations had to answer.

How do we make decisions when there are no simple answers?

How do we distinguish between reliable knowledge and persuasive narratives?

How do we remain hopeful without becoming naïve?

How do we avoid becoming cynical without ignoring real dangers?

These are not political questions alone.

They are deeply human questions.

Perhaps the greatest challenge of our time is not technological at all.

Perhaps it is the challenge of preserving our humanity.

Humanity is more than kindness.

It is the ability to see another person as a human being rather than as a stereotype, an enemy, a statistic, or a tool.

It is the willingness to listen before judging.

It is the courage to accept complexity instead of demanding easy answers.

It is empathy combined with responsibility.

Empathy alone is not enough.

Without judgment, empathy can become naïve.

But judgment without empathy can become cold and inhuman.

The future will require both.

We need clear thinking.

We need moral courage.

We need compassion.

None of these qualities should replace the others.

They must grow together.

What gives me hope is that millions—indeed billions—of people across the world are engaged in the same quiet work.

They raise children.

Care for ageing parents.

Teach students.

Treat patients.

Grow food.

Build companies.

Write books.

Repair machines.

Volunteer in their communities.

Comfort a friend.

Stand up for someone who is vulnerable.

Most of these actions never become headlines.

Yet they are the invisible foundations on which every civilisation rests.

Technology will continue to change.

Political systems will continue to evolve.

New conflicts will emerge, and old ones will eventually end.

But the future will still depend on ordinary people making ordinary choices with extraordinary integrity.

Perhaps that is the lesson we most need to remember.

The central question of our time is not whether artificial intelligence will become more powerful.

Nor is it whether geopolitical competition will intensify.

The deeper question is this:

Can we preserve what is deeply human while the world around us changes faster than ever before?

I believe that this is the defining challenge of our generation.

Not because we possess all the answers.

But because every generation is entrusted with something that must be carried forward.

Our generation’s responsibility may simply be this:

To ensure that humanity itself remains at the centre of human progress.

Everything else depends on it.

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We speak to our families. We answer emails. We write messages. We read news, books, articles, and social media posts. We explain our thoughts, defend our opinions, and try to understand people whose lives may be very different from our own.

Because language is always around us, we rarely stop to think about it.

We treat it as a tool.

Useful, necessary, practical.

But over the years I have become convinced that this description is incomplete.

Language is much more than a tool.

A hammer remains the same regardless of who uses it. Language does not.

Every meaningful conversation changes us in some way. Every good book leaves us slightly different from the person who opened the first page. Even a single sentence can stay with us for decades, quietly shaping the way we think about ourselves and the world.

Language does not merely describe reality.

It helps create it.

Our relationships are built through language. Trust is built through language. Families, communities, democracies, and cultures all depend on our ability to understand one another. When language becomes careless, manipulative, or hostile, those same foundations begin to weaken.

This has always been true.

Today, however, we are entering a new chapter.

For the first time in history, machines can generate convincing language in seconds. Artificial intelligence can write essays, stories, emails, reports, and even poetry. It can imitate styles, summarise books, and answer questions with astonishing speed.

Many people therefore ask:

Can AI write?

I believe there is a more important question.

What is writing for?

If writing is only the production of words, then faster machines will always have an advantage.

But if writing is also reflection, judgement, curiosity, imagination, responsibility, and the search for meaning, then something essential remains deeply human.

That is the question I want to explore in this series.

Not whether technology is good or bad.

Not whether artificial intelligence should exist.

But how we can remain thoughtful, creative, and responsible while using some of the most powerful language tools humanity has ever created.

I have written for most of my life.

I began long before the internet existed. I have written with notebooks, typewriters, computers, and now with AI as one of many tools. The technology has changed dramatically.

The real work has not.

I still begin with questions.

I still rewrite.

I still delete more than I keep.

I still discover that the best ideas rarely arrive fully formed. They emerge through reflection, conversation, and careful revision.

That is why I continue to believe that language is not simply something we use.

It is one of the places where we become who we are.

Over the coming weeks, I would like to explore this idea with you.

Not as a lecturer with final answers.

But as a fellow writer, reader, and learner who believes that some of the most important conversations about artificial intelligence are, in the end, conversations about ourselves.

If language shapes the future, then the way we choose our words today matters more than ever.

From the forthcoming book

Language Is More Than a Tool

Being Human in the Age of Artificial Intelligence

by Øivind H. Solheim

Skriving har følgt mennesket gjennom tusenvis av år.

Frå dei første enkle teikna, rissa inn i stein, leire eller tre, til dei store litterære tradisjonane, dei heilage tekstane, dei filosofiske verka, romanane, breva, avisene, dagbøkene og dei digitale tekstane vi skriv i dag.

Gjennom skrivinga har mennesket kunna halda fast på tankar som elles ville forsvinna. Vi har kunna overføra erfaringar frå ein generasjon til den neste. Vi har kunna byggja kunnskap, diskutera makt, formulera lov, skapa kunst, fortelja historier og setja ord på det vi elles berre kunne kjenna som uklare rørsler inne i oss.

Skrivinga har derfor aldri berre vore ein teknikk.

Ho har vore ein måte å vera menneske på.

Då Gutenberg gjorde det mogleg å trykkja bøker i stort omfang, endra det ikkje berre bokproduksjonen. Det endra samfunnet. Boka blei ein fysisk gjenstand som kunne bera kunnskap frå eitt menneske til mange, frå éin stad til ein annan, frå éi tid til ei anna. Trykte bøker gjorde det mogleg å utvikla lesekultur, skrivekultur og ein meir avansert offentleg samtale.

Det er vanskeleg å overvurdera kva dette har hatt å seia for menneska.

Men no står vi midt i eit nytt historisk skifte.

Dei nye teknologiane gir oss verktøy som på nytt endrar vilkåra for skrivinga. Kunstig intelligens, digitale arkiv, søkjemotorar, automatisert omsetjing, tekstgenerering og intelligente skrivepartnarar gjer det mogleg å arbeida med tekst på måtar som var utenkjelege for berre få år sidan.

Det som før kravde dagar, veker eller månader med leiting, sortering og notatarbeid, kan no i mange tilfelle gjerast mykje raskare. Ein skribent kan undersøkja eit emne med større breidd. Ein forfattar kan henta fram bakgrunnsstoff, samanlikna perspektiv, prøva ut formuleringar, byggja struktur, omsetja, omskriva og utforska nye tankebanar.

Dette er ikkje små hjelpemiddel.

Det er ei omvelting.

Men nettopp derfor må vi snakka alvorleg om kva denne omveltinga krev av oss.

For når teknologien gir oss større kraft, gir han oss også større ansvar.

Det er ikkje nok å produsera meir tekst. Det er ikkje nok å skriva raskare. Det er ikkje nok å la maskina finna formuleringar, laga samandrag eller setja saman informasjon. Det avgjerande spørsmålet er framleis dette:

Kven er det som tenkjer?

Kven er det som vurderer?

Kven er det som tar ansvar for det som blir skrive?

Den menneskelege skribenten kan ikkje gøyma seg bak teknologien. Ho eller han må tvert imot bli endå meir vaken. Meir kritisk. Meir medviten. Meir ansvarleg.

For teknologien kan hjelpa oss, men han kan ikkje overta det moralske ansvaret vårt. Han kan gi oss forslag, men han kan ikkje leva livet vårt. Han kan formulera setningar, men han kan ikkje stå inne for dei slik eit menneske må stå inne for orda sine.

Derfor handlar denne Substacken ikkje berre om kunstig intelligens som praktisk verktøy. Han handlar om skriving i ei ny tid. Om korleis menneske kan bruka dei nye teknologiane til å skriva betre, tenkja klarare, læra meir, stilla betre spørsmål og delta meir aktivt i samtalen om verda vi lever i.

Det finst ein stor fare i vår tid: at menneske blir passive brukarar av teknologi dei ikkje forstår. At vi lar systema velja for oss. At vi sluttar å spørja. At vi tar imot ferdige svar utan å undersøkja kva dei byggjer på. At vi blir imponerte av farten og gløymer dømmekrafta.

Mot dette må vi setja noko anna.

Vi må styrka den menneskelege skribenten.

Ho som bruker teknologien, men ikkje lar seg bruka av han.

Han som stiller spørsmål.

Ho som undersøker.

Dei som veit at fakta må kontrollerast, at kjelder må vurderast, at språk formar tankar, og at makt alltid prøver å styra forteljingane om verda.

For skriving er ikkje nøytral. Skriving kan opplysa, men ho kan også tilsløra. Skriving kan frigjera, men ho kan også manipulerast. Skriving kan gi menneske mot, men ho kan også brukast til å gjera menneske små.

Derfor treng vi skribentar som ikkje berre er flinke med ord, men som har eit vakent blikk for ansvar.

Vi treng menneske som kan bruka dei nye verktøya utan å mista seg sjølve.

Vi treng skribentar som forstår at det å skriva i dag også er å velja kva slags framtid vi vil vera med på å skapa.

Denne Substacken skal finnast i to utgåver: ei norskspråkleg - Ord, verktøy og ansvar - og ei engelskspråkleg - Words, Tools and Responsibility. Dei to utgåvene vil i stor grad ha same innhald. Når ein abonnerer, får ein tilgang til begge. Det er viktig, fordi desse spørsmåla ikkje berre gjeld eitt språk eller eitt land. Dei gjeld oss alle.

Korleis skal vi skriva når teknologien kan skriva saman med oss?

Korleis skal vi læra når informasjonen er overalt?

Korleis skal vi skilja kunnskap frå støy?

Korleis skal vi bruka kunstig intelligens utan å gi frå oss vår eiga dømmekraft?

Og kanskje viktigast av alt:

Korleis skal vi halda fast på det menneskelege i ei tid då maskinene blir stadig flinkare til å etterlikna menneskeleg språk?

Det er dette eg vil utforska her.

I essay, refleksjonar, leksjonar og praktiske eksempel vil eg skriva om språk, teknologi, læring, ansvar, forfattarskap, kunnskap og framtid. Eg vil skriva for menneske som vil forstå meir. For skribentar som vil utvikla seg. For lesarar som ikkje vil bli passive tilskodarar til den teknologiske revolusjonen, men aktive deltakarar i han.

Eg trur ikkje framtida er noko som berre kjem mot oss.

Framtida blir også forma av det vi gjer.

Av det vi seier.

Av det vi skriv.

Derfor treng vi den menneskelege skribenten meir enn nokon gong.

Ikkje som ein nostalgisk figur frå ei tid før teknologien.

Men som eit vakent, skapande, kritisk og ansvarleg menneske midt i den nye teknologien sin tidsalder.

Del Don’t Outsource Your Mind — Writing Workshop

Writing has accompanied humanity for thousands of years.

From the first simple marks carved into stone, clay, or wood to the great literary traditions, sacred texts, philosophical works, novels, letters, newspapers, diaries, and the digital texts we create today.

Through writing, human beings have been able to preserve thoughts that would otherwise disappear. We have passed knowledge and experience from one generation to the next. We have built civilizations, challenged power, shaped laws, created art, told stories, and found words for emotions that would otherwise remain vague movements within ourselves.

Writing has never been merely a technique.

It has been a way of being human.

When Gutenberg made it possible to print books on a large scale, he did far more than transform book production. He changed society. The book became a physical vessel capable of carrying knowledge from one person to many, from one place to another, and from one age to the next. Printed books made it possible to develop a culture of reading, a culture of writing, and a richer public conversation.

It is difficult to overstate the importance of that transformation.

Today, however, we stand in the midst of another historic turning point.

New technologies are once again changing the conditions under which we write. Artificial intelligence, digital archives, search engines, automated translation, text generation, and intelligent writing assistants allow us to work with language in ways that would have been unimaginable only a few years ago.

Tasks that once required days, weeks, or even months of searching, organizing, and note-taking can now often be completed in a fraction of the time. Writers can explore subjects more broadly. Authors can retrieve background material, compare perspectives, experiment with formulations, build structure, translate, rewrite, and explore entirely new lines of thought.

These are not minor improvements.

They represent a profound transformation.

And precisely because of that, we must seriously consider what this transformation demands of us.

For when technology gives us greater power, it also gives us greater responsibility.

It is not enough to produce more text. It is not enough to write faster. It is not enough to let machines generate formulations, create summaries, or assemble information.

The essential questions remain:

Who is doing the thinking?

Who is exercising judgment?

Who takes responsibility for what is written?

The human writer cannot hide behind technology. On the contrary, we must become even more attentive, more critical, more reflective, and more responsible.

Technology can assist us, but it cannot assume our moral responsibility. It can offer suggestions, but it cannot live our lives. It can generate sentences, but it cannot stand behind them in the way a human being must stand behind their own words.

This Substack is therefore not simply about artificial intelligence as a practical tool.

It is about writing in a new age.

It explores how human beings can use new technologies to write better, think more clearly, learn more deeply, ask better questions, and participate more actively in the ongoing conversation about the world we inhabit.

There is a significant danger in our time: that people become passive users of technologies they do not truly understand. That we allow systems to make choices on our behalf. That we stop asking questions. That we accept ready-made answers without examining the foundations on which they rest. That we become dazzled by speed while neglecting judgment.

We must offer something different.

We must strengthen the role of the human writer.

The writer who uses technology—but refuses to be used by it.

The writer who asks questions.

The writer who investigates.

The writer who understands that facts must be verified, sources must be evaluated, language shapes thought, and power has always sought to influence the stories we tell about the world.

Writing is never neutral.

Writing can enlighten, but it can also obscure.

Writing can liberate, but it can also manipulate.

Writing can give people courage, but it can also diminish them.

That is why we need writers who are not only skilled with words but deeply aware of their responsibility.

We need people who can embrace powerful new tools without losing themselves.

We need writers who understand that writing today is also a choice about the kind of future we wish to help create.

This Substack will be published in two editions: the Norwegian edition, Ord, verktøy og ansvar, and the English edition, Words, Tools and Responsibility. The two editions will share much of the same content. A subscription provides access to both.

That matters because these questions do not belong to one language or one country.

They concern all of us.

How should we write when technology can write alongside us?

How should we learn when information is everywhere?

How do we distinguish knowledge from noise?

How can we use artificial intelligence without surrendering our own judgment?

And perhaps most importantly:

How do we preserve what is deeply human in an age when machines are becoming increasingly capable of imitating human language?

These are the questions I want to explore here.

Through essays, reflections, lessons, and practical examples, I will write about language, technology, learning, responsibility, authorship, knowledge, and the future.

I write for people who want to understand more.

For writers who want to grow.

For readers who refuse to become passive spectators of the technological revolution and instead choose to become thoughtful participants in it.

I do not believe the future is something that simply happens to us.

The future is also shaped by what we do.

By what we say.

By what we write.

That is why we need the human writer now more than ever.

Not as a nostalgic figure from a world before technology, but as an alert, creative, critical, and responsible human being living—and writing—in the age of intelligent machines.

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A belief system is the interconnected set of assumptions, values, principles, and expectations through which people interpret reality. It is the mental framework that helps us answer questions such as:

• What is true?

• What is good or bad?

• What gives life meaning?

• Who can be trusted?

• How should I treat other people?

• What kind of future is possible?

Most belief systems are not written down. They develop gradually through family, education, culture, religion, science, personal experience, and the communities we belong to.

Why belief systems matter

Belief systems influence almost every aspect of human life because they shape how we perceive the world before we even begin to reason about it.

They affect:

• what we notice and ignore

• how we interpret events

• the decisions we make

• our emotional reactions

• our political opinions

• our relationships

• our willingness to change our minds

Two people can observe exactly the same event yet reach completely different conclusions because they interpret it through different belief systems.

For example, if a business fails:

• One person may believe failure is evidence of personal inadequacy.

• Another may see it as a learning opportunity.

• A third may view it as the result of economic structures beyond individual control.

The event is the same. The interpretation differs.

The components of a belief system

Most belief systems include several layers.

Beliefs about reality

• What exists?

• Is the universe purely physical?

• Does purpose exist objectively or do humans create it?

Values

• What is worth pursuing?

• Freedom?

• Equality?

• Security?

• Love?

• Knowledge?

Ethics

• What makes actions right or wrong?

• Should morality depend on consequences, duties, virtues, or something else?

Identity

• Who am I?

• What groups do I belong to?

• What responsibilities come with that identity?

Expectations

• Is humanity improving?

• Can people change?

• Is the future hopeful or dangerous?

Together these elements form a coherent — though not always internally consistent — picture of the world.

How belief systems develop

Nobody chooses their first belief system.

Children absorb beliefs from:

• parents

• teachers

• friends

• media

• religion

• national culture

• historical events

Later in life people may revise these beliefs through:

• education

• travel

• science

• personal crises

• love

• loss

• reading

• conversations

• reflection

Some beliefs become stronger.

Others are abandoned.

Many remain unnoticed because they feel like “common sense.”

Belief systems and society

Societies also have belief systems.

For example:

A democracy depends on shared beliefs that:

• every citizen has equal worth

• disagreements should be resolved peacefully

• laws matter more than individual rulers

• evidence matters in public discussion

Markets depend on beliefs about:

• trust

• contracts

• ownership

• cooperation

Science depends on beliefs that:

• reality exists independently of opinion

• evidence should outweigh authority

• ideas must remain open to testing

Without these shared assumptions, institutions cannot function effectively.

When belief systems become dangerous

Belief systems are powerful because they simplify reality.

But they can also become rigid.

Problems arise when people begin to treat their beliefs as unquestionable facts rather than revisable interpretations.

History contains many examples where rigid belief systems contributed to oppression or violence because questioning them was discouraged or punished.

Healthy belief systems tend to include:

• curiosity

• intellectual humility

• openness to evidence

• willingness to revise conclusions

Belief systems are not only religious

People often associate belief systems only with religion.

In reality, everyone has one.

Examples include:

• scientific naturalism

• humanism

• liberalism

• conservatism

• socialism

• capitalism

• nationalism

• environmentalism

• various religious traditions

• personal philosophies of life

Even someone who says, “I don’t believe in anything,” still holds beliefs about knowledge, truth, morality, or human nature.

Can belief systems change?

Yes — but usually slowly.

Psychological research suggests people are more likely to change deeply held beliefs when they:

• encounter experiences that challenge their expectations,

• engage in respectful dialogue,

• have time to reflect,

• feel psychologically safe enough to reconsider their views.

Simply presenting facts is often not enough because beliefs are connected to identity, emotions, and social belonging.

A practical way to think about belief systems

One useful metaphor is that a belief system is like the operating system of the mind.

The applications—our opinions, decisions, habits, and reactions—run on top of it.

Most people spend considerable time updating their knowledge, but much less time examining the underlying assumptions that organize that knowledge.

Understanding belief systems — our own as well as those of others — can therefore improve communication, reduce unnecessary conflict, and help us make more thoughtful decisions. It does not require abandoning deeply held convictions, but it does require recognizing that the framework through which we see the world influences what we perceive, how we reason, and how we live.

If you like, please share.

Skriving som utforsking, erkjenning og søking etter meining

Innleiing

Før vi snakkar om stil, struktur, publisering, lesarar eller kunstig intelligens, må vi byrja med det mest grunnleggjande spørsmålet:

Kvifor skriv vi?

Alle som skriv, har sitt eige svar.

Nokre skriv fordi dei ber på historier dei ikkje kan la vera ufortalde.
Nokre skriv for å forstå seg sjølve.
Nokre skriv for å utforska idear.
Nokre skriv for å ta vare på minne.
Nokre skriv fordi språket alltid har vore måten dei prøver å forstå livet på.

Skriving er mykje meir enn å produsera ord.

Skriving er ein samtale med oss sjølve, med andre menneske og med framtida.

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Writing as Exploration, Recognition, and the Search for Meaning

Introduction

Before we talk about style, structure, publishing, audience, or artificial intelligence, we need to begin with the most fundamental question:

Why do we write?

Every writer has a different answer.

Some write because they have stories they cannot leave untold.
Some write to understand themselves.
Some write to explore ideas.
Some write to preserve memories.
Some write because language has always been the way they make sense of being alive.

Writing is much more than producing words.

Writing is a conversation with ourselves, with other people, and with the future.

Read more

For quite some time now, perhaps close to three quarters of a year, I have been experimenting with using artificial intelligence as an assistant in my writing. I have explored what is called AI-assisted writing, first out of curiosity, later in a more systematic way. I have gone so far as to create several novels in which I used AI to help me make the texts linguistically complete and able to appear as what I initially perceived to be novels in the traditional sense.

But gradually I began asking myself some more serious questions about what I was actually doing.

What I discovered through this work is that AI does not merely function as an ordinary tool. AI is capable of generating large amounts of literary text in a very short time. It can create settings, characters, moods, dialogues, and plots that appear believable and literary. And it does this without directly copying existing novels. Instead, the system uses patterns from the enormous textual foundation on which it has been trained — a foundation that in practice includes large parts of world literature and virtually all digitally accessible written material.

With this enormous information base, AI can write a novel about almost any subject, in any setting, with almost any kind of character. And it is precisely this that now strikes me as both fascinating and frightening.

Because if machines can produce texts that resemble novels in this way, what then happens to human-created literature? What happens to the novelist who spends years of his or her life writing word by word, page by page, driven by experience, doubt, linguistic struggle, insight, and lived life?

These are the questions I am trying to approach in the text that follows below.

So the great question is this: Will the novel disappear?

Read more

I posted this response to the author:

What you describe has now become an acute and huge challenge for the majority of readers and writers and a problem because the tool is so easy to use – and misuse – for anyone.

I will stop here at the core of my how I think: Everyone can use AI, and the way AI is used becomes quite decisive when it comes to the final product, i.e., the text quality.

I have written and published poetry, articles, essays, short stories and novels over a period of almost fifty years, and I have, in my lifetime (apart from the period 2006-2008, when I wrote and published the 110k-word novel Fabrikken) never written and published as much as in the period from 2018 to 2024, when I had just retired, with many hundreds of stories published on Medium and other platforms.

I can see your substantial arguments against using AI as a tool, and I look forward to how we – from slightly different standing points – can have a conversation around this huge question, that in my view is not if we should use AI as a tool, but how we can use AI without it weakening our ability to human reflection and critical thinking.

Thank you again, Thomas, for yet another thought-provoking piece of writing from your hand! I clearly see the solid foundation for your critique against AI-assisted writing, and I support much of what you are saying. Human intelligence and the ability to think for yourself without outsourcing the intellectual work to AI or any other external resource (AI, or a copywriter?) is not a good idea.

PS
I wrote the above first in Norwegian, then I translated it into English with human intelligence, i.e., without using Google Translate, ChatGPT, Copilot, Claude, Gemini or other AI tools.
Keep on the good work, Thomas!

* * * * * * * * * * * * End story response on Medium * * * * * ** * * * * *

Tools Change, Humanity Remains, the Voice is Ours

For a long time, I have missed truly critical discussions about the direction writing seems to be taking in the age of AI. Much of what I encounter is either enthusiastic celebration or uncritical adoption of these tools, often without enough resistance, scepticism, or serious counterarguments.

What struck me about this article was that it confronted something I myself have increasingly felt: that certain forms of AI-assisted writing can produce texts that appear polished on the surface while lacking the deeper human dimension that makes literature matter.

The danger is not only bad writing.
The danger is writing that sounds convincing while feeling emotionally empty.

Read more

Who owns the future?

We often say that the future lies ahead of us. But that is not entirely true. The future is already here. It is the time we are living in now.

And we are not particularly satisfied.

I believe the amount of dissatisfaction, anger, irritation, anxiety, unrest, and diffuse feelings of powerlessness has increased enormously in recent years. Not just a little. Not as some minor shift in the public mood. I believe we have witnessed a gigantic change in the way human beings relate to the world, to one another, and to themselves.

Much of this is connected to the rise of social media. With the smartphone, we were given a simple tool that we could use to display ourselves, mirror ourselves in others, compare ourselves with others, and, not least, criticize, attack, and judge other people.

It is not accidental that we have ended up here. Information technology opened the space. Social media filled it. Suddenly, anyone could go online and write almost anything. Most of the time it is only seen by a few people. But sometimes the dream is there: perhaps this will be seen by many. Perhaps I will be seen.

This is an entirely new situation in world history. And now we have artificial intelligence on top of everything else. On top of information technology. On top of social media. On top of a material development that has improved life for millions of people, yet still has not made people more content.

Quite the opposite.

Many people seem more dissatisfied. More envious. More angry with other human beings. More uncertain about their own place in the world.

This is an enormous challenge.

Because we live on a planet that is so beautiful, and that gives us such great opportunities to live good lives. It should go without saying that we ought to take care of those opportunities. For a long time, perhaps we believed we were doing exactly that. Then we discovered that we were destroying our own foundation for life through the climate crisis.

For years, people argued about whether it was real. Now it seems that most people, deep down, have accepted that the climate crisis is real. But that does not mean we are taking it seriously in the way we should. Because now other things have emerged that cloud our vision when we try to see clearly.

The wars. The conflicts. Millions of human beings whose lives are being destroyed.

And then the autocrats.

These hard, power-hungry, often narcissistic men who manage to gather almost unlimited power in their own hands, and who steer entire nations in directions that are not in the best interests of the majority of their people.

All of this forms pieces of a puzzle we witness every day. We see how much could have worked. How much could have gone well. And how much instead has gone terribly wrong.

We are living in a world where insecurity has moved closer to us. Uncertainty is no longer just a distant thought somewhere in the background. It has entered everyday life.

Earlier in life, it was almost a luxury simply to live an ordinary life. A life where the great existential truth was that we are mortal beings. We will all die one day. But apart from that, there were societies that functioned, international rules, agreements between nations, and a kind of belief that the world could remain more or less stable.

Now, in the middle of the 2020s, something fundamental has changed.

A massive transformation has taken place in how the world looks, and in how we experience living in it. It is not good. It is not acceptable that things have become like this.

A better story.

Because it is not difficult to imagine another story. A better story. An almost utopian story about life on Earth.

Every human being could have enough food every day. Every human being could have a place where they are safe. The resources exist. The economy exists. The knowledge exists.

And yet something fundamentally wrong has happened.

The ultra-rich billionaires and multi-billionaires are gathering more and more power in their own hands. They gain greater influence over the economy, technology, information, politics, and even over the future itself.

When we combine this with the development of artificial intelligence, and the possibility that artificial general intelligence may emerge without democratic control, it is not surprising that many people feel a deep sense of unease.

We recognize it when we meet other people. In the irritation. In the sorrow. In the resignation. In the pessimism. In the quiet feeling that something large and important has fallen out of balance.

This is a catastrophic development.

And that is precisely why we must speak clearly about it.

We must not grow accustomed to this. We must not pretend that this is normal. We must not accept that power, technology, money, and authoritarian forces should define what it means to be human in the future.

Because the future is already here.

And now is the time to defend it.

- Øivind

So - what do you think?

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Abonner nå

From inertie to movement, from silence to language

Have you ever heard silence?
When you listen, yet hear nothing?

There is a place, a space, a room where silence reigns. Not a void, but a space inhabited by unspoken words — by what might be said, or at least touched by the imagination for a few fleeting seconds.

Module 1: Why We Write

Before we begin to write seriously, we must ask ourselves a number of essential questions:

Why do I want to write?
What do I want to express?
What do I hope to understand?
What kind of human being do I become through writing?

These questions are not peripheral to writing. They are the foundation of it.

Many people begin writing too quickly. They focus on productivity, technique, visibility, publication, or success before they have reflected deeply on the inner reason for writing itself. But lasting and meaningful writing usually begins somewhere deeper: in an unresolved question, an unease, a curiosity, a longing, or a need to understand.

Writing often starts with a question long before it becomes an answer.

Writing as a Question We Carry

At its core, writing is often an act of inquiry.

We write because something in us is unsettled. Something has not yet found its form, its language, or its explanation. The writing process becomes a movement towards recognition — not necessarily towards certainty, but towards greater awareness.

This means that genuine writing is rarely a straight road from idea to conclusion. It is far more often a process of exploration.

When we begin writing, we do not fully know where we will end up.

That uncertainty is not a weakness. It is part of the creative and existential logic of writing itself.

The writer enters a landscape without possessing a complete map.

Some parts of that landscape are illuminated. Certain ideas feel clear, inviting, and accessible. Other parts remain hidden in shadow, behind forests, mountains, fear, confusion, memory, or silence.

Writing becomes the act of walking into that landscape.

The Landscape of Possibility

One way to think about writing is to imagine an immense terrain stretching out before us.

Some paths are obvious.
Some are dangerous.
Some lead nowhere.
Some lead unexpectedly towards insight.

As writers, we gradually discover that the landscape is larger than we first imagined.

We may begin with what seems like a precise goal: to explain an event, describe a relationship, tell a story, defend an idea, or answer a question. But often the writing itself changes the question.

The process reveals possibilities we could not previously see.

That is why serious writing requires patience. We are not merely producing text. We are entering into a relationship with uncertainty, complexity, memory, imagination, and thought.

In this sense, writing is not simply communication. It is discovery.

Writing and the Human Need for Meaning

At a deeper level, writing is connected to one of the oldest human impulses: the search for meaning.

Human beings ask questions almost instinctively:

Why are we here?
What is the purpose of suffering?
What makes life meaningful?
Why do we continue?
What does love mean?
What is truth?
What remains after loss?
What is worth defending?

Writers return to these questions again and again, even when they know no final answer exists.

This is one reason why literature survives across generations. Great writing does not eliminate mystery. It engages with it honestly.

Camus and the Absurd

The French-Algerian writer and philosopher Albert Camus explored many of these questions in The Myth of Sisyphus.

Camus asked a radical question:
If life contains suffering, uncertainty, and no guaranteed meaning, why do human beings continue?

Why do we keep searching?
Why do we keep creating?
Why do we continue asking questions?

His concept of “the absurd” emerged from the tension between the human need for meaning and the silence of the universe.

Yet Camus did not conclude that life was meaningless in a simplistic or hopeless sense. Instead, he suggested that dignity emerges precisely through the act of continuing — through consciousness, resistance, curiosity, and engagement.

Writers often work within this same tension.

We may never arrive at final answers, yet we continue writing because the act itself becomes meaningful. The search itself matters.

Writing Beyond Utility

In the age of algorithms and artificial intelligence, writing is increasingly treated as a form of production.

Generate content.
Optimise engagement.
Increase visibility.
Produce faster.

But human writing has always been more than utility.

Real writing slows us down enough to notice.
To remember.
To connect experiences.
To think beyond slogans and reactions.

The deepest writing often emerges when the writer is willing to remain inside uncertainty long enough for something authentic to appear.

This is why writing still matters profoundly in technological societies.

Not because machines cannot produce sentences — they can.

But because human writing contains lived experience, memory, contradiction, mortality, longing, and consciousness.

A machine can generate language.
A human being writes from existence.

Writing as an Inner Project

Every serious writer eventually discovers that writing becomes part of a larger life project.

Not necessarily a career project.
Not merely a publication project.
But a human project.

The writer slowly attempts to understand:

• what has shaped them,

• what they believe,

• what they fear,

• what they love,

• what kind of world they are living in,

• and what kind of world they wish to help create.

Some writers spend decades circling around the same fundamental questions from different angles.

This is not failure.
It is often the very essence of authorship.

Reflection Questions for Writers

1. What questions repeatedly return in your own thinking and writing?

2. What experiences or memories continue to demand language?

3. Are you writing mainly to express, persuade, understand, remember, or discover?

4. What forms of uncertainty are you willing to remain inside?

5. What would you still want to write even if no algorithm rewarded it?

Read more

It is not branding.
It is not manipulation.

Writing is a search for truth.

Not necessarily “the truth” in some absolute sense, but the difficult, often uncomfortable truth about ourselves, about other people, and about life as it is actually lived.

That is why writing matters.
And that is why writing can change a human being.

In a world increasingly shaped by algorithms, instant reactions, and artificial intelligence, there is a growing temptation to outsource not only our labour, but our thinking. Our reflection. Our inner voice.

But the real writer must resist that temptation.

A writer must dare to ask:

• What do I really think?

• What do I actually feel?

• What have I seen?

• What have I understood?

• What am I afraid to admit — even to myself?

Honest writing requires courage.
Because truth is rarely convenient.

Many people live behind masks shaped by shame, expectation, or the need to fit in. But writing, when it is real, becomes an act of liberation. A way of stripping away what is false in order to discover what remains.

This is one of the core ideas behind the workshop Don’t Outsource Your Mind.

AI can help you organise, explore, and develop ideas. It can be a useful companion. But it must never replace the inner work that only you can do.

The essential task remains human:
to observe,
to reflect,
to remember,
to feel,
and to tell the truth as honestly as you can.

That is where authentic writing begins.

Leave a comment.

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I’ve been reflecting a lot on aging lately — not as something we lose, but as something we begin to understand in a new way.

I’m in my late seventies, and what has surprised me most is this:
Life does not necessarily become smaller with age.
In many ways, it becomes clearer, deeper, and more meaningful.

We notice more.
We value time differently.
Even ordinary days can feel important in a quiet, steady way.

These reflections led me to write a novel, The Man Who Stopped Aging.

Despite the title, it’s not about stopping aging in a literal sense.
It’s about what happens inside us when we realise that time cannot be stopped — and yet life can still expand.

It’s a story about love, memory, and the search for understanding later in life.
About looking back — not with regret, but with a wish to see more clearly.

If this resonates with you, you can find the book on Amazon by searching the following:
“The Man Who Stopped Aging — Øivind H. Solheim”

And if you decide to read it, I would truly appreciate your thoughts.
A short review or even a simple star rating helps more than you might think.

But even more than that, I’d love to hear from you here:

What has aging taught you that you didn’t understand earlier in life?

Warm regards,
Øivind

Welcome to

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AGING AND LONGEVITY

In the novel, The Man Who Stopped Aging, William does not truly “stop” aging.

What he does is more subtle, and far more human.

He begins to notice.

He notices the body — how it moves more slowly, how energy comes and goes differently, how recovery takes longer. What modern biology calls mitochondrial dysfunction, William experiences as something quieter:

- A morning where the body does not respond as it once did.
- An afternoon where energy fades earlier than expected.
- A sense that something inside the cells has changed rhythm.

Science gives us the mechanism.
William gives us the feeling.

The Hidden Engine of Aging

Modern research suggests:

• Our cells lose energy efficiency over time

• Damaged mitochondria produce more harmful byproducts

• Cells enter a state of senescence — alive, but no longer fully functioning

• These cells begin to affect the surrounding tissue

In simple terms:

The body does not collapse all at once
It slows, cell by cell

This is the biological layer beneath William’s reflections.

How Science Is Trying to Slow Aging

What makes the novel, The Man Who Stopped Aging, so relevant today is this:

Science is no longer only describing aging.
It is trying to intervene.

Here are some of the most important directions:

1. Improving mitochondrial function

• Exercise (especially endurance and strength training)

• Caloric moderation or intermittent fasting

• Compounds that support energy metabolism

These approaches aim to keep the cell’s “engine” running efficiently for longer

2. Removing senescent cells

Often called senolytics, this research explores how to:

• clear out “old” cells that no longer function

• reduce inflammation in the body

The idea is simple, but powerful:

If aging cells harm the system, remove them

3. Reducing oxidative stress

• Antioxidant systems inside the body

• Lifestyle factors: sleep, nutrition, reduced chronic stress

This is about protecting mitochondria from long-term damage.

4. Activating longevity pathways

Research on molecules that influence how cells age:

• NAD⁺ metabolism

• Sirtuins

• AMPK pathways

These are not magic solutions — but they are attempts to slow the tempo of decline

William’s Real Discovery

But here is where your novel goes deeper than science.

William is not only trying to extend life biologically.

He is trying to understand:

What does it mean to remain alive?

Because even if we slow mitochondrial decline, even if we delay cellular aging — 

that is not enough.

William’s true shift is this:

He stops thinking of himself as someone moving toward an end,
and begins to see himself as someone still in motion.

Still observing.
Still feeling.
Still capable of closeness.

Where Science Meets Story

Science asks:

How can we keep the body functioning longer?

The novel, The Man Who Stopped Aging, asks:

How can we remain present, open, and human while time passes?

And perhaps the deepest insight lies between the two:

We may never fully stop aging.
But we may learn to slow it,
to live better within it,
and to experience time differently.

Lines William Might Have Written

If I were to translate this into William’s voice, it would be something like:

It is not that the body stops aging.

It is that I no longer experience myself as something that is ending.

I am still on the way.

And as long as I am on the way, something in me remains untouched by time.

The Man Who Stopped Aging (The Prediction Cycle)

The Man Who Stopped Aging (The Prediction Cycle) - Kindle edition by Solheim, Øivind H.. Download it once and read it…www.amazon.com

Available in 4 formats: Kindle, audiobook, paperback, hardcover.

Why this story matters now

We are living in a time of constant noise.

Information, opinions, speed.

In such a world, it becomes harder to stay with what is slow, human, and real.

This novel moves in the opposite direction.

It invites you to pause.
To feel time differently.
To recognise something that may already be present in your own life.

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At the beginning, it’s important to turn your attention away from tools—and back to yourself.

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