New research has confirmed what many in the literary world already know: that most Australian authors make shockingly little from their craft. In fact, the average annual income from writing is just $18,200, a figure that has only inched upward in recent years and remains perilously low. Even more striking, two-thirds of those authors are women – meaning this is not only a creative industry crisis but also a gender equity issue. For many writers, the economics are so strained that carving out time to write becomes a luxury rather than a vocation.
In this environment, every cent counts – authors don’t have merchandise lines or lucrative touring contracts like musicians do, and they don’t have syndication fees like television producers. The one asset an author has — the very bedrock of their livelihood — is copyright. For them, copyright is not a bonus or a side hustle. It is their intellectual property, their only saleable asset, forged over years of research, creative labour, and professional expertise. Without the ability to monetise that asset, there is no way to keep writing sustainably. Which is why the sprawling and borderless appetite of AI is becoming a threat to the very existence of writers. Here's why...
AI might become exempt from copyright laws
Against this backdrop, Australia’s Productivity Commission has floated the idea of a “text and data mining exception” for copyright law. This would allow AI companies to use vast amounts of copyrighted material to train their models without seeking permission or offering compensation to the creators. It’s a proposal that lands like a gut punch for authors who, after years of painstaking work, could have their words harvested, ingested, and monetised — not by them, but by multinational tech corporations.
This policy suggestion dovetails with recent remarks from figures like Atlassian co-founder Scott Farquhar and the Productivity Commission itself, advocating that the government pause new guardrails on AI – and essentially let the technology run unfettered. The underlying message is clear: innovation first, protections later. But for creators, “later” often means “never.”
But as we know, generative AI doesn’t operate in some ethereal vacuum. These companies pay their power bills. They pay for their server farms, their office rent, their marketing campaigns, and their grocery deliveries. The only thing they won’t pay for? The creative raw materials — the hard-worked-for books, articles, and stories online — that make their AI possible.
Regurgitation is still theft
This isn’t a theoretical harm. AI developers already scrape massive swathes of the internet, ingesting everything from novels to journalism. By the time you read an article online, it may already have been absorbed into an AI’s training set, ready to be regurgitated in altered form — with none of the benefits flowing back to the original creator.
For authors earning less than a living wage, this feels less more and more like expropriation. Unlike parody, quotation, or review — all legitimate and fair uses — AI training involves industrial-scale copying, enabling a commercial product that competes with the very creators it depends on.
But what's it worth?
If the potential benefits of AI are as world-changing as its advocates claim, then surely the training material is worth paying for – right? You can’t credibly argue that AI is poised to revolutionise science, education, healthcare, and the economy — and simultaneously claim that the works powering it are worth nothing. The more valuable AI becomes, the more urgent it is to establish fair compensation for the people whose work fuels it.
Writers’ festivals, anthologies, and showcases – like our RUSSH Literary Showcase – remind us that authorship is not just a hobby; it’s a profession and a honed craft. It’s the slow, careful work of building worlds, shaping arguments, and telling truths. And when we undervalue that work, we chip away at the cultural foundation AI itself stands on.
The stakes for the future are high
The choice is stark. We can set up a future in which authors and other creators continue to produce, sustained by fair rewards for their labour. Or we can let AI companies mine our cultural landscape, replacing the voices of living writers with algorithmic pastiches — and leaving the next generation of creators with no path to survival.
But AI doesn’t need to be an enemy of creativity. If its builders refuse to recognise the rights of those whose work they use, then the promise of technology becomes a threat. If we truly believe in a vibrant literary culture — and in innovation that benefits everyone, not just tech shareholders — we must ensure that authors are paid for the very thing AI cannot create without them: their words.
