A few years ago I got paid to do some writing. This felt like a big deal to me at the time. It was a bit of copywriting, some blogging, some writing articles for websites, and on a couple occasions, writing for political candidates. Sure, you’ve never heard of them, but whatever. To me, “professional” is when you get paid to do a job, so I’d made it as a “professional” writer.
But not long after getting a sweet gig to write articles about Yoga and Yoga philosophy, I just stopped writing. Lost interest.
It happened when AI showed up. I started asking it to check my phrasing. I wanted to get it right, I was a pro now after all. And as a disciple of Orwell’s Politics and the English Language, there was no room for error, lest I become complicit in the downfall of writing in the Western world.
AI showed me I was wrong just enough to shake my confidence. Then I started using it for research, but its way of wording things was sometimes so precise. I’d use a term it came up with here and there. Then a whole sentence. It was really good at putting my thoughts (or so I imagined they were my thoughts) into words. But I also felt it taking something from me. Taking away my willingness to make sense of what I was thinking on my own.
Sounds kinda dangerous.
I felt like I’d been writing my whole life, and suddenly it was like what can I say that AI can’t, and what do I know that AI doesn’t?
I felt alone in this sentiment. But I also felt more alone generally. Because for me, writing was a process that forced me to make myself intelligible to myself; to get to know myself. It was a literal cure for loneliness, like talking to a friend.
Historically, writing was first seen as manifestation, as bringing something into being. Certain traditions hold on to this belief. The scriptures were at times the only things put into writing. The early writers were few, but they all served the divine, their writing being seen as the literal word of God. Writing went on to profoundly shape human societies, serving as a medium for things like expression and meaning.
So, writing must be a tremendous gift to possess, and a lot of power to wield. Yet somehow I feel inclined to give it away. My temptation to do so concerns me, because I assume I’m not alone.
From manifestation, to medium, to manufactured manifestation of meaning.
Writing as manifestation revealed truth. Writing as a medium transmitted meaning. Where we’re headed, I fear, is towards a manufactured manifestation of meaning. A situation where we hallucinate that what AI spits out at our behest represents the coming-into-being of our meaning and intent.
For example – and this is a true story – I know somebody who received a AI-generated love poem from somebody they had been interacting with online. The person who sent the poem fed the AI some key themes and ideas. The result was actually quite good, and the person who received the poem was touched by the gesture.
Had I been the one receiving the poem, what would have intrigued me more was the truth:
- The person wants to write a poem expressing loving feelings, but doesn’t know how.
- The person feels there are significant themes that connect them that deserve expression, but are difficult to express.
In other words, I’m more interested in the prompts. The innocent questions, the uncertainty, and in the case of the love poem, the longing to express something that can’t find expression. Instead, we get the results of our prompts and think to ourselves, “Yes, that’s what I meant!” It’s a delight – and a deception. Don’t send AI-generated love poems – send the prompts! To solidify something mysterious, ethereal, and contemplative into poetry fine-tuned by a large language model is a damned shame.
I suspect that writing still somehow holds the power it once did – to bring something into being.
It’s a gift that brings us clarity, helps us define our goals, and create a shared reality. So, what happens when we relinquish such a blessing, when we entrust an as-of-yet rather unknown and untested force to manifest meaning for us?
I’m tempted to ask AI.