photo credit: Savanna Smith
I’ve got a big, oozing splinter in my side. I don’t really like to use this space to express my gripes (I only get one issue per month, and there’s enough vitriol and negativity in the world, so I’d much rather say nice things, thanks).
To be completely honest, I do have my share of hot takes and bad opinions, particularly in my chosen field of books and movies, but it’s best to keep them to myself. Why? Because my attitude towards most things in the world—at least towards stuff created by humans—is, I’m glad this exists. And I mean that.
The world is rough and scary, and art is the way we deal with it, find ways to create beauty of darkness, etc, and cue the ramblings of the writer. But we all have our splinters in our sides, yes, the kinds we like to worry about, poke, pick at until our fingers bleed. And sometimes, the way to gain some real satisfaction is to indulge in a 700-word complaining session.
But no. This isn’t all complaining. I wouldn’t bore you with that. I guess what I’m trying to do is convert the skeptics. And have some fun, too. Because, come on: AI-bashing pieces (and this is one, as you can tell) are kind of fun. In the way that scratching a particularly bad itch is, I think. You’ll rub your skin raw, but at the same time, you feel like you’re really doing something, getting rid of that problem.
What it is, though, is just numbness. And sooner or later, that itch will come back—worse than ever, furious and demanding to be scratched again.
I’ve refrained from scratching this itch of mine, from pulling this splinter out. But I can’t really help myself. Can you blame me? How does one get through 2025—with its AI-generated memes plastered over the internet, the government using it to create cringe propaganda, billboard-topping fake-songs, generated pages of garbage on the internet—and avoid confronting the truth: it sucks. It feels dystopian. For those who create art, it’s even worse.
Recently, the Authors Guild filed a lawsuit against OpenAI for using the books of notable authors—among them big names such as George R.R. Martin, Jodi Picoult, Michael Chabon and John Grisham—to train their models. What that means, of course, is that these companies feed pages and pages of copyrighted work into their processors. Without permission, of course. And compensation? Forget about it.
That’s theft. It’s wrong. And that’s why, as reported by the Guardian just a few days ago, OpenAI lost the lawsuit. Which is a win, yes, but it also shows that we live in a changed world. It’s only been three years since ChatGPT was introduced, and publishers are already putting “no-AI-training” clauses on their books. It’s on that small page with the copyright info. Books may look the same, but if you look closely, the face of the industry has changed overnight.
Is that all?
You wish. I’m just getting started.
It may feel redundant to dunk on AI-generated pieces of writing, sure. But is it redundant to preserve what makes us human, time after time? I think that’s what it’s about. That the flesh and blood of us is being swapped slowly for metal and gears. That we’re not only becoming dependent on machines, but becoming them ourselves.
Why do writers hate AI? Why should you? Writing is the way we express ourselves. We don’t want to write a novel with “the click of a button.” We don’t want to write a short story by “clicking a link.” We want to write what only we can write. And we want to be heard.
The world is a lonely place, and a place we seek connection is through books. Even if you suspend your disbelief, delude yourself into thinking that a machine spitting out paragraphs, you’re missing the point.
It isn’t a question of writing “better” or “worse.” We look at dents in statues, chipped pieces of ivory and bronze, and that doesn’t make the statue any less beautiful, does it? There are paw prints of a cat on some ancient scrolls out there. There are coffee stains on someone’s manuscript. There are fingerprints. There’s life in those pages. There’s struggle.
When I dunk on AI, I’m not criticizing sentence structure or word choice or flat characters. I don’t care about any of that—there are human writers who make those same mistakes. And guess what? Those imperfections, those dents and stains and prints? I wouldn’t exchange them for anything.
I want to hold something in my hands and think, A human being wrote this. I want to know that what I’m writing is someone who tried their best to say everything they could, someone who cried and raged and still ended up with these words, these footprints they left behind on their long journey. Because the words in my hand proved that someone felt. That someone lived.
So, instead of complaining or dunking, that’s what I want you to do. If you choose to do something after you flip this page, I want you to create something. I want you to listen to the stories in your blood. I want you to harness the feel of the sun on your skin and the glow of the moon and the coolness of water and the heat of fire, because no machine can ever have all of that. Your memories and pain, your nightmares and dreams, all of that.
And yeah, that might sound cringe or over-the-top, but I don’t care. At least I can be that way. I can be human. And that’s what counts. This is an overlong rant, yes, but at least I can rant. I can make something worthwhile. So can you. Just flip this page. What you do next can prove that you’re human, that you’re alive. And when you’re gone one day, people find it and know all they need to know about us. We lived.
