Perhaps the title is misleading. There are certainly things I’m concerned about—for one, issues of copyright. Just weeks ago, when I asked the Notion AI about more ideas for my history essay, it relayed the paragraphs that I just wrote back to me, word-for-word, with my overuse of semicolons and dashes still evident in its response. When I texted my teacher in a panic, he understood and said it will be a rough and unpredictable couple of years. That just about sums it up. Perhaps, in a decade or so, we’ll look back at this issue and laugh till our stomach hurt, because AI will either crumble or completely integrate itself into every aspect of life. However, with what we have now, I’m excited for the future.
As a creative writer, I have my reasons to fear the robots taking over. Until now, we’ve had a fleeting feeling of job security. We were told that psychologists, who worked with people’s emotions, would never be replaced—and here’s Sophia, a creepily realistic robot designed to do just that, looming over the horizon. We were told artists would never have to worry about employment (not more than they do now, at least)—and we’ve all seen AI art blow up on the internet, creating award-winning masterpieces in seconds.
Out of curiosity (and a pinch of fear), I tried asking an AI to write me a short story. I picked a sentimental prompt based on a mediocre piece I wrote as a tween, about a girl climbing up a tree and admiring the view. The results shocked me—apart from a few repetitive words, it was amazingly well-written and was definitely better than mine. So, naturally, I wondered—what’s the point of writing at all, if the draft that will take me weeks to polish can be ready in seconds? If this was around when I was younger, would I still write? And, if human work is really pointless, is it time to give up?
When I looked closely at the AI-generated story and compared it with my own, I found a key similarity—I’ve seen them before. At a young age, I, an avid reader, did the exact same thing as the algorithm—I consumed a ridiculous number of similar stories, blended in a few new elements from others, and had a finished piece, barely distinguishable from the source material. Back then, I was praised. The passage sounded like a real book, the narrative voice perfectly replicating the way all successful published authors writers wrote. That’s why I was shocked when an author, in a video full of tips and advice, told me that one didn’t have to read to write. That was incomprehensible—how would I know what to say if I didn’t learn from the greats?
Chimamanda Adichie, in her TED talk “The Power of a Single Story” (which is definitely worth a watch!), discussed the importance of representation. Growing up in Africa, she rarely read stories that featured similar backgrounds, and that spilled into her writing. She wrote of old white men drinking whiskey and kids playing outside on snowy Christmas days, despite having never seen them before, because that’s what real stories were about. I caught my young self doing the same. Lots of beginner writers fall into the trap of repeating what they read, and I was no different—I talked of American-style block schedules, or escaping from an orphanage (which I knew nothing of), often setting my stories in American or German cities I’d never visited, describing relationships I not only never had, but had also never seen in people around me—sentimental romances, best friends going on road trips. And, hey, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a trope; but, when we simply repeat everything we’ve read in our own works, we risk lying to ourselves about what life, in all of its possibilities, is like.
Both my old draft and the AI passage had similar phrases. They described the character’s sun-kissed face, the tree’s rustling leaves, the sun rolling over the horizon, a vague feeling of freedom. These words don’t conjure any images in my mind—they seem blank because of how many times I’d seen them, even if the experience is somewhat accurate. And even now, when writing essays, I catch myself using phrasing similar to what I’d read: overusing “however” or “consequentially,” which I rarely say out loud, because that’s what real writers do.
Therefore, a way to distinguish ourselves as living, breathing humans from the summarization machine that is AI is to get to the core of what writing itself is about. To me, its main goal is communicating a message—a certain truth I’d learned the hard way, or a dilemma I can’t quite resolve, a complexity that can’t be ironed out. That raises the question: what makes my story unique? What can I contribute that hasn’t been said before? And, since everything that has, is available a click away, we’ll value creativity, diversity, and raw vulnerability far more. We’ll be encouraged to speak our minds and to go beyond the constantly discussed surface. We’ll be pushed towards more experimental styles, and be asked to distinguish ourselves more—that’s part of why my overuse of dashes isn’t going anywhere.
Sure, it’s going to be a rough few years, or even decades. Perhaps this revolution is going to spiral off into senseless lists of words evoking emotions; possibly, the raw honesty will go too far, with authors forced to air all their dirty laundry just to make a living; maybe the AI chips implanted in our brains will eliminate the need for entertainment. But, for now, I’m excited for the change that forces us to question to very nature of literature itself and pushes us toward understanding our shared humanity.
This piece is featured in the upcoming Issue 6, scheduled for publication on May 31st.
Cover Image: AI-generated image of a girl climbing a tree by NightCafe.
Jessica T