I asked AI to finish this newsletter for me. This is what happened.
A collage of photos — the largest are of me, a white 40-something woman, looking suspiciously sideways, and beside me, a robot emoji. Smaller pics below of tiger lilies, a black and tan dog rolling in the grass, and the side of a face with a surgical mask.
You can listen to this newsletter instead of reading it. Click the long black rectangle above these words.
I mostly stay away from trends.
They usually pass before I catch up anyway, and I’d rather stay focused on what’s in my lane — you, writing, all this.
But in the last few weeks, all this buzz about AI has tugged at me. There was a story on This American Life about a group of engineers who were astounded and troubled by what the new ChatGPT app could do. It reminded me of another story they did a couple years ago about a woman who used AI to help her finally write about her sister’s death. It was unsettling and beautiful.
I started to wonder what AI might have to give — and take — from the thing I care about most, the creative process, and the way it connects us.
So I decided to download the new ChatGPT app.
If you’re new to this, I’ll explain as best I can. The wave of AI that’s getting a lot of talk these days works by reading huge swaths of the Internet, and learning how to predict the most likely next word in any sentence. This lets it create content in a seemingly-human way, because it doesn’t just remember information, but appears to “discuss” it. There is huge controversy about this technology, and many calls to slow down its development until we can better understand it.
I opened a free 3-day trial around 2am, in a dry valley of insomnia.
I asked some boring questions, got some boring answers, and fell asleep. But in the morning I started thinking of more nuanced things to ask.
I asked it to explain why I was feeling awkward about my mediocre Triathlon race scores even though I’m avowedly not competitive. We went back and forth a bit about the toxic nature of competition and how patriarchy plays into that.
I went for a walk. I thought of more questions. I asked why my dog was rolling in the grass. I asked if it had ever heard of Firefly Creative Writing, and when it said yes, we went back and forth for a while about what Firefly is and why someone might take a workshop with us. Then I switched into therapeutic mode and we discussed why I hadn’t been sleeping and what I could do about it.
I pulled some excerpts if you’re interested, they’re here.
Conflicted feelings filled the smoggy morning air.
On one hand, I felt weirdly… seen? The advice was good and the conversations were affirming, positive, and shockingly nuanced. I could feel the intense usefulness of it, and I felt engaged in a way I didn’t expect (or want) to feel.
But also, there was a voracious emptiness of the whole experience. The whole walk, I hadn’t noticed a tiger lily or smiled at a neighbour. When my dog Marshall was arching his back and rolling around with glee in the grass, instead of crouching down to pet him, I had asked my phone why he was doing it. And I found out. And I was satisfied. And also not.
Almost home, my next door neighbour Sam called out, “Buongiorno!” from his porch. I replied the same, beaming. He leaned forward in his chair and told me in half-English, half-Italian, that he was scared about all the smoke in the air. I put my hand on my heart and said, “I know, I know, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” We did our best to discuss whether the rain later would clear it out. I don’t know if we understood each other, but we tried. His eyes sparkled above his light blue mask. I started up my front steps, hand still on my heart, and felt it there, for the first time all day.
I wasn’t sure how to finish this newsletter, so I fed the first half to the app and asked it to finish it up. Here’s what it wrote:
I felt the warmth of genuine human connection. It was a stark contrast to the artificial interactions I had been having with the AI chatbot. As I entered my house, I couldn't help but reflect on the impact of technology on our lives.
The AI had provided me with insightful conversations and answers, but it lacked the depth and authenticity that comes from genuine human interaction. It couldn't replicate the spark in Sam's eyes or the shared understanding we attempted to convey despite the language barrier. It couldn't replace the feeling of being truly seen and understood by another person.
I realized that while AI may have its uses and benefits, it could never fully replace the richness of human connection. It may be able to predict words and generate text, but it couldn't replicate the emotions, experiences, and nuances that make us human.
With a newfound appreciation for the value of genuine human connection, I made a decision. I closed the AI chatbot app and decided to focus on what truly mattered to me — the people, the experiences, and the writing that brought me joy and fulfillment.
From that day forward, I made a conscious effort to be present in the world around me. I engaged in meaningful conversations with friends, family, and strangers. I immersed myself in nature, taking the time to appreciate the beauty of a tiger lily or the joy of watching my dog play in the grass.
As for my writing, I realized that the creative process was not something to be outsourced to AI. It was a deeply personal and introspective journey that required my own thoughts, emotions, and experiences. I embraced the challenges and uncertainties that came with it, knowing that it was an essential part of my growth as a writer.
In the end, the allure of AI faded away, replaced by a renewed appreciation for the authenticity and depth of human connection. I found solace in the fact that while trends may come and go, the power of genuine human interaction and the beauty of the creative process would always remain timeless.
Um. What just happened?
Do you feel it? This thing is effective. It’s kind of amazing. It also talked itself out of a job, which delights me. But I’m deeply uncomfortable.
Here’s what I’m left with. You can decide for yourself if I’m finishing off this newsletter better or worse than the AI did.
I believe that language is how we build bridges into the abyss. When we’re lucky, we get to meet on those bridges. That feeling, of being seen and reached for with words, is one of the most humanizing ones I know. But it only happens between people. And it takes effort. I don’t want something to replace that effort.
I want to not know things, and to sit with that not knowing, instead of filling it.
I want to get scared and lonely, and then do what that fear and loneliness tell me to do — find a person to share with, find a place where to put my tenderness. It was so powerful to have all those answers in my pocket, it didn’t let me grapple. I want to grapple.
It’s Sam leaning forward in his chair. It’s getting to the middle of this little essay and not knowing where to go next. It’s wondering why Marshall is rolling in the grass, and standing still with that question, the greenness of it, the contagious joy he gets from being there.
Loneliness is already at epic proportions. Vivek Murthy, the Surgeon General of the US, just put out another urgent report on the impact of disconnection on modern life. As Danusha Laméris writes in her famous poem, “Small Kindnesses,” “We have so little of each other now.”
I’m sure AI will be part of my future. It’s probably already here much more than I realize. I’m too small to bend this trajectory. But I want to be incredibly mindful of how I let it in.
And for now, I’m done my free trial, and I’m relieved to have it off my phone. As the bot itself said, “In the end, the allure of AI faded away, replaced by a renewed appreciation for the authenticity and depth of human connection.”
In other words, I’m ready to walk the dog in peace.
Here’s something else that’s true.
None of us really knows what’s happening.
I’ll certainly look back on this post and shake my head in wonder about how much I didn’t understand yet about AI. It’s vulnerable to write from there.
But here we are, on a cusp, like we so often are as a species that makes things faster than it understands them. We’re in one great big terribly fast-moving creative process. Which, of course, makes us need one another more than ever.
In it with you,
