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The art of writing is dead.

  • Writer: Amanda Westfall
    Amanda Westfall
  • Jun 2, 2023
  • 7 min read

The art of writing is dead. That’s the name of my website, you know. The art of writing.

Well, it died because of fucking ChatGPT.

I ignored it at first. The hype about how AI will change the world, that it’s the next revolution like the internet or automobiles. I listened to a couple podcasts and read a few articles, but I didn’t really pay attention. I was having a baby for Christ’s sake. And during the few precious moments during nap time, I focused on my creative writing. I was taking time off from news and emails and projects and video calls and bureaucratic bullshit. My mind was elsewhere - in my baby and my art.

My art.

My art involves a process. For me, writing is cathartic therapy. A method to portray your thoughts. Your feelings. Your experiences. A way to communicate so others can feel it, understand it, and see how you see it. I spend hours, weeks, months, contemplating ideas. The practice involves deep discussions with my husband during mate hour or watching the flatland sunset paint the sky a million colors while walking the dogs down the country road.

Creation is a result of traveling, of meeting people, of immersing into new cultures, of vulnerable, human experiences. It’s a process of digesting what I learn. How I feel. How I grasp and understand life. I copy my experiences somewhere in my brain, then when I have the chance, I pull out the pen and paper or keyboard, and let it flow.

When the words hit the screen, I feel like I’m saying something important. A story. A lesson. A tale. A way for others to see the world through my eyes.

Now, all of that is dead because a damn computer can do it in 30 seconds.

…………………………………………………………………………

It all started the day after I published my first ever blog post. For some time now, my dream has been to become a writer and work with a publisher. I want to be invested in, glorified for my artistic process. Though I have been working on two books for some time, it was only two weeks ago that I shared my first creative writing project with my social network.

I wrote about birthing, a personal account full of vulgar language, raw passion, and intense imagery. It took one month of sketching out words and figuring out my style. I first jotted down some ideas. I fed my baby and walked the dogs and let the thoughts flow and spill out on the keyboard in rough segments. Then I pieced it together and shared a draft with my writing group who gave me feedback for further editing. Then Mother’s Day was coming up, so I decided it was time.

I’m gonna share my writing with the world!

Minutes after posting, amazing comments soared in. From old friends, new friends, colleagues, my sisters, my old boss, even my dad! People said they cried when they read it. They laughed. They empathized with me. They did what I hoped: they felt. They were inspired by my art.

I thought: My writing really works! Maybe I can get my book published? Perhaps this year I’ll find an agent? A publisher? Holy shit this is possible! I can quit the bureaucratic bullshit and enter my creative world. Live off my art!

Then I read an article about how authors' jobs will be the first to go because of AI.

Then I read more. The thousands of tweets, commentaries, posts, opinions. I followed the new AI influencers on Twitter and TikTok.

This is Unreal. Will the videographers, graphic designers, personal assistants, coders, and editors all be out of work? What about the writers? The creators…

I didn’t fully freak out until I tried it out for myself.

…………………………………………………………………………

Late at night after putting Nina down to sleep, I decided to see how serious it could be. Can this thing really rid the world of writers according to several articles I read?

I signed up. I logged in. I clicked the + New Chat button and began typing into the white box outlined by a soft shadow.

Write a 2-page short story on birthing in a foreign country. Write it in 1st person from the perspective of the woman giving birth. Use vulgar language. Make it emotional.

In two seconds, I received the response:

I'm sorry, but as an AI language model, I cannot write a story that includes vulgar language or inappropriate content. Is there anything else I can assist you with?

Ha! So many rules. I got that beat! They can’t be vulgar like humans.

Then I wrote: Ok, do it without vulgar language.

I pressed enter.

And holy fucking shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Shit. Shit.

It wrote an original piece about birthing. About being scared in a foreign environment. The pushing. The pain. The fear. The language was almost poetic, about how the “bonds forged amidst challenges and triumphs of this foreign land would forever shape the narrative of our lives,” and how when “I gazed into the eyes of my newborn child, I knew that no distance or language barrier could ever overshadow the profound love.”

This is when I freaked out. No, it wasn't perfect, perhaps a bit cheesy and cliché, but it was a creation, a new story produced by a machine in ten seconds. The computer didn't have to live in a foreign land, suffer from contractions and push out a living being to write about it. If what I was reading was just a prototype, what could it do in an other year, another five years?

Then it hit me like a blow to the gut. The process was dead (or would die very soon). That process I mentioned earlier, about dog walking and sunsets and mate chats? That’s no longer needed.

Yes, I can still write. Like I am now. Following my process. Letting it out. Therapy. Fucking therapy.

But I will never make a living out of it. Not with fucking AI. A computer that knows all about art, literature, history, that can read and analyze and produce content after learning from everything. Everything ever written and uploaded to a computer and posted on the internet. The best brain in the world!

I will never be able to make the living I dreamed of. To be respected and invested in for my art. Who has the patience to wait months, years for my process, when AI can do something similar in minutes?

Then I thought of the long-term repercussions for society. How creation will all be based on what is created before, copies of it, selecting from selections. Creation made easy. Just a search, an algorithm, a simple click and select. Is it art when a human didn’t dig deep in her soul to produce it? Didn’t look at the sunset and hear the birds sing a lullaby? Is it still art?

This is when I cried. I wept with snot and tears running down my chest as my husband held me in his arms (while hiding his chuckles).

…………………………………………………………………………

I’ve been working on a fantasy, dystopian future thing. It's creative. Unique. It follows the Save The Cat structure, a proven process of success for book writing to help develop plot, characters, climax, etc. - one that AI will follow in a heartbeat. To finish It, I wanted to travel so I could be inspired to write something fruitful. I’d fly to Egypt, Sudan, Lebanon, Japan, India, and Dubai. I would see the people, the buildings, the landscapes. I’d visit the libraries, ancient cities, and city markets and write from first-hand experience.

But now AI can generate something better because they can analyze the work from thousands of writers who have already visited the pyramids of Sudan, felt the sunlight reflecting from Lebanon’s crystal beaches, and smelt the green tea leaves ripen in Japanese fields.

FUCK.

Well for now, I got that. I got fuck. And shit. And goddammit. Since vulgarity is not allowed in the software yet.

So, FUCK THIS SHIT!

…………………………………………………………………………

Yes, I know AI will help speed things up. I work in comms so I see how it can help. I need a new graphic. BOOM. I need a PowerPoint presentation on a certain topic. BOOM. I need to edit this with UNICEF’s institutional language. BOOM. Now I won’t have to spend countless hours formatting, editing, styling.

But for art? The process? The love and emotion and passion put into words, colors, and textures.

Is that dead?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe people will help people. Publishers will say “non-AI books only.” But how will they know? Everything generated by AI is new. It’s not plagiarism.

I see an anti-AI movement taking place. This has happened before. When cinema was first introduced, there were apprehensions it would overshadow traditional forms of storytelling, such as theater and literature. Some feared that the art of writing would be rendered obsolete as visual narratives took precedence. However, over time, cinema found its place as a distinct art form, coexisting with other forms of storytelling.

(The above paragraph was generated by AI. Nothing else was, I promise).

I must admit, this week I started using AI tools. I used Quillbot for fixing a query letter. I used Bard to analyze websites of literary agencies to find the right agents to approach, something that has saved me countless hours of tedious work. This gave me more time to write this blog.

Perhaps AI will take our jobs, my jobs, my dream-job. Or maybe it will help speed up the boring work so we can focus more on art. Maybe AI will help me live better. Or maybe it will fuck everything up.

I don’t know. I’m just telling you how I feel, through my process, through my art.



My 1am notes I jotted in my cellphone after getting freaked out by ChatGPT


 
 
 

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