Some thoughts on AI, writing, and AI writing
Artificial Intelligence has been a disruptive force in all industries. It would be difficult to refute that claim, no matter where you stand on the matter. In particular, the disruption caused by AI seems almost tailor-made to ruffle the feathers of artists and writers in particular. It’s absolutely shameful that an innovation originally envisioned as a means of facilitating breakthroughs in medicine or terraforming other planets has chosen as its primary target the few who are engaged in activities that we never wanted machines to do in the first place.
Yes, AI systems like IBM’s Watson paved the way for technologically-assisted diagnoses and clinical trial matching—that’s wonderful, and it’s an impressive accomplishment. However, the implementation of AI in our culture has not been so noble. Perhaps it’s my naivety talking, but I always thought of AI as a tool that would not only democratize the entirety of human knowledge and experience, but also make this knowledge tangibly useful for the general public, and thus “elevate” humanity in the process (whatever that means). Instead, it seems that, as a global, terminally-online culture, we have disregarded the latent possibilities of this technology in favour of what is expedient, fleeting, and contrived. In brief, we were presented with intelligence and have opted for the artificial. Case in point: the Studio Ghibli imitations or the AI-Generated Doll Kits—all of which have, unlike true art deliberately made by human beings, become tiresome the very second they’re posted.
Nonetheless, I posit that AI technology does present some latent possibilities that everyone—including artists and writers—can use for the betterment of their work. Perhaps I’m overly optimistic. Maybe AI will indeed usher in a soulless dystopian hellscape entirely opposed to human dignity and freedom. I choose to believe otherwise, not only because humanity has always found a way to thrive in the midst of great adversity and upheaval, but also because every major advancement in technology has provoked a similar response from doomsayers, and yet we endure.
My hope for my fellow writers and artists is that they will not be discouraged by this disruptive technology, and will instead use it to their advantage. Below, I’d like to share a few hopeful thoughts and historical anecdotes that may put this whole messy affair into perspective, as well as a potential use case for AI writing.
The burden of memory
It’s difficult to imagine, and yet it hardly needs to be said: at some point in history, writing was invented. Oral dissemination of stories, poetry, ideas, and history was commonplace throughout the ancient world, and when the novel technology of writing arose, there were detractors. One notable criticism of writing came from Socrates, as quoted by Plato in Phaedrus, “…it will introduce forgetfulness into the soul of those who learn it: they will not practice using their memory because they will put their trust in writing.”
I remember with uncharacteristic clarity the day my grade 8 history teacher demonstrated the major flaw in oral storytelling through a game of broken telephone. The premise was simple, if not a little trite, and yet the point still stands: people cannot be counted on to accurately recount a story. Writing may have its flaws and biases, but it’s far more difficult to raise objections to the veracity of a text than it is to mere hearsay.
Old man yells at cloud…again
Millenia later, we see similarly confounding objections to the rise of the printing press. One notable example comes from 15th-century Venetian editor Hieronimo Squarciafico, who bemoaned the advent of the printing press, saying, “Abundance of books makes men less studious.” This sentiment (and others like it) might lead one to the faulty notion that a book’s value is determined by its rarity, which is directly contrary to modern thoughts on the matter. In 2025, we tend to determine a book’s value by its ubiquity—for better or worse—and I find it difficult to imagine that was ever not the case. Perhaps Squarciafico believed it’s better to have a few books that are deeply understood rather than an abundance of books with pristine spines. Even still, this point does not stand, for what one may find valuable in a certain book may be entirely absent in another.
My point here is not to dismiss or even alleviate the concerns raised by the critics of any new media. Socrates was right: writing does reduce our dependency on memory. Squarciafico may have a good point as well, in that an abundance of books might render any particular book’s value entirely negligible. My intention is to show that these times of upheaval almost never bring the gloom that’s foretold about them. In every instance of sweeping technological advancement, the instinct to create something new, to put a stamp on the epoch with clever, original art, does not only endure, but is renewed with incendiary enthusiasm. We wouldn’t have Dante’s Divine Comedy if Virgil hadn’t written his Aeneid, and we wouldn’t have The Waste Land without the radio.
There are valid concerns, of course. Last week, for example, a fantasy author left clear evidence of AI writing in her “finished” novel. The dishonesty and the laziness are an issue, certainly, but one author’s (is she even worthy of the title) lack of writerly virtue is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Plagiarism has always been a problem in every art form, but it doesn’t negate the value of true, genuine creations one bit.
At the risk of appearing obtuse and uncharitable, my concern is with the reading public who, had evidence of this prompt been removed entirely, would have eaten it up and likely purchased all future instalments in the series. My hope is that this incident and others like it, which are sure to pop up from time to time, will call us to be more critical recipients or “consumers” (I despise the word) of art. Perhaps Squarciafico had a point. Maybe there are too many books. Maybe the endless roster of titles that cater to every particular niche and sub-genre really are superfluous. To be clear, I’m not calling for any kind of censorship or legislation that would in any way inhibit an author’s ability to publish, not only because it would be impossible to enforce, but also because it’s morally objectionable. My appeal, though admittedly a call in the wilderness, is directed to the reading public. There are books with characters, lessons, and resonating motifs that can be transposed to your life, even if the accidents, i.e. the superficial traits of characters, are divergent from your personal appearance and experience. Read what you like, but if all this hubbub about AI writing concerns you, you may find some relief (and likely better prose) from a novel by the Brontë sisters or Thomas Hardy.
A case for AI writing?
Despite my strong statements to the contrary, I think there is one particular, ethically-unambiguous use case for AI writing.
I have long wondered, like many others, what daily life was like for my ancestors. Not only do I have nothing but a vague idea of how they spent their days—I don’t even know the names of anyone beyond my great grandparents. Some of this information may be locked away in the archives of an Italian church, but for the most part it’s been lost to the ravages of time. There’s no way to get it back, but I think there is a way to correct course for the future.
As a self-publishing consultant, I meet many people who wish they could write a book, but can’t. I posit that they can, but underestimate their own abilities. Let’s assume they’re correct for the sake of argument. They don’t have the time or the skill to put pen to paper and write a full-length book. When I ask what type of book they would like to write, it’s never a novel to please disembodied critics or a self-help book to tout their peculiar insights on a certain topic. Every single time, they tell me they wish they could write a memoir, a legacy project, a family history to pass on to their children and grandchildren. The impetus is there, but the skill and the time (at least in their estimation) is not.
This was my motivation in creating Memoir Cowriter, an AI-assisted writing tool that helps people who never considered themselves authors to write their life stories. Through a series of interactive modules and prompts, Memoir Cowriter helps expose the compelling narratives that lie dormant in everyone. The idea here is to preserve the stories of people all over the world, and present them in a palatable and coherent manner to future generations.
Without a doubt, there will be people who claim that this is an abomination, an affront to the sacred integrity of the written word. To these detractors I ask: Would it be better that these stories were never written at all? Is it preferable that one’s legacy should be lost to the ravages of time simply because one lacks the skill to write? To answer these questions in the affirmative is, in my opinion, absolutely untenable. We’re presented with a means to course-correct, to give all people an equal opportunity to share their insights and experiences. The alternative is not to hire a ghostwriter or learn to write—most people will refuse to take on such a task. However, most people can spend ten minutes per day answering questions about themselves.
Artificial Intelligence is changing the way we do practically everything. If we can manage to use it for some good, we may be able to keep the more ominous predictions at bay. My motivation in creating Memoir Cowriter was not to grovel to the zeitgeist, but rather to acknowledge, in some form, the intrinsic dignity of every person through the preservation of their life stories.
Memoir Cowriter is a work in progress. If you’d like to sign up for updates and be one of the first to try it out, join the waitlist at https://www.memoircowriter.com/.
And if you have any thoughts about AI, AI writing, or Memoir Cowriter, feel free to get in touch. I’d love to chat and get some new ideas on the matter.
