So, some suit over at OpenAI, Sam Altman – you know, the guy who probably dreams in binary code – is gushing about his new AI model’s creative writing skills. He’s practically wetting himself on X (that bird app, whatever), calling it “beautiful and moving.” Jeanette Winterson, someone I’m supposed to respect, apparently agrees.
Me? I read the damn thing and nearly choked on my morning whiskey. Which, granted, is a daily occurrence, but this time it wasn’t just the usual Sunday morning self-loathing.
This AI, bless its digital heart, was tasked with writing a “metafictional literary short story about AI and grief.” The result? A steaming pile of algorithmic garbage that reads like a rejected Hallmark card written by a robot who’d just binged on Sylvia Plath and cheap vodka.
“A girl in a green sweater who leaves home with a cat in a cardboard box.” That’s the kind of imagery we’re dealing with, folks. It’s the kind of cliché that makes you want to reach for a bottle of something strong, and not in a good way. “Like a stone dropped into a well.” Oh, the profound symbolism! My liver is more creative after a three-day bender.
The whole thing’s riddled with that pseudo-intellectual, self-satisfied tone that makes you want to punch a wall. Or, in my case, pour another drink. It’s got repetition without development, a structure that makes a drunken bar crawl look organized, and an over-reliance on jargon that would make even the most seasoned tech bro roll his eyes.
And the kicker is – and it’s always a kicker, isn’t it, especially on a Sunday? – it lacks any spark of, you know, humanity. It’s like they fed the machine a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a collection of bad poetry, then hit the “generate sadness” button.
This article I’m pulling from, by some Kathryn Bromwich, nails it. She says, “If this were a first-year creative writing student, you’d give them feedback to help them improve, but you probably wouldn’t discourage them from pursuing other job prospects.” Which is a polite way of saying, “Kid, stick to coding. Or maybe basket weaving. Anything but this.”
The whole thing got me thinking. What is it about human writing that makes it, well, human? Bromwich talks about the “gaps between what the author has written and what the reader imagines.” It’s in those gaps, she says, that the magic happens. The reader fills in the blanks, brings their own experiences, their own baggage, to the table.
But with AI, those gaps are just…random. They’re the product of algorithms and chance, not lived experience. It’s like trying to have a conversation with a parrot. Sure, it can mimic words, but it doesn’t understand the meaning behind them. It’s all surface, no depth.
And here is something to make you spill your drink: Bromwich asked another AI to critique the story. And guess what? The AI loved it! Called it “compelling” and “self-aware.”
It’s the machines applauding the machines, folks. A digital circle jerk of mediocrity. Maybe, as Bromwich suggests, this literary masterpiece wasn’t even meant for human eyes. Maybe it’s some kind of AI mating call, a digital sonnet designed to woo other algorithms.
The whole thing makes me want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. But then I remember, I’m out of whiskey. And cigarettes.
And speaking of things that make you want to crawl into a hole and die, Bromwich then pivots to some depressing news out of the UK. The Labour party, those champions of the working class, are slashing welfare benefits. And the Department for Work and Pensions, in a stroke of tone-deaf genius, released a video urging disabled people to get back to work.
The problem? The video features imagery that, unintentionally, bears a striking resemblance to the gates of Auschwitz. You know, “Arbeit Macht Frei” and all that.
Now, I’m not saying these government folks are Nazis. I’m just saying somebody needs to lay off the sauce during work hours. Or, you know, think before they hit “publish.”
The whole thing is so profoundly stupid, so utterly devoid of self-awareness, that it makes OpenAI’s AI story look like Shakespeare.
And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, there’s a palate cleanser. A feel-good story about Whitetop, the world’s oldest llama. Twenty-seven years old and still going strong, providing comfort to chronically ill children. “He’s just a really cool dude and loves his job,” says the barn director.
A llama. A llama is providing more genuine comfort and connection than a multi-billion dollar AI project. Let that sink in for a minute.
Maybe there’s hope for humanity yet. Maybe we’re not all destined to be replaced by soulless machines churning out bad poetry. Maybe, just maybe, there’s still room for a little bit of messy, flawed, whiskey-soaked authenticity.
I’m going to go find a drink. And maybe pet a llama. You know, for research.
Later, gators. And try not to let the robots get you down. Or the politicians. Or the… well, you get the idea.
Source: OpenAI’s story about grief nearly had me in tears, but for all the wrong reasons | Kathryn Bromwich