Alright, pour another one, because this is going to hurt. This one comes straight from the New York Times, the paper of record, where they let some poor sap named Tom McAllister spill his guts about…wait for it… AI writing memoirs. And here I thought Mondays were supposed to be for quietly nursing a hangover, not existential dread.
McAllister, bless his heart, teaches writing. Memoir writing, specifically. And he’s having a crisis because little Johnny turned in a homework assignment that smelled suspiciously like ChatGPT. Now, I’ve seen some shit in my time, but a robot writing about its “obsessions”? That’s a new level of bleak.
The kid asked the machine to write about obsession. The irony is thicker than the sludge at the bottom of my coffee cup. A machine, devoid of passion, desire, or even a goddamn nervous system, churning out 2,000 words on the very thing it can’t comprehend. It cited the DSM-5, for Christ’s sake. Like a robot needs a diagnostic manual. Maybe it was diagnosing itself. Malfunction: Lack of Soul.
And this McAllister, he’s worried about the students. Sweet summer child. He thinks the problem is kids taking shortcuts. No, Tom, the problem is that the whole goddamn system is a shortcut. A shortcut to nowhere. A shortcut paved with venture capital and lined with the hollow promises of “efficiency.”
He says, and I quote, “a fully formed person is not about optimizing productivity but rather about understanding and even embracing the messy inefficiencies of life.” Preach, brother! I’ve been embracing messy inefficiencies since I could walk. I practically invented messy inefficiency. It’s my goddamn brand.
But here’s the punchline, the part that’ll make you want to reach for another bottle: the real problem isn’t the students, or even the AI. It’s the goddamn adults pushing this crap. University administrators falling over themselves to partner with AI startups. Well-meaning instructors (like our friend Tom, maybe before the existential dread kicked in) trying to be “cutting edge.”
They’re all drinking the Kool-Aid, or maybe it’s just straight-up jet fuel at this point. They think they’re preparing students for the future, but they’re actually just teaching them to be obsolete.
McAllister wants his students to experience the “challenges and pleasures” of memoir writing. He wants them to “analyze” their experiences and “complicate” them in the retelling. He believes, and I’m not making this up, that this process “makes the author more fully alive.”
More fully alive? Shit, I feel more fully alive after a three-day bender and a fistfight with a parking meter. At least that’s real. At least that leaves a mark.
He talks about the “magic” in a memoir, the “unique consciousness” on the other side of the page. The “idiosyncratic mind” working out a problem. The “inner life of another actual person.”
And the kicker? He thinks AI can mimic that.
He says it can “superficially mimic the end result of writing.” Superficially. That’s the key word, folks. It’s all surface. No depth. No soul. Just a shiny, empty shell, spitting out words like a broken vending machine.
It’s like trying to replace a good, smoky bourbon with… I don’t know… robot piss. Sure, it might look the same color in the glass, but one sip and you’ll know the difference. One sip and you’ll be spitting it out, reaching for the real thing, the thing that burns going down and leaves you feeling… something. Anything.
McAllister’s right about one thing, though. This is a battle. A battle for… well, for the right to be a messy, flawed, inefficient human being. For the right to stumble, to struggle, to stay up late and get frustrated, and to write something that actually means something, even if it’s just to you.
The act of writing, he says, can be “an act of self-preservation, even one of defiance.” Defiance! I like that. I’ll drink to that.
We, the authentically human, the gloriously inefficient, the beautifully flawed, we are the resistance. We are the ones who still know the difference between a real feeling and a simulated one. We are the ones who can still tell a story that matters, a story that bleeds, a story that breathes.
And we’re not going down without a fight. Or, at the very least, without another drink.
So raise your glasses, you magnificent bastards. To messy lives, to flawed writing, and to the enduring power of the human soul, however hungover it may be. And now, if you excuse me there’s a bottle with my name on it. It’s calling to me.
…Whiskey’s a harsh mistress, but she understands.
Source: Opinion | Sorry, Sam Altman, A.I. Is Not Good at Real Writing