A Better Story
Imagination, Creation, and the Hunger for Real Human Connection
I keep seeing articles about AI and writers and writing. The last one I saw involved a fantasy author who had published a novel and forgotten to remove an AI prompt from the manuscript asking AI to copy another writer’s style, leaving readers “annoyed,” according to the article title.
Annoyed? Is that all? My reaction to such a thing is more along the lines of despair and disgust than mere irritation. But I was heartened to find upon reading the article that readers were more than just annoyed. One-star reviews proceeded to rain down upon this author—which I think is more than deserved.
It’s no secret to readers of my novels that I have complete disdain for writers using generative AI as part of the writing process. It’s also no secret to them that I am increasingly disenchanted with the push for authors to produce more and produce faster (which tempts some to use generative AI). Or that I feel the pressure on authors to become content creators on the side in order to market themselves on social media is a confusion of categories and a waste of time and just plain bad for you.
I talked about this recently when I gave the keynote address at a writing conference in Lansing, Michigan, called the Rally of Writers. It’s Michigan’s longest-running writers conference and has a loyal following among Michigan writers. It was also full of first-time attendees this year, and I was so grateful to have the opportunity to speak to them about these timely, hot-button topics.
I wanted to offer these writers encouragement and, full disclosure, to sway them to my point of view. What follows is the text of that speech. As I only had about 20 minutes to speak, this is not the sum of all of my thoughts on writers as content creators or the dishonesty and dangers of using generative AI in one’s writing. It’s just some of those thoughts. But I thought I’d share them with the larger Experimental Wolves community because it’s an important subject.
It’s not just our integrity as artists that is at stake in this moment. It is the future of our profession. More than than, it’s the future of humanity. And no, I don’t think that’s an exaggeration. We may not end up serving the machines a ’la The Matrix, but we will forfeit a key element of our humanity and harm our society if we are not thoughtful and careful and sparing in how we use emerging technologies.
Without further ado, I bring to you…
A Better Story
Imagination, Creation, and the Hunger for Real Human Connection
Some time ago, probably about two decades now, the far distant past, my husband and I found ourselves eating at Burger King. Don’t be jealous. We were eating at Burger King, probably because we didn’t have a lot of time or money and we wanted some of that flame-broiled goodness. So there we are, our feet velcroed to the stickiest floor in South Lansing, enjoying some tasty fat and salt and conversation. But both of us are writers and so both of us have a tendency, as I’m sure you do, to spy on other people in order to observe their behavior. Like Jane Goodall watching chimps.
On this particular occasion, I took notice of two other Burger King patrons who were doing what you normally do with fast food—just shoving in their gobs, not talking, just sullenly and silently pushing matter down their respective esophagai to fill the void in their stomachs. “Wow,” I remarked to my husband, “they are getting no joy out of eating that meal.”
I remembered this incident recently as I found myself mindlessly, sullenly, silently, joylessly scrolling through 30-second videos on Instagram, all from accounts I didn’t follow, all created by people who are trying to fill a void with…something. With matter. With content.
I’m sure some of you can relate to this phenomenon. You pick up your phone in a moment of waiting or a moment of boredom or a moment between other moments. You do it mindlessly. Or maybe you have a specific purpose—to see if someone answered your text or to make sure your kid arrived at his destination safely—and maybe you even manage to do the thing you meant to do. But then, your phone’s in your hand and muscle memory kicks in and you tap the place on the screen where a particular icon resides and fifteen, twenty minutes later you walk out of Burger King in a daze with no memory of what you just ate.
My friends, you’ve just consumed content.
Content, at its most basic definition, is that which is contained in a particular space. The content of your drawers? Clothes. The content of a cereal box? Cereal. The content of your internet search history? You’re writers, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—I know you weren’t making a bomb. (Still…)
Content is just objects, things. By themselves, these things mean nothing. They just are.
This is what an enormous chunk of our society now does with its time. We look at meaningless content. Whether we intend to or not. Because it’s there. It’s always there. And there’s more of it every second. Especially when you factor in generative AI, which is the origin of more and more of the content we consume.
Content means nothing, it adds nothing to our lives, and we don’t even enjoy it. It’s fast food we shovel down our throats because it’s quick and easy and open late and requires nothing from us.
The problem is, when something requires nothing from us it doesn’t typically give us anything either.
I know everyone in this room wants what they create to mean something. You don’t just want your poetry, your short stories, your novels, your memoirs, your self-help books to fill time in someone’s life. You want the people who interact with your work to feel well-fed and satisfied when they finish it. You want them to tell their friends about the incredible book they just read. You want them to push your stories and your voice and your insights on their friends the same way we recommend a restaurant where we had a truly delicious meal.
That’s what used to be on Instagram. We make fun of people when they posted pictures of their food, but I know why people do that. It’s because when we have an experience that moves us in some way, we want to tell others about it. Because we want to share good things, things that are worth our time, things that will leave us feeling moved or delighted or stunned.
You ever get to the end of a book or a movie or a poem and just feel…devastated? Breathless? At a loss for what to do next? What’s the first thing you really want to do? You want to find someone else who’s read the same book, watched the same movie, read the same poem. That’s why we push these things on our friends. Because story is communal. Story is something we do together.
It’s hard to be human. It’s so much harder when we’re trying to do it alone. That’s why staring at your phone never makes you happy. Because you’re alone. Even if you’re with someone else, you’re alone. I watch whole families at restaurants ignore each other, not say a word, because every one of them—mom, dad, kids, grandma—is looking at their damn phone. No matter how much so-called “community” we find online, every minute we spend tapping and scrolling on our phones is a minute we’re not spending with other people—the people who are actually part of our story.
Your life is more than content. It’s more than a series of goofy or heartwarming little clips. It’s more than a swearing parrot or a panda going down a slide or a hydraulic press crushing a series of random objects. It’s more than a sped-up video of someone powerwashing a patio—which is my drug of choice. (Aside: I think those are so satisfying because there is at least an element of a story arc there—what once was filthy is now pristine, thanks to our conquering hero and his trusty Craftsman 3100 PSI Gas-Powered Pressure Washer. And also because I feel as though I have washed something, even though I haven’t.)
When we meet someone new, we never ask them, “What has your life contained?”
We might ask, “What’s your story?”
What’s your story? The one only you can tell? No matter what brought you here, no matter what you’re writing, what makes it good, what makes it satisfying, what makes people push it on their friends are all the parts in it that are you. The plot doesn’t matter. You matter. Your struggles. Your hopes. Your fears. Your stupid mistakes. Your heartbreaking loss. Your determination. Your first love. Your biggest embarrassment. Your relief. Your brokenness. Your strength.
You.
AI can’t write your story. All it can do is cannibalize and sum up other people’s work in the most bland, soulless, mediocre, forgettable way possible. It is bloodless. It is lifeless. It is imaginationless. It is chewing up ones and zeros and vomiting out content. It is the pink slime of technology that gets shaped into nuggets to fill a void in someone’s day even as it expands the void in their spirit.
That’s why it’s called generative AI, not creative AI.
But you? You are creative. You’re not here to learn how to become some short-order cook throwing crap into a microwave and serving up content just to have something, anything, to share. To get views. To get likes. To get some ad revenue. You’re here because you want to be a master chef. Someone whose work is of the highest caliber. Someone who’s an artist. And you’re not alone.
You are here as part of a community of real human beings who all possess the desire and the capacity and the creativity and the imagination needed to say something worth saying. Not to create content, but to tell stories that actually matter, that actually change people. Stories that satiate our hunger for human connection. Stories that the rest of us will thrust into the hands of our friends, saying, “You have to read this. And you have to read this now. Because I have to talk to someone about it.”
Everyone here teaching a workshop has been where you are now. Sometimes, we’re still there. Wondering if this is even worth it. Will anybody read this? Will anybody care? Am I fooling myself? Am I wasting my time? I am here to tell you…
It is worth it.
Someone will read it.
It will mean the world to them.
You are not fooling yourself.
You are not wasting your time.
Unless you’re on your phone. Then you’re wasting your time.
Everyone here is rooting for you. Because we need your story. We need your memoir. We need your poetry. We need your hard-won advice. Because it’s hard to be human. And it’s so much easier—and more fun—when we’re doing together.
Thank you for being here, thank you for putting your writing first today, and thank you for adding your voice and your story to the world. We need you.
How about you, my dear fellow writer reading this Substack post? What are your thoughts on content vs. story? What are your thoughts on AI and writing? What worries you? What annoys you? What excites you? Where do you think this is all going?
I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
This! This is wisdom. This is experience. This is why I follow you, Erin Bartels, and read every book you write and everything you post.
This! This is encouraging. This is all the good feelings. Thank you for your enthusiastic support!