Happy to Be Here.
My peers are creating content using AI and here I am still using my big brain and these appendages attached to my palms. And I could not be happier about it.
I must tell you what’s been happening. Two days ago, I got a message from a Facebook “friend” linking to an album she had “recorded,” and then yesterday I saw that one of my old gentleman callers had published a book.
YOU GUYS.
The woman did not record an album. The walking testosterone shot did not write a book. They used AI.
I could tell as soon as I saw her album launch photo shoot, when I heard the music, when I read her album notes. There was nothing there that actually touched my human heart. I could feel it. Or rather, I could NOT feel it.
With the guy, the “author,” it was undeniable: he posted a pic of himself sitting in his car next to Mariah Carey admiring his book. About his life as a wrestler. In the 90s. I don’t know if he can even read but I know for a fact he did not write a book.
This man lives in a filthy one-bedroom apartment—FILTHY! like, do not remove your shoes!—but he knows how to use AI.
I don’t know about you, but when I see or read anything generated by AI, my mind feels like it’s a donut moving through the glazing conveyor belt at Krispy Kreme.
In the past it would have bothered me quite a bit that people with, what I perceive to be, far less talent than me, are succeeding in ways that could free them from the chains of traditional employment. That’s all I’ve ever wanted! To be a rich and famous writer! (I really don’t need to be famous or rich, but I would like to make enough to pay all my bills, have fun with my kid, get a fancy coffee every day, and not have to check my bank account when we are out shopping.)
It doesn’t bother me a bit that people are capitalizing on AI to produce actual shit. Why would I be jealous of someone’s abundance of shit? You thought a house built on sand was precarious; imagine a house built on shit.
I am not just writing to build my future, my legacy. I write because it brings me peace, happiness, a feeling that I’m doing something that matters, if to no one else but myself. I’m writing because that’s what I do and I cannot stop.
I am bleeding (read: THRIVING) through my fingers writing. In my state of unemployment, my state of PURE BLISS, I am writing more than ever, but I haven’t finished my book or my collection of essays. I’m not worried.
I’ve had a shift of perspective, and probably having a little financial cushion helps too. This is the experience. I am no longer working until I have enough to do it—I’m just doing it. This is what all the life coaches of the world have been saying: DON’T PUT IT OFF! I’m so thankful for this time to write and be present, to create but not compete, to see others on their own journey and not wish I was somewhere else, somewhere further along, feeling I’m behind, too slow, or too late.
When there is no nightmare job to be flustered about, funding for a few months into the future, and when there is time for health, friends, and creative expression, I am honestly as happy as a woman getting glazed at Krispy Kreme.
