I was recently editing a chapter from a client. It was beautifully written. Immaculate. I’m talking old-fashioned literature like in The Great Gatsby. I was pleased with what I read in the first paragraph, thinking, “Hey, this is good stuff!” I made a note to the effect in the Comments in the margin of the page. Then I read the second paragraph. Another beauty, exquisitely written, shining like the white tablecloths of a fine-dining restaurant with cobalt-blue-based wine glasses standing watch above perfect ranks of polished silverware. … Then it hit me. I ran an AI check. Yep, indeed, my Spidey sense was correct. Some 87% of the text was AI generated. Dammit!
I know my client has the story in him. But this is no longer his story. His voice is completely missing. I know his voice, from having heard him speak and having read his emails. Is he a gifted writer? No, but that doesn’t matter. That’s where I come in as his editor. He has a story to tell. I will help him tell that story in his own words, and then fix the spelling and grammar and anything else that needs to be fixed to raise it to a publishing level. But his voice will remain intact.
While the writing he sent to me is lovely, I was disappointed not to hear his voice. As I said, it is perfectly fine writing, elegant even, but it had no soul. Muzak. Have you ever heard a song on Muzak that you want to dance to, or keep humming? No. Because while it is note perfect, it is lifeless, without a heart. AI writing might be word perfect and elegant, but it has no resonance. It falls as lifelessly on the eyes as Muzak falls lifelessly on the ears.
Just to make my point clear. Imagine Mick Jagger using AI to help with his lyrics.
I can’t get no satisfaction
I can’t get no satisfaction
‘Cause I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried
I can’t get no, I can’t get no
When I’m driving in my car
And a man talks on the radio
He’s telling me more and more
About some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination
…. becomes …..
I find no satisfaction—
though I keep trying, endlessly.
Driving in my car,
the radio man insists,
feeding me facts without meaning,
meant to spark imagination—
but they only fall flat.
It might mean the same thing, but can you dance to it or sing it to yourself repeatedly and with delight? I think not.
WRITE YOUR OWN STORY. Don’t let AI con you into believing you are a writer if you let AI put words on the page for you. No one will read and remember. They will be words adrift on the wind, gone without memory.







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