I know something you don't know.
I’m struggling to write what’s real, personal, and specific. It’s easy to write in generalities and cliches. It’s safe there. But what’s the point of writing something if anyone could have written it?
Especially if AI could have written it. What’s the point of doing anything AI can do? It’s painful to consider, but it’s also an interesting litmus test for originality and humanity in my work. As AI gains prominence, I am craving what feels unmistakably human-made. Spelling errors and finger prints feel savory delicious. I feel kind of delighted and thrilled disregarding grammar and posting words without running them through ChatGPT for a spelling and grammar check. Have you ever had ChatGPT “improve” your writing? It’s a good way to erase all traces of personality and better understand what it really looks like to write in generalities and cliches.
I love knowing things AI will never know, like yesterday at Alamo Square. AI knows Alamo Square, ChatGPT says it “is a residential neighborhood in San Francisco, California, known for its iconic row of Victorian houses, often called the "Painted Ladies." The square itself is a park located at the top of a hill, offering panoramic views of the city skyline, including the nearby Western Addition, Cathedral Hill, and the San Francisco Bay. The area is a popular spot for tourists and locals alike, attracted by the picturesque architecture and scenic vistas.”
But AI doesn’t know yesterday at Alamo Square. Yesterday, Phil and I drove to the park to meet our friend Tucker. We found a parking spot exactly next to where Tucker was standing and looking for us in his cycling kit after riding from Twin Peaks and Ocean Beach. “Where do we sit?” I asked. “You tell us!” Tucker said. He knows it’s my favorite park in the city, and I am precise about where I like to sit. Which is at the top of the hill, facing downtown, on the south side of the park. Somehow there’s always parking there too.
It doesn’t know the Soundcloud DJ that posted up on the edge of the grass, providing free house music to hundreds of adults, or the ranger who came to ask them to stop. It doesn’t know the cacophony of barking dogs and cracking Fort Point cans. The taste of salty cheddar popcorn chased down with Milano milk chocolate cookies. The cozy feeling of having just enough sweatshirts and jackets on to be warm enough on a sunny, although slightly windy San Francisco day. The painted backdrop of cumulus clouds that poses no threat of rain. The deep desire for a drink, and the will to drink tea instead.
The anxious Sunday feeling after a night of drinking. The fluttering appreciation for the sunny day, and the looming dread of Monday. The silky-coldness of the grass and the dirt. Winnie’s paws sinking into our stomachs as she walks across each one of us, all 9.5 pounds of her. The deep laughter we shared pointing to mating humming birds, and Winnie taking this as a cue to try and attack them. The sound of Phil’s laugh, Tucker’s laugh, Winnie’s bark. The pinching of a full bladder as an alarm, time to head home.
It doesn’t know the taste of the dirt, or Tucker’s sweaty salty face, or the smell of another dog’s butt. Only Winnie will know those things.
I want my writing to feel like a three course meal rather than a computer equation. I will always know something AI doesn’t know, maybe those are the things I should focus on paying attention to and sharing.