I have a confession. I’ve bought tons of books this year. My desk is stacked with them. When I sit down to write, they have me surrounded. Above me. Below me. To my left. To my right. Part of me is ashamed at how little I’ve read this year. The other part isn’t. I love being surrounded by books — even if I’ve only read a fraction of them. While they have me surrounded when I’m seated, my hands are not in the air. My hands are on the keyboard. After all, when you’re surrounded by infinite possibilities, creating something of your own feels that much more possible. That said, it’s good to get away from your desk, venture somewhere else, ideally surrounded by books. For me, that’s Soo Kafe in District 1.
Midday. Quiet but for a few murmurs, light jazz on the speakers, the occasional jingle of ice cubes Not many are here except the staff and the thousand books lining the shelves. I sit down with my coffee and my book. I turn to reread one of my favorite chapters of the last couple years. Page 46. 805 words on Artificial Writing. Very Good Copy by Eddie Shleyner.
Many worry about AI these days. In fact, I’d argue the whole AI economy runs on fear. Companies are afraid of getting passed up by their competitors harnessing AI better than they do. Company A looks over the fence and sees Company B investing time and money into AI so Company A starts investing time and money into AI. Company B looks back over the fence and sees Company A now investing time and money into AI so company B starts investing more time and money into AI. The cycle continues. Fear fuels adoption. Adoption fuels advancement. Advancement fuels fear. So it goes.
I don’t even want to know what percentage of writing on the internet is AI-generated. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter — now is the best time to be a writer. I haven’t been able to articulate why I feel like that beyond the belief that if you love to write, what’s there to be afraid of? The fact that AI can write this whole article in seconds doesn’t make me fearful. It makes me realize how much of the writing process I enjoy. I like that writing takes time. Not only the time sitting at your desk alone in your room typing words, but everything that comes before—meeting new people, visiting new places, developing new perspectives, even meditating while driving around Saigon on my motorbike. I like that writing is messy. Putting together a shitty first draft. Figuring out how to connect ideas. Cleaning up a laundry list of mistakes. I like that you don’t know what’s going to happen when you first sit down. You don’t know what the piece will look like at the end. You don’t know how others will feel when it’s published. You just don’t know. You’ll never know. The uncertainty makes it fun. Why would I want to give that up?
In Eddie’s book, he encourages every writer working through the AI revolution (i.e. now) to read Robin William’s monologue in Good Will Hunting. Williams plays Sean Maguire, a therapist working with Will Hunting, a delinquent mathematical prodigy played by Matt Damon One day in therapy, Will disrespects Sean’s late wife. In a rush of anger from the otherwise reasonable Sean, he shoves Will against the wall and grabs him by the throat, threatening his life. A few days later, Sean returns and calmly lays on the truth.
“I thought about what you said to me,” Sean says. “I stayed up half the night thinking about it. Then something occurred to me, and I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and I haven’t thought about you since. You know what occurred to me?”
“No,” Will says.
“You’re just a kid. You don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“Why, thank you.”
“It’s alright. “You’ve never been out of Boston?”
“Nope.”
“So if I asked you about art, you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo. You know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the Pope, sexual orientation—the whole works, right?” “But I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.”
“If I asked you about women, you’d probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.”
“You’re a tough kid. If ask you about war, you’d probably throw Shakespeare at me—‘Once more into the breach, dear friends’—but you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help.”
“If I asked you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet,” Sean says. “But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable, known someone who could level you with her eyes. Feeling like God put an angel on Earth just for you, who could rescue you from the depths of Hell—and you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her be there forever, through anything, through cancer.”
“I look at you and I don’t see an intelligent, confident man. I see a cocky, scared kid. But you’re a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presumed to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart.”
“You’re an orphan, right?” Sean says.
Will looks down, he hasn’t said a word since “Nope.”
“Do you think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you?”
“Personally, I don’t care about all that because you know what? I can’t learn anything from you I can’t read in some fucking book. Unless you wanna talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated—I’m in. But you don’t wanna do that, do you, Sport? You’re terrified of what you might say.”
After Eddie shares the monologue he adds how impressive AI is in its ability to help you work faster, smarter, even better sometimes. But impressive as it is, it’s just a tool. It’s a beautiful tool, just like Will’s mind is a beautiful mind. However, as Eddie writes, both AI and Will’s mind are flawed because of their inability or unwillingness to open up, connect, and be vulnerable. As he puts it, “AI is a genius, cocky, scared kid.”
AI can tell you everything about art, war, love, and more. It can do all of that instantaneously. But it can’t be human. It can’t look inward, scavenge old memories, regurgitate all of the personal experiences in its life that makes it unique. Only you can do that and therefore only you can express yourself. But, the terrifying question is as Eddie writes — do you want to? Most don’t. Like Sean tells Will, you won’t because you’re terrified at what you might say. But, if you do, then as readers we’re fascinated — we’re in.
We’re in because when someone is willing to reflect on all the moments, all the details, all the ups and downs of their life’s journey, and willing to express themselves — there’s nothing else like it. As legendary director Bong Joon Ho said during his Oscar winning acceptance speech (another story from Very Good Copy), “The most personal is the most creative.” Or, as fellow legendary director Quentin Tarantino put it, “Make it personal enough so you feel embarrassed to share it.”
AI, the genius, cocky scared kid that it is, would never. But humans can and even better, they do all the time. That’s why I love to be surrounded by books. Every single one is an example of a human that chose to express themselves, made it the most personal, made it the most creative, felt the waves of embarrassment, and still shared it with the world. It is amazing to be surrounded by that idea. Like I said, when I’m surrounded by these infinite possibilities, it makes creating something of your own feel possible. I sip my coffee and look around the cafe. There’s people making posters, writing papers, building charts, editing photos, reading books, drawing pictures, and having conversations. This is the spot. If there’s one place to go to feel this feeling, it’s Soo Kafe in District 1.
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