Why, as a writer, I’m not at all bothered by the rise of AI

You aren’t here to read AI, you’re here to read Madelaine

Why do we ever read anything? To inform, educate, to entertain? To see inside someone else’s head? To get a new perspective? To experience something we haven’t, or cannot? I know why so many people choose to read my work, and it is extremely simple: they want to know what I think, or how I see things. They might hate what I have to say, not find it at all funny, feel enraged, or completely disagree: but what makes it interesting is the fact that I, a human being, have come up with it. You get a little glimpse into my life, my brain, my experiences, my thought process.

It’s not enjoyable if you know a computer has kaleidoscoped something into existence: why would you be mad that 0k284khnd08284/usn/20–29–29 has written that men are trash? Why would you bother to respond disagreeing with what Autobot09199 has to say about the problems women face gardening? It’s not real. It’s parroted automation. No, my writing, the whole value of it, is that it is real. Someone has communicated something. A real woman has sat here and decided what she wants to say, thought about it, and put it into words. That’s the only reason you’d ever bother to read it.

I am much, much better at making mistakes than AI